Page 78 of Summertime Friends

“Are you horny?” I ask her.

“And if I am? It’s not like you’re here.”

Right. I’m not. Even if I was, wouldwe?

“Want me to fly to you? Or we could. . . ya know, once you get home.”

“No. I’ll be fine,” she groans. I don’t consider it rejection because I didn’t think she would even go for it.

Her definition of fine includes her irrational fear of dying alone and not only being horny.

A couple of months ago, on the phone, Emerson told me she believes she’s going to die alone. Since then, she’s been on this dating kick, trying to find ‘the one.’ I’m happy she is—supportive friend reporting for duty—even though it feels wrong because I want to be the one.

“You sure?” I ask. “I can be there tomorrow.”

“I promise,” she replies.

Emerson rambles on about work, telling me about the new brand they signed today. Some luxury travel bag? I’m piecing together what she’s saying. It’s hard to hear her with the wind and the city in the background.

I miss her—so much that the Emerson fog is rolling in pretty thick today. Usually, talking to her helps clear the fog, leaving sunny skies. I don’t think it’ll clear up anytime soon, though.

“We should book our summer trip,” I interrupt her.

“Liam, I thought I told you that I’m not sure if I can this summer,” she reluctantly says. “I have three big shoots that I am traveling for, and this new client will add a few more.”

“I know, but think about it, please.” Why are you begging? I worry she can hear the desperation in my voice and probably see it on my face, too. “You are too busy. Doesn’t a break sound nice?”

“Of course it does, but it also sounds like logistics, activities, food, etc. Why don’t you and the boys go yourselves this year to celebrate the opening of your Madrid location?”

“They aren’t going to like that.”

“Them or you?” she pointedly asks.

“Them!” Me. “C’mon.”

I’m trying my hardest not to beg, but in reality, that’s precisely what I’m doing. I need to know I’m seeing States soon.

Being with her works as a system reset. I leave that week or two refreshed; my head is straighter than it usually is. It wears off over time, and then we see each other—our little life cycle. It’s been this way since that summer. It’s why I snuck my number into her phone. I knew when she boarded that plane home that she became a part of me, an organ I’d need to survive.

“I miss you, States.”

“I miss you too,” she says. “Can I think about it?”

I’ll take that as a win. “Of course.”

“Tell me more about your day?”

And this is the cycle of our calls. One of us calls with a specific topic. We go back and forth till we’ve been on the phone for hours. Most of the time, I stay up well into the morning, and Emerson falls asleep on the phone. When that happens, I whisper good night, tell her I love her, and then hang up.

My day was less than cheery. She listens, but I can tell it goes over her head. “It’s too big businessy,” she tells me.

“What does Bea think about George’s new girl?”

“Eh. Won’t talk about it. He’s bringing her around more, and I think it’s hitting Beatrix that it could have been her. I think we all thought they’d work their shit out by now.”

“You don’t think they will?”

“No, I don’t,” I tell her, hating to admit that about my friend.

---