Page 8 of Summertime Friends

I’m on the edge of the king bed with a sore back. In her conquest of the bed, she kicked me square in the back.

I try to roll over but am chained to my spot by one of her legs draped over mine, the full weight of her lower body holding me there. Natalie’s torso, though, is twisted the other way.

As I take in her form, a silent laugh escapes my mouth. How is that comfortable? Another laugh, not silent this time, escapes. I hope this isn’t how shesleepswhen she has a non-platonic sleepover.

I try to get out of bed without waking Natalie.

Gently and as quietly as possible, I grab her ankle to push her leg off me. Successfully, I give myself space to get out of bed without waking her. Flinging my legs over the side, I slide my feet into the soft hotel slippers. Three sizes too big, but they might be my favorite part about hotels abroad—slippers that are to die for. Turning off my alarm, I stand up and head to the bathroom.

“Good morning, Lisbon!” a sleepy Natalie shouts.

In the bathroom mirror’s reflection, I can see both of her arms stretched out above her head, making a giant V. I ignore her, closing the door until it’s only opened a slim crack so we can talk.

“Are we still going to Sintra today?” Natalie yells.

“Inside voice Nat. People are sleeping,” I try to remind her.

“That’s not my problem. They should wake up then.” She does her witch laugh.

“The tour leaves at ten,” I tell her.

“What time is it now?” she asks.

I flip my phone over on the white marble counter, pressing the side button.

“It’s only seven. We need to leave in two hours to arrive at the pickup location on time.”

“Emme,” she groans. “It’s summer. We are on vacation. We are in Europe! Why are you up this early?” Miss overdramatic in full effect this morning.

“You know I can’t sleep past seven, ever.”

“You would if you’d—”

“Don’t even finish that statement, Nat,” I cut her off.

Natalie’s laughing from the bed. Her contagious laugh carries into the bathroom, and I join in. “Whateverrrr. I’m going back to sleep. Beauty calls for it.”

When I exit the bathroom, she’s cocooned once again in the bed. This time, the covers are pulled all the way over her head, and pillows, including mine, surround her. She fortified herself in the middle of the bed. Beauty sleep must be protected.

This is my favorite part of the day.

Indeed, my body can’t sleep past seven. But I also don’t let it sleep past seven.

I love mornings. I love the peacefulness and opportunity to seize the day before the world awakens. The slowness calms my mind.

I also love traveling and spending time with Natalie, but being with her or anyone else twenty-four-seven can be daunting. After our first week, I learned that if I booked a tour late enough in the morning, I could have a couple of hours to myself, doing whatever I wanted while Natalie slept.

Most of the time, I just walk around the city. Find a café. Read by a park or the water. Take photos of the scenery or architecture. Never anything fancy or riveting, but enough to keep my sanity.

Slipping out of my pajamas, I pull out a hunter-green linen dress to put on. I pair the dress with my usual pair of chunky, black Converse. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I check myself out, using my hands to flatten out the few wrinkles in the linen.

The sun has tanned my skin slightly, enhancing my few freckles and giving me a couple of new highlights in my hair—the lighter brown contrasts with my dark chocolate-colored hair. My fingers twirl the end of one of the braids I slept in. I take my hair out of its braids. Naturally, it’s thick and wavy, making it, at times, uncontrollable. I use my fingers as a brush, combing my hair and giving one final peek in the mirror.

There’s this urge to look. . . presentable this morning, and I have no clue why.

4

EMERSON

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