Page 60 of Summertime Friends

I run my hands through my hair, tugging on the brown strands.

“I didn’t want her to be just another girl I’ve slept with. She’s not like that to me,” I admit.

“Why didn’t you tell her that?”

“I didn’t want her to feel rejected or explain emotions I’m still trying to navigate.”

“You’re an idiot. It was still rejection either way. I think she would have understood.”

“You do?”

“She seems reasonable. But when Cal and I glanced at each other, not knowing how to respond, she rolled her eyes and mumbled about this being another reason she doesn’t believe in love.”

Emerson doesn’t believe in love? “What?”

“I was confused, too. A tad shocked after how she’s been interacting with you. Cal tried to ask her about it, and she shut down.”

How can anyone not believe in love? I swear I remember her mentioning that she loved her best friend. Or taking a bite of a Pastel de Nata and outwardly claiming her love for her new favorite pastry.

Is that feeling not the same? How can one love but not believe in it?

I watch her and Cal move to the next merchant stand. George, standing next to me, watching me as I try to figure her out.

***

The next afternoon, Emerson asked me to go with her to Paris, her next stop, and I said yes. I had already told her I loved Paris and created a non-tourist list of places to see, eat, and do.

Paris was one of my mom’s favorite cities, and being back always feels like I’m visiting her. Business brings me here occasionally, but being in Paris with Emerson is like seeing it for the first time—and the best part, from her eyes.

I think I would be okay seeing everything from her perspective for the rest of my life.

We’ve checked everything off her Paris list, including a day trip to Versailles, an afternoon in the Louvre, and a visit to the Shakespeare and Company bookstore.

Being the Emerson Clarke I’ve learned her to be, she’s benevolent at her core. After every item we crossed off, she asked me what I wanted to do, see, or eat. Every time, I told her I didn’t care. As long as she’s right beside me, that’s what I want to do.

She’s still under the impression that tomorrow is my last day with her. But while she’s sleeping in, which is what I’m assuming she is doing because I have yet to have a knock on my door this morning, I finalize arrangements to finish her trip with her.

I plan to tell her tonight.

Cal: Anything else you need me to cover?

No. I’ll call if there is. Thanks again.

Stepping away from the office for the next month to be with Emerson wasn’t easy to coordinate, but it was an easy decision. I’ll stay ahead on emails or whatever work I can, but I’m thankful for Callum handling everything in person. He’s a tremendous friend-CFO hybrid. I return my phone to the bedside table, returning to my book. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes with another text from Callum and George.

Cal: Don’t fall too in love with her

George: I bet he already has.

I stretch out my arms. My mind slips to thinking about Emerson, as it has every other minute for the past ten days. I’m thinking about her sleeping. She’s the most peaceful sleeper I’ve ever seen,not that I watch people sleep often or that I’ve seen her sleep except for our first night together. Her soft, pink lips part slightly, and she breathes so softly that you almost think she isn’t breathing. It terrified me at first.

Like dominos, I fixate on her lips and kissing them again.

Everything about her draws me to her. I’m obsessed, and I’ve never been this obsessed with anyone or anything in my life. I consume as much as I can—time included. I know this trip will end, and our time together will expire. I’ll head back to London, and she’ll be back in the States, but until then, I want anything and everything I can get from her.

There’s a knock on my door. Light, three times. Emerson.

Our rooms are next door to each other. Based on her original accommodations, she has two beds in her room, but I,stupidly but respectfully, insisted on getting my own.

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