Page 3 of We Can't Be Friends

Nine to five: Do said work.

Evenings: Harp on work—coworkers that annoy you, unfinished projects, maybe even keep working because if we are alike, you can’t stop.

Sleep: Dream about work.

I dig my fingers into my temple. My head is killing me.

“You good?” Liam asks.

“Try sitting next to a boomer who doesn’t understand the concept of headphones and has a bladder the size of a walnut. You’d be exhausted, too.”

“Okay, Cal. You get one more complaint, and I don’t want to hear it again. We have to be at the hotel in an hour to do a walk-through. . .” He keeps talking, but it all fades out.

I stare at my best mate, brother, and boss. His blue-green eyes move between Ben and me. I know his comment has zero ill intent, and he’s holding me accountable, but I can’t help sensing that I’m letting him down.

Never in our eleven years of friendship has Liam ever made me feel like a disappointment. I’ve always sought his approval—the need to know that me or my work isn’t subpar.

We leave for the hotel, the fresh air doing nothing to rein in my mind.

***

“Ican’t believe you haven’t read that yet,” Emerson Clarke nags, bumping her shoulder into mine. “I’m clearing your TBR. This has to be your next read.”

“Has to?”

“I don’t make the rules.”

This ‘must-read book’ is why we are at her flat after grabbing lunch. Holding the door open, she slips inside, and I take in how clean the place is. There’s nothing out of place except for a pair of black heels haphazardly on the hardwood floor and a coffee on the counter.

I think I’ve been here before. . .

I couldn’t. Have I?

Emerson Clarke and I haven’t seen each other in three years, not because of a lack of weekly phone calls. I live in London, she Chicago. We met six years ago in Lisbon while she was traveling for the summer.

The apartment is for sure hers. Photos I recognize as hers hang in a gallery on the walls, with neutral and minimal furniture except for the overflowing bookshelves.

So why have I been here before?

“I already told you. I’m beta-reading my aunt’s latest draft for her new book.”

“Which is unfair. Hello.” She waves her hand around her face. “Biggest fan. I’d also covet an early peek.”

“You can when it comes out in December.”

Emerson repeats my words mockingly, precisely as a little sister would. It’s no wonder she’s close with my little sister, Audrey.

That’s how I would describe our relationship: familial. We know our limits of shit-talking and when to dish out tough love. It’s been that way since the start, and in the past three years it hasn’t changed.

She hangs her purse on an over-the-door hook in the coat closet before leaning over the counter, pulling the paper coffee cup toward her and popping off the top.

“Mind if I use your bathroom?” I ask her.

Emerson nods, taking a sip. “It’s right there.” She points diagonally to two doors. “Other door is my bedroom.”

Her one-bedroom flat in Lincoln Park is quaint. Nothing compared to the place I’m sharing with Liam in the Loop or my home in London.

“Feel free to give yourself the ten second tour,” she adds with a smile, taking another sip of what I know is black coffee, her favorite.

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