Page 24 of Things I Overshared
“I did?”
“As you know, I tend to err on the side of brutal honesty, Miss Canton.”
I roll my eyes at that, then think for a second. “Well,” I chuckle, “that does sound like me.” I shrug. “Okay, see you Saturday afternoon.”
He barely dips his head.
I turn back. “This is not to say we are friends.”
He nods.
“And if we are, you’re going to have to quit calling me Miss Canton.”
Another nod.
“And you may have to use actual words instead of just nodding.”
He closes his eyes and sighs, as if I’ve officially dragged the conversation on too long.
“See you Saturday,” I say quickly, letting him off the hook and rushing out of his office.
In my office, I close the door and breathe for a second. The man just makes me so stinkin’ nervous! And I’ve been nerves-free around plenty of hot, well-dressed men, so what gives? I quickly step around my desk and grab my phone. I search in my messages.
Sure enough, there it is. I sit down involuntarily, my heart racing for absolutely no logical reason. I see our thread from the week I arrived in New York, when I’d graduated from intern to an official job as sales associate.
Me: This is Sam!!!!!
Nice to remeet you!
Emerson: Welcome to New York!!!!!
Okay, I had clearly grabbed his phone and typed that to myself, as Emerson would never in a million years a) text me or b) use five exclamation marks. Ugh, Skye was right: I do have an exclamation point problem.
But there was one more message.
Emerson: Happy Birthday, Miss Canton
He had texted me on my birthday months later, my first birthday here in the city. But I’d never replied? That’s not like me. I sat and thought, drumming my thumb on the side of my phone as I stared at the screen. Between Facebook, Instagram, and texts, I get tons of messages on my birthday. That’s the only explanation. He must’ve gotten lost in the shuffle. Huh. Feeling badly about never replying, I start tapping.
Me: You were right, I do have your number!
Immediately, the three dots pop up, surprising me.
Emerson: As any friend of mine should.
I get a weird tightness in my chest, knowing he’s sitting two doors down, looking at his phone at his desk just like I am. But then I imagine him in his subdued, stoic perfection and catch a glimpse of my neon-rainbow bracelet on my wrist.It doesn’t suit you . . .
Yeah.
Not my friend, Evil Iceman.
Not even close.
________
Friday is a blur of finalizing things at the office in the morning and packing like crazy in the afternoon. After work, Nicole joins me at my apartment with sustenance.
“Where are you going, fashion week?!” She gasps, entering the disaster zone that is my bedroom. I’m not much of a decorator, but I have a nice bedroom set and a few bright girl-boss prints on the wall. Though none of that is even noticeable with the rainbow of clothes strewn everywhere.
