Page 3 of That Friendzone Feeling
Sinceher appalling parents are away inParisto see her classical music-star sister perform at theFrenchpresident’s private holiday party,Emilycame with me to spendChristmaswith myDashwoodclan.
“Wedid,” she says. “Thenit blew up again last night.Andhe’s right, we’re not a match.”She’spretty good at the brave face thing, but even from hereIcan see her eyes well up.
“Okay, the clean sheets in my guest room await you.Ithink we all know the drill at this point.”
“Stopit.Itdoesn’t happenthatoften.”Shegrabs the beer barrel-shaped stress reliever off her desk and throws it at me.There’sno point even flinching.Itlands two feet away.
“Howmany guys have you moved in with after five minutes then had to move out six months later and stay with me till the next one comes along?”Shestares at me. “Goon.”Ipick up my phone. “I’lljust read theNewYorkTimesfrom cover to cover while you count them up.”
“Imight have been a bit hasty a few times.”Shejumps off the desk and parks herself in her chair. “Butthat’s it now.Neveragain.”
“Ha, sure.That’sabout as likely as—”
“Youshaving off your beard?” she asks, her head cocked to one side. “Allthese years of the guys giving you a hard time about how ugly it is, butInever thought you’d give in.”Mybrother and three cousins have harped on me about it for years just like she has. “SomaybeIcan do something new too.It’sNewYear’sEveafter all.AndI’mmaking a resolution for once.”
“What’sbrought this on?”
Shepoints at the laminated scrap of paper hanging from the corkboard next to her desk. “Thefortune cookie.”
Ah.
Whenwe were atNorthwesternfor ourMBAs, we both knew we never wanted to work for anyone else, but we weren’t sure what to do.Thenone night at the start of our second year, we were eatingChinesetakeout at my place.Emilycracked open a fortune cookie and read the message,Whatyou need is right in front of you.Shelooked at the home brew going on in my kitchen thatI’dbeen obsessivelytrying to perfect, and said, “That!That’sit.That’swhat we should do.Gointo business together and start a brewery.”
Aftershe left that night,Ifished the cookie message out of the trash.
Wefinished the program, and eight years later here we are, sitting in our office above our fifth pub that sells only our own craft beers.We’reworking on three more locations, and my dream brewery resort, where we’ll make beer, run brewing classes, and hold beer events, concerts, weddings, and whatever else people want to book the property for.It’salready more than half-built in the perfect spot at one end ofHornbyIsland.
We’vecome a long way since that night in a cold industrial unit outsideChicagowhere we cracked open the first bottle ofToastedTomatobeer to roll off the production line.
That’swhenIgaveEmilythe fortune cookie message, whichI’dlaminated for safe keeping, to celebrate the start of our empire-building.She’shad it pinned up close to her desk ever since, wherever that desk has been—first in her bedroom, then on the construction site of our first pub inChicago, and in the home offices of places she’s shared with a catalog of dickish boyfriends who treated her badly but fulfilled her only important selection criterion of impressing her consistently intolerable parents.Now, finally, it’s here in our permanentHQabove the freshly openedEastVillagepub.
“How’sthe fortune cookie helping this time?”
“WhatIneed is right in front of me.”Shesweeps her arms wide, gesturing to the room. “Thebusiness.Theonly thingI’malways good at.Theonly thing that’s always there for me.”
“Erm?”Icough loudly.
“Well, yes, of course, you’re always there for me.Butyou don’t count.”
“You’resuch a charmer.Nowonder your relationships are always so successful.”
“Hey.”Shepicks up a bright red plush tomato bearing our logo and throws it at me.
Ifollow its trajectory until it lands on the other side of my desk.
“Youcan’t talk,” she says. “Youmight beMr.P, but you haven’t been on more than two dates with the same person since we started the business.”
She’scalled meMr.P—short forMr.Perfect—since a couple of months after we met.Because, as hard as she tries, she can’t ever find fault with me.Andit irritates the living crap out of her.
“Three.”Ihold up the appropriate number of fingers. “Iwent onthreedates with your cousin’s friend.”
“Onlybecause she had tickets for aNetsgame you couldn’t get into no matter how many strings you pulled.”
“Aman’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”Ishrug and sip my coffee.
“And”—she raises a finger in the air to emphasize her point—“you haven’t had anything resembling an actual girlfriend since the first year of grad school.Andshe said you were controlling.”Shemakes air quotes around “controlling.”
I’mnot going to have this conversation for the bajillionth time.
