Page 77 of Between Here and There

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I say, already moving to wrestle it from her. I tug it gently but firmly until she finally relents, rolling her eyes. I sling it over my shoulder like it’s nothing, but the weight of it suggests she’s been hoarding gold bars.

“Relax,” I say with a grin.

“It’s not that heavy!” she protests, laughing as she follows me to the car.

I raise an eyebrow at her, because she can’t possibly believe that. “Emily, this backpack is practically a weapon. If you threw it at someone, they’d file a police report.”

She snorts. “It’s just books and a few essentials!”

I laugh as I open the passenger door for her. “Books and a few essentials? Like what—spare bricks? This is why you have back pain, Emily. This backpack isn’t the world. Don’t carry it on your shoulders.”

She pauses for a moment, her smile softening as she looks at me. “I can’t help it. It’s kind of a habit.”

There’s something about the way she says it that makes me feel like we’re no longer talking about the backpack. I want to say something reassuring, but I don’t trust myself not to ruin the moment with another joke. So instead, I just smile and say, “Well, lucky for you, I’m here to carry it now.” I pause before I add, “The backpack.” No need to tell her that I’d go to the ends of the world for her.

As she settles into the car and I close her door, I glance at her reflection in the side mirror. She’s looking out the window with a small smile on her lips, and I realize I don’t mind this—helping her, being here for her. If this is what it means to be her friend, then maybe it’s not such a bad thing after all. But damn, it’s going to be hard to keep pretending that’s all I want.

“How in the world can you afford a place like this?” she asks, her eyes widening as we step into my apartment. Her voice echoes slightly in the space—it’s a bit too quiet, like always. She stands in the middle of the living room, her gaze sweeping over the sleek, modern furniture and the bare walls.

“Nepotism,” I say with a shrug, and her laugh is instant, softening the sharp edges of her surprise.

“Well, at least you’re honest,” she says, setting her backpack on the floor.

I grab her suitcase and nod toward the hallway. “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

She follows me, her boots clicking softly against the hardwood floor. As we pass the dining table and the pristine kitchen, she glances around and lets out a low whistle. “This place is so... sterile. It’s like no one actually lives here… No plants, no pictures, no throw pillows.”

“No photo of The Last Supper and giant utensils hung on the kitchen wall?” I ask, referencing how most homes in Manila have it.

“Exactly. And white figurines that have no value whatsoever,” she adds. “Overall, it just not… homey.”

I laugh at her bluntness, even though she’s not wrong. “Honestly? I’m barely here,” I admit as I lead her down the hallway.

“Ah,” she says, her tone teasing. “Usually at a sexcapade or two?”

I freeze for half a second, caught off guard.

She glances at me, smirking. “Oh, come on,” she says as she nudges my arm. “I can joke about your dating life, can’t I? We’re friends,” she adds, as if that explains everything.

Friends. That word again. The way she says it, so easily, like it’s a fact set in stone. I know she doesn’t mean anything by it, but there’s this gnawing sensation in my chest every time she throws it out there like a shield.Friends.

My dating life has been a series of distractions. A string of names I barely remember, faces that blur together, moments that meant little beyond the moment itself. I could tell her she’s wrong—that my nights aren’t filled with some grand romantic drama, just the dull ache of wanting something more and being too damn scared to admit it. But I don’t. Because that’s not what friends do, right? Friends keep it light.

“You know,” I say finally, breaking the silence with a smirk of my own, “I liked you better in Manila. You’re a lot kinder.”

“Well, what can I say, New York brings it out in me.”

I shake my head, leading her to the guest room. “Well, let me know if New York’s influence makes you unbearable. I’ll drop you back at that bench you were sitting on.”

“You’re not gonna do that,” she says, laughing, and for a moment, the tension dissolves.

“Hey,” she adds, stopping abruptly in the entrance of the guest room. “Since we’re sharing an apartment and all, shouldn’t we make some new rules?” she asks with a playful glint in her eyes. “Just to be safe.” She fishes her phone from the pocket of her puffy jacket.

Emily and her rules. I sigh, but smile. “Alright, hit me,” I say, trying to focus. “What are the new rules of our new relationship—oops, sorry—friendship?” I say sarcastically.

“Hmm…” she starts. “For starters, you cannot be shirtless. That will be… difficult for me.”

I’m sorry, did she say it would bedifficult? Me? Shirtless? Forher? I can feel my pulse quicken, and suddenly I’m conscious of how close we’re standing. Is it hot in here? No, it’s freezing.

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