Page 136 of We Can't Be Friends

He shakes his head, spinning on his heels and storms out the front door. The house shakes with his absence.

Adler sits on the ground in front of the couch I’m lying on. Being anything but horizontal has my head spinning.

“Chlo, can you tell me?”

***

Waking up, I realize how much of a selfish bitch I’m being. The sun bringing the clarity I couldn’t find the other night.

How could I treat Emerson that way?

I should be proud of her, not angry that she’s choosing herself.

I know she’s not leaving me, but unfortunately it’s easier, natural, for me to seeit that way.

We didn’t speak yesterday. I actively avoided her all day. Knowing we have limited time left here together, I’m determined to find her today.

By the time I'm dressed and picked up coffee for us, she’s at her apartment packing.

“Emerson?” I knock on her door.

It swings open, she’s in a pair of leggings and one of Liam’s shirts. Her chocolate hair is pulled up into a messy pony. Eyes rimmed red, I can tell she’s emotional over this.

It strikes me that I’m not helping. Treating her the way I did the other night.

She steps back, letting me walk in, but doesn’t speak. I set the coffees down on the counter and then wrap my arms around her. Tightening them till she circles hers around my back.

“I’m sorry.” I apologize for what I said and storming off.

Emerson accepts the apology and we break apart. Sipping our coffees we find ourselves back on a couch, similar positions as we were that night as if we are redoing the ending.

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not. I promise.”

“I need you, Chloe. I always have, and no mile between us is going to change that. You’re my best friend. My soulmate.”

“You're mine, too. I’m so proud of you, Emme, and so, so,sohappy for you.”

The words are bitter but true. I’m happy, but knowing how alone I’ll be with her an ocean away feels like drowning.

Emerson resumes packing and I’ve done very little to assist her. She’s moving around her room like the Tasmanian Devil, a tornado of clothes, shoes, and accessories being tossed into boxes and at me on the bed. A linen maxi skirt lands on top of my head. Blowing out air, it billows in front of me but goes nowhere.

“Sorry.” Emerson plucks it off my head, dropping it into a plastic container labeled ‘Bottoms.’ “Are you planning to help me?”

“Moral support, hello?” I tease.

“We’d be done by now if that moral support also consisted of—just help me.”

I look at my wrist, tapping it. “Help says it's wine time.” Bouncing off her bed, I go to the ghost of a kitchen. We—she—already packed up all of her cookware, cups, plates, bowls, and utensils; donating the entirety to charity.

I open cabinet door after cabinet door wishful that she forgot at least a cup or two. Even a shot glass would work at this point. There’s nothing.

I guess we can drink out of the bottle. It won’t be the first time.

“Emme, you have no cups. Cool with drinking out of the bottle?”

“Mhmm,” echoes out of her bedroom. “Should be a bottle of rose in the fridge.”

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