Page 92 of Summertime Friends

“Come off it,” I tell her off because that statement is ridiculous. “You do know me.”

She almost said ‘you.’ Emerson was trying to tell me she wanted me, but instead, she said,Know me. She knows everything about me. I’ve never been one to keep secrets with those I care about. Whatever, whenever something has happened since the day I met her, I’ve told her. She gets every part of me, whether she realizes it or not.

“Do I?” she asks.

“What’s my favorite color?” I quiz her.

Emerson rolls her eyes at me. “Green.”

“Correct. What’s my favorite smell?”

“Macadamia nuts. Which I still find odd.”

“Correct. What’s my favorite hobby?” My smile gets bigger with each question.

“Running. . . or reading. That’s not a fair question. None of these count. Anyone could guess these.”

“No, they couldn’t because if they asked me about my favorite things, they would need to know you. To know me, truly, is to know that you are my favorite thing in this world. My whole world is you.”

Emerson stutters. She takes a deep inhale. “Your whole world?”

“My whole world, States.”

“That doesn’t mean I know you, though.” This woman.

“How could you not know me when I know everything about you so deeply that it became a partof who I am?”

Her breath catches like I’ve sucked all the life out of her. In ways, I wish I could because that would mean her life is in me, giving me life.

“Then why do we live in this bubble?!” Her shoulders drop. “Why do we let ourselves survive off the summer. . . because that’s how I’m holding on. It’s my life support. These fleeting moments of summer we get together.”

“Because—”

“I’m not done. It hurts. Being with you these days hurts me because I know I don’t get to have you the moment I board a plane, leaving us behind in this bubble—this stupid summertime friends bubble of ours.”

This moment is equivalent to when my favorite football team scored a goal in stoppage time to win the Premier League four years ago. Everything Emerson says is precisely what I’ve needed to hear from her to not feel like I’m going mad.

Our time together or friendship isn’t cruel—it’s not admitting the truth to each other, that is.

“It would be nice if you could say something here.” I guess I’ve been silent longer than I thought, taking in her confession.

“Pop it. Let’s pop this ‘bubble’ you think we are in,” I say confidently to her.

“But what if this is it? What if this is all we will ever be? How do we know if it’senough?” Her questions come out rapidly.

“We’ll never know till we try. We can figure this out, Emerson.”

“Figure it out? Liam, we could have figured it out this entire time, years ago.” She shakes her head back and forth, pinching her eyes closed. “But we didn’t. So what’s different this time?”

I spin her body toward me. Using my hand, I grip her chin to raise her face to mine.

It’s now or never.

Tell her. Tell her you love her.

Tell her the one thing she doesn’t know about you. The one thing that is different this time. Keep her from retreating further into herself, backtracking on everything I know she’s feeling.

“I love you, Emerson,” I say. “This time, I’m in love with you.”

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