Page 55 of We Can't Be Friends

I take our take-out containers to the trash. We talked for hours when her stomach growled, and we both realized we hadn’t eaten yet. I ordered Vietnamese noodle bowls, and we walked Tucker to pick them up.

There was a comfortable silence that fell between us. Neither of us finding the need to fill the space with wasted words. While I love the sound of her voice, this is nice.

There’s no pressure to impress her. No worries cross my mind that I’m not good enough for her. I don’t wonder what expectations she has for me.

There is only peace. Stillness.

When I look at Chloe, I see it too. That maybe I’m also some sort of safe space for her.

“Our hotel is opening next week. Do you want to come?”

“Like as your date?”

“No. Yes. I—I’ll be working during and needing to mingle, but yes, as my date.”

She scrunches her nose, brow furrowing in deliberation. She’s cute pretending to think deeply about this.

“Liam already asked me, Pretty Boy. Sorry.” She bursts my bubble with a shrug. “It’s like homecoming; gotta be quicker to the top picks.”

Homecoming? What is a homecoming?

My confusion must come off differently because Chloe says, “I was already planning on it. Figured it was chapter three of How to Be a Fake Girlfriend for Dummies.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Test run. Gotta see what I’m working with.”

15

CHLOE

“Emerson,” I shriek.

“What?”

Her attention drops to the massive white boxes in my hands. My arms barely stretch around the size of them. Their pointed corners are digging into my biceps as I make my way further into her apartment. The bags that were outside her door, seated on top of the boxes, hang off the crook of my elbow.

“What are those?”

“You tell me. They were outside your door when I got here.” With a quick exhale, I set them down on her counter. “There isn’t a note.”

“Hmm.” She stands beside me, fingers twisting the white satin ribbon bowed on top. “I haven’t ordered anything recently.”

We stare at each other, puzzled. “Do you think it’s from Liam? Another camera lens?”

“Camera lenses definitely do not need boxes this big or this nice,” Emerson laughs.

She keeps twirling the ribbon, her mouth pursed.

“Are you considering not opening them?” I ask, watching her cautiously. “You have to open them.”

“I’m. . . I’m nervous. And maybe a little annoyed? I’m not someone whose love can be bought. I never wanted to be that person.”

“You aren’t.”

“If it is from Liam,”—Emerson shrugs, inhaling deeply—“There are added nerves about putting myself out thereagain with him. And I don’t want him to think that this,” Emerson waves her hand in the air. “Makes it better.”

“Liam doesn’t feel that way. He knows.”

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