Page 40 of Summertime Friends

“Busy.”

“Are you feeling better? Your coworker said you were sick.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a director now. Promotion?” She nods. “No surprise there. Congrats, States.” My mouth lingers on her nickname.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. How is your mom?”

“The same.”

I thought I wanted whatever she would give me, but this is ridiculous. I need more. “I’ll take the hint. You don’t want to talk.”

“That’s not true,” Emerson seethes with her first sign of any emotion.

“Then what States? This has been a one-sided conversation. You haven’t said more than ten words. Talk. Talk to me, please,” I beg of her. There isn’t anyone else I’ve ever begged for, and this isn't the first time I’ve begged for her.

“I’m processing.” She exhales. “You, me, now Natalie? I’m trying to figure out how this happened. I thought we’d—never mind.” Emerson catches herself. She rubs her temples.

I blink, surprised she cut right to it.

“You thought what?” I ask her.

“It doesn’t matter, Liam.” She lets out a reluctant laugh. “None of it matters. I’m engaged—”

“I know,” I grunt.

“You’re with Natalie.” I hold off on the urge to correct her, unsure if now is the time to confirm or deny that. “Just if—If it did—”

“We’d be the ones together,” I finish her sentence. “States,” I plead.

“Don’t call me that. Not anymore.” Her movements halt. Standing completely still, her eyes shut, she takes a big inhale. Releasing the exhale slowly. Her chest, which was moving quickly, slows with each deep breath.

I don’t think her heart is racing for the same reasons mine is.

“I feel the same way,” I say earnestly.

Emerson turns her head to me.

I don’t know if I’m happy she’s even looking at me or if I wish she didn’t. Seeing the longing and hurt on her face and the color of her eyes has me screaming. Everything in me is screaming and fighting with her to speak. Give me the words I know she is holding back.

She opens her mouth, and all the hope in the world gets the best of me for a split moment. She blinks as if she’s resetting herself. Reminding herself of where she is, what recently occurred, and why we are what we are. Her eyes return to their standard shade, and she shut her mouth.

The moment is over; we are back to a nauseating silence.

It takes us another ten minutes to reach her building. Neither of us spoke another word to each other.

Stopping out front, Emerson turns to face me.

“This is me,” she says, licking her lips. “Thanks for walking me home. I guess we’ll be seeing each other around.” Her words are slow and punctuated.

“I’spose.”

Neither of us takes a step to go in opposite directions.

Taking a deep breath and eyes locked on Emerson, I pass selfish as if I’m passing go on a Monopoly board and reaching greedy bastard because I want more of her time, more of her. I want to forget that there are other people involved. Pretend we are still best friends, have a drink, talk, and laugh for the rest of the night—or eternity if I was allowed—just as we did that night in Lisbon.

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