Page 32 of The Emerson Effect
Easier? That’s subjective.
Easier to pretend, but not so easy if my feelings get a little tangled up, for real.
But I’m not going to bring that particular fear up to Joey. Not right now. She’ll get excited and tell me to be open to anything. Because she’s in love and wants me to be in love, too. She knows I’m skittish because of the whole identity-theft debacle with my ex, but she doesn’t know about the cheating. That while the fear of being tricked by a con-man is minimal––I’d never be so careless or clueless again––the fear of having my heart torn up by a cheater is very real.
I wasn’t really in love with that rat bastard, but finding out he was treating some other woman like a princess on my dimehurt. If he was going to con me, he could’ve at least used those cards to buy me something nicer than vitamins and tampons.
And I do realize that’s a fucked up way to think about it, but I can’t help it. It just proved his relationship with me wasa complete sham. Somehow, I think knowing it was real at the start and just disintegrated would be much better for my psyche. My self-worth.
And fuck, I’m letting that asshole occupy too much headspace. Again.
“You’re right,” I say finally. “Liking Emerson as a person will definitely make it easier to pretend. Thanks for listening, and thanks for being the bestest best friend a girl could ask for.”
“Aw, Poopsie,” she says, and I rear back from the hug I was leaning in for.
“What? Poopsie?”
Joey laughs. “I feel like we should have nicknames for each other after all these years. I was trying that one out.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, yanking her in for a hug. “And ‘Poopsie’ is ahardno.”
“Fine, I’ll keep workshopping,” she says with a chuckle.
I shake my head as I smile at her silliness. Joey has been my best friend since we were kids, and I’m not going to lie, it took a lot of work to get her to let me in. She suffers from social anxiety, and I was smart enough to bring the patience and resiliency it took to gain her trust so she’d show me the real her. She’s been open with me since elementary school, but I’m not blind. I can see the way she folds in on herself around strangers.
At least, the way she did untilDallas. Her neighbor became her friend, then her lover, all while showing her he understood her anxious mind. He helped teach her to manage certain social situations and encouraged her to find a therapist who could help her navigate the world on her own terms without feeling like she’s missing out.
She’s even looser and freer with me, and I love seeing her true personality shine without fear or remorse. It’s…amazing.
“All right, Poopsie, let’s watch a romcom,” I say, and she narrows her eyes.
“I thought Poopsie was off the table?”
“It is for me, but obviously, you like it. So…”
She chuckles. “I do like it. And don’t worry. I’ll come up with an equally ridiculous nickname for you. One that you can’t reject.”
“Fine,” I grumble, leaning back into the couch after grabbing the remote and turning on our favorite streaming service.
Joey cuddles in next to me, and we pick a movie. I try to pay attention, but my mind keeps wandering.
To how lucky I am to have Joey as a best friend.
To credit card bills and mortgage payments.
But mostly, to Emerson and the fact that in the not so distant future, I’ll be meeting him. Face to face. And we’ll pretend to be smitten with each other.
And, honestly? I really won’t be pretending. At all.
EIGHTEEN
Emerson
It’s been a few days since I posted a video about Twila, so once I finish my regular reaction videos that I’ll post throughout the rest of the week, I navigate to her page and start watching her videos one after another. I’m looking for something of which I can play off. Something not too obvious, but in hindsight, will appear totally apparent.
When I get to the beach video she posted on Saturday, I watch it a few more times before clearing my throat and scrolling to the next one.
“Don’t be a creeper,” I whisper to myself as I scroll.
