Page 36 of We Can't Be Friends

I adore how much Emerson cares about ensuring everyone’s emotions are accounted for, but it also makes her easy to walk over.

She’s opened up this summer about why she’s like this, a pathological people pleaser—explained her history with Liam, her parents, and Natalie. It was easier to let it go before I knew her deep-rooted fears, but now, it’s impossible to ignore. Emerson has to see herself as a priority, as her number one priority, and I’m not going to let her slide on the matter.

“Can you at least tell me what you might want to do?” She gives me a tight smile. “Maybe something to help you get over Seth?”

“I am over Seth,” I deadpan. The words pour out way too quickly.

“Ugh. Come on, Chloe,” she pesters on.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Emme.”

“You are no fun.” I toss her a look, and she modifies her statement, “You are a ball of fun. Now tell me. Just one.” She lifts her pointer finger.

“What about going dancing after dinner and drinks?” I cave.

She pulls out her phone. “Heard dancing is the new getting under someone to get over another.”

“The only person I’m going to be dancing with is you.”

“Uh huh.”

“What are you doing?” I ask her, trying to peer over her phone.

“Texting Cal about our plans.” Emerson curls her legs under her, her thumbs moving quickly across the screen.

My heart skips a beat.

“I saw that,” Emerson says without lifting her head.

“You aren’t going to invite Liam?”

Her eyes narrow at me. “Cal can invite him.”

I roll my eyes at her. “How long are you going to make him sweat it?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” she says playfully. “Jealousy looks good on him.”

“Your love life isn’t a game, Emme.”

“I know.” The bite of my words punctures her.

“I didn’t mean for it to come out that harsh.”

“You did.” She nods. Blinks several times. Her jewel eyes burn a vibrant green. “Tough love.”

“Protective of your heart.” There’s a silent thank you that passes between us when she squeezes my forearm, thumb rubbing over my tattoo for her. I have an E, and she has a C.

Climbing off the couch, I walk into my kitchen. Opening the fridge, I rummage through, searching for a bottle of white wine.

“Want a glass of wine?” I holler at Emerson.

“Sure!”

I pull out the only bottle I could find. It was behind a jug of iced coffee and a container of something my mother sent me a month ago. There is only about half of it remaining.

---