Page 4 of Summertime Friends

“I can.” Josie types away on the computer. “It does require a deposit. I can make it refundable for the next seventy-two hours, but after that, it will become non-refundable.”

“Amazing. Did you hear that, Emme?”

“Yes, Laura,” I say. “Brandon and I will let you know.” My voice is as sharp as a razor.

Laura exchanges her black card and other information with Josie while side-eyeing me.

“Do you mind if we take off, Mom?” Brandon asks.

She nods. Not even saying goodbye to us as we get up to leave.

“Mind a walk down Michigan Ave?” I ask Brandon.

He nods, lacing his fingers with mine.

We walk in silence for a mile or two. The silence between us is awkward, and I hate it. In the moments of silence, my worries about us fundamentally as a couple and our future take over. Is this how it’s going to be forever? Is this something I can do forever?

“Coffee?” Brandon uses his head to gesture to the door we are about to walk past.

“Yeah.”

He opens the door for me, kisses me on the cheek, and asks me to get him an iced mocha while he uses the restroom.

It’s surprisingly empty in the shop this afternoon for a Tuesday. Only a handful of people are scattered about on laptops, working or talking with friends. That would be us if we didn’t have to take the day off work because of wonderfully thorough Laura.

A short line forms behind me as I order our coffees.

“One black coffee and one iced mocha, please,” I order.

“Sixteen or twenty-four ounces?” The barista asks.

“Sixteen for both, thank you.”

I tap my card to pay and move out of the way for the next customers to order.

Scrolling on my phone, I check Instagram to view Natalie’s story. She’s been away again on another brand trip. I tap on her profile picture and am instantly transported to Amsterdam. Videos of herbiking alongside the canals. A collage of photos showing off the clothes that she’s modeling and a video of her squeezing a metal boob coming out of the brick road in the Red Light District. A recap of the previous days—as I know, she landed home earlier today. I reply to her story with a series of laughing and heart emojis.

There’s a tap on my shoulder when I hear my name.

“Emerson?” a deep, rough British accent tickles my ear.

2

EMERSON

Now

I could recognize that voice anywhere. It could be the year 2074, and I would. It has its own wavelength and frequency that I used to believe was unique to me.

I can picture my name on his tongue. The way his mouth forms each syllable, holding on to the last one longer than the others. There is a bit of intrigue and confusion this time, but even with that, the sound of my name coming from his mouth is as if I’m being welcomed home.

But it couldn’t be him. This is only my mind playing a trick on me.

He’s in London. I’m in Chicago.

That’s how we left it three years ago.

“Emerson,” he says again.It is him.

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