by Nina Bocci
“You’ve got a terrible habit of inviting yourself in when you’re not welcome.”
“We’re friends, and this is your house. You’re always welcome in my house, too. It is what friends do.”
Friends. There we go with that word again.
“Cooper, why are you here?”
“Because I have a friend who is avoiding me. Because that friend whom I’ve known all my life can’t get over that I made a mistake a decade ago. I’m here because that friend is clearly not interested in my apologies,” he replied.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Cooper. And I’m not still mad about that. It’s water under the bridge.”
He stepped forward. “Then why are you avoiding me? I call, you just send a text response. I knock, and you pretend that you’re not here. I stop by the office, and you’re conveniently on the phone.”
“I’m really busy. If we’re done, I’ll see you out so I can have my dinner and finish up my work,” I said, uninterested in going around and around and twisting my confusing emotions up even more.
He quietly paced a small square in my living room, his jaw ticking in the way it did when he was annoyed. “What now? I said everything is fine. We’re good. No hard feelings.”
“I’m assuming by your attitude that you don’t care that I am genuinely sorry for potentially fucking up this deal, even though you know it wasn’t on purpose and it was completely out of my control.”
Cooper’s explanation had taken the edge off with the media circus, but people were still talking about it. Again, it didn’t seem that facts mattered.
Is Cooper too immature? Can he handle the pressure?
“Are you finished?” I asked, turning to see him staring at a photo on the wall.
“No.”
“I was being facetious. Honestly, I don’t need to hear any more. I know you better than you think. I know that you’ve probably spent countless hours beating yourself up about everything. No apology was needed, but if it ends this song and dance, apology accepted.”
“Thank God.”
I opened my mouth a few times before shutting it. Why were things like emotions so easy for guys?
“I expected it to be harder to get you to leave.”
He shrugged. “Oh, I’m not leaving. We’re not done.”
“Don’t you think that this is problematic, Cooper? I’m all over the place with you. And you are with me. We’re a ticking time bomb. With the friendship, the election, just life in general. I don’t want to be mean, but I’m not sure any of this is healthy for either of us.”
“What do you mean? We’re friends. That’s more important than anything else, Emma.”
Emma.
“Let me have my feelings that you’re you and I’m me and together we’re not just oil and water but . . . well, whatever is worse than that,” I rambled. I wasn’t sure how much, if any, of what I was saying made sense, but at least I was being honest. Honest was messy, and this was definitely messy.
He ran a hand through his hair and sank into the buttery leather chair that was my favorite to curl up in when I wanted to get some serious work done. It had a way of comforting me; maybe it would do the same for him. He looked tired, his blue eyes dull; his skin, though still a bit tanned, didn’t have that healthy glow. With his head in his hands, he looked genuinely defeated.
This went beyond the usual level of mistakes that he made and apologized for.
“I don’t know how to explain it. I just needed you to believe in me.”
“I do,” I said.
“I feel like there’s a but coming here.”
“No buts. No ifs and/or eithers,” I said, ignoring the weird burn that was happening in my chest. “We’re still a wreck, though. You have to admit that.”
He splayed his hands out wide on his legs. “That’s not true. We just need to find our friendship glue again.”
I sighed. “You’re relentless. This is unhealthy. We bring out the worst in each other, I think.”
He didn’t disagree this time. “We weren’t always like this.”
That was a conversation for another time. I was already all over the place. I couldn’t take much more.
“Cooper, do you really want to do this? This is a huge responsibility. Can you handle it? Tell me the truth.”
He chuckled darkly. “The truth? The truth. I’m not used to telling the truth to myself, let alone someone who knows all my history.”
“Who better to start with, then? Just try. It’s just me and you, Cooper.”
He tugged at his hair, making it even more mussed than it had been when he walked in. “I want this so badly,” he began, looking blearily up at me. His eyes were even more bloodshot than I realized.
“I know that, Cooper. I never thought you’d run unless you really wanted to win.”
“It’s not just that. I really want this: to carry on your father’s legacy, to keep making Hope Lake a better place. I want this so much that I can’t stop screwing up on the way to winning. I can’t seem to stop. Just when I make some headway, I trip. Then you fix it, and lo and behold, I manage to fuck it up again. I think I’m waiting for you to just give up so then I can, too. If you give up on me . . .” He paused, looking back down so his eyes were trained on the wine-colored rug at his feet.
“If I give up, then what?”
I didn’t want to hear the answer, but I asked it anyway. I’d never seen him this torn up over something. It was unnerving, and I really did hate it. It brought up feelings that I’d once had for Cooper. A time when I’d thought we could have been more than just friends.
“When you give up, then I know that I really shouldn’t have done it in the first place. That every naysayer was right. That I can’t escape the shadow of the Campbell legacy or my reputation to make my own way.”
I knew what he was feeling. Growing up in a family where you’re constantly measured against a parent or, in this case, also an ancestor, is difficult. As if it weren’t bad enough growing up and going through being a teenager, a young adult, and an actual adult. Having to live up to incredibly high standards that you’re born into adds something that many people don’t understand.
But I did. I could appreciate the pressure he was under. The need to find his own place and his own way. And as much as I hated to admit it, someone else we both knew also understood this: Whitney. Like me, she was in a position to help him. In a lot of ways, she was more important to this operation than I was—which was a hard pill to swallow. She was the face people saw and credited with saving him and the campaign. I swallowed the feeling of irritation that climbed into my throat when I pictured her on Cooper’s arm. After all, that was how I’d wanted it: her front and center and me in the background.
“Cooper, listen to me.” I sighed. “At the end of this, we’re still whatever we were before. No matter how ugly or how pretty. We’re Cooper and Emmanuelle. Whether you’re mayor or back in the office driving me insane. We’re still us.”
“Emma,” he said softly, and I swore my name broke as it left his lips. Whenever Cooper called me by my nickname—maybe because he did it so rarely—something sparked in me that I was always quick to dump a bucket of water on. It was another time, another life, and another memory I needed to forget.
“What?”
“Promise me that at the end of this, we’ll still be what we were before.”
I laughed. “Two people who make each other crazy?”
It was his turn to laugh, but his laugh held no mirth. It was resigned and tired, and I didn’t like it. I wanted the old Cooper back. The one who pushed every button and enjoyed it.
“Emma,” he said skeptically.
“I promise.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“You go straight home. I’ll talk to you later. There’s something I have to do.”
• • •
IT TOOK TWENTY MINUTES after Cooper left for me to get up the nerve to make the call. I hadn’t spoken to Whitney in years. The las
t time I’d spoken to her had been nearly six years before at a UPenn alumni event, when, upon seeing her with Cooper as her plus-one, I had turned on my heel and walked the other way.
I’d brought Henry as my date because the guy I was seeing couldn’t make it and I’d hated the thought of going alone.
Over the years, anytime Cooper or Whitney had needed a plus one, they’d brought each other. I hated that. Even though election day was getting closer, I still didn’t really know what their relationship was, and I wouldn’t ask because I feared the answer. I avoided them every chance I got and had been lucky enough not to run into her yet. But I knew that had to change.
I’d found her phone number on her law firm’s website. I could have just asked Cooper for it, but frankly, I didn’t want him knowing that I was contacting her.
My iPhone sat on my coffee table, with only one number left to push before hitting the green call button. I just needed to leave a message to ask to meet her. I needed to see her and get it over with. Steeling my nerves was never my strong suit. My emotions were usually easy to read, plain as day on my face. My voice was the same: it would shake if I was angry or nervous; it got high-pitched if I was arguing.
Whitney was someone who drew out every emotion from me: hurt, betrayal, annoyance, and anger.
So. Much. Anger.
After another half hour of stalling and scribbling down some talking points, I called her firm, my heart jumping in my throat as it rang. “Sinclair, Saxonburg, and Frankweiler answering service, may I take a message?”
“Hello, I just need to leave a message for Whitney Andrews.”
“Hold, please. She’s still in the office.”
“No, no, no. Just a mess— Shit.”
She transferred me instead.
“Don’t answer. Don’t answer. Please don’t—”
“Whitney Andrews.” Her stern voice hadn’t changed—it still rubbed me the wrong way.
I looked down at the sticky notes I’d written, trying to find the words, any words, to start this conversation. The words died in my throat.
“I can hear you breathing. I charge four hundred dollars an hour, so if you’re not going to say anything, Emma . . .”
“Whitney.” I sounded flat, annoyed. “How did you know it was me?”
“It’s the Hope Lake area code, and it’s not Cooper, his office, his parents’ house, Henry, or Nick. Process of elimination meant it was you.”
“This is why you get paid the big bucks.”
“You’re certainly right there.”
“I’m going to assume you know why I’m calling?”
“If it’s about recovering from Jackson scandal 2.0, I’m handling it. I have been and I’ll continue to. We’re going out to dinner this weekend, and we’ll lay it on thick for the cameras as usual. Not to worry.”
That was why I’d wanted to leave a message. I picked through the Post-its I’d covered with my talking points, trying to get the conversation back on track. I was supposed to be firm, take charge, and be to the point—not flustered.
“Handling it how? As his lawyer or his girlfriend?” I volleyed, not knowing which, if either, was an accurate description.
“Oh, Emma,” she scoffed. “Your little fishing expedition is so cute. I’m not his lawyer, but you knew that. Look, I’ll be back in town tomorrow after court.”
“Want to meet for dinner, coffee, or—?” Cage match? Bar fight?
“Dinner is fine.”
“I’ll make arrangements.”
“You do that.”
“We can discuss.”
“Cooper,” she said by way of ending the conversation.
“Yes, Cooper. We have nothing else to talk about.”
“That’s for sure.”
Before I could get another word in, she hung up.
“Bitch.”
• • •
“WHAT TIME are we meeting Nick at HLBC?” I asked Henry, holding on to his arm for guidance. After the bout with conjunctivitis, I’d been warned by my eye doctor to take it easy with the contacts—plus, after the extralong days and nights, my eyes were constantly red, bloodshot, and strained. Unfortunately, the fact that I never wore my glasses meant that I constantly forgot them at home. Hence Henry the Seeing Eye dog.
We were off to celebrate the council’s recent approval of HLBC’s application for expansion. I wasn’t asking questions, just counting it as a win.
“We’re meeting him in about twenty minutes. We’ll make it. Unless you want to stop home and grab your glasses?” Henry asked, looking at the line for ice cream at Viola’s Sweet Shop. Whenever a smidge of warm weather hit—even if it was a sixty-degree day in October—she had a crowd.
“I’ll be fine. If I go home, I won’t want to leave. I can see enough not to become a road pizza—I just can’t drive or see more than a few feet in front of me. Everything is a bit fuzzy.” I started rummaging around in my tote for my wallet. “God, I’m in a mood.”
After last night’s conversation with Whitney, I was fit to be tied. That had probably added to my eye problems and stress headache, which had formed almost the second I’d hung up the phone with her. My head throbbed every time I thought about our upcoming meeting.
Last night I’d slept terribly, staying up half the night and still managing to be late for work. All day at the office, I’d been bitter, especially after Anne had brought me yet another newspaper with a scathing headline. That one had mocked the governor for coming to town to throw Cooper’s election-night party. My mood had soured so badly that by the middle of the afternoon Nancy finally said she thought I needed to cut out early or she was going to call my mother.
She didn’t need to threaten me twice.
“Your money is no good here,” Henry said, pushing my cash away as I took it out of my wallet so I’d be ready to go once I ordered. “Even if you weren’t miserable, you’re not buying your own ice cream. My mother would have had my head if she’d known I let you pay.”
I curtsied. “You’re so chivalrous, kind sir.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but if anyone deserves free ice cream, it’s you.”
“Should we get Nick one for after dinner?” I asked, spying his favorite black raspberry, which was almost gone. “There won’t be any if we come back here.”
Henry laughed. “You want two ice creams today? I said you deserved ice cream—Nick can get his own.”
“I’ll pay you back—he’d be pissed if he heard we stopped for ice cream without telling him. When we get to HLBC, Nick’ll throw it in the freezer. Although I’m pretty sure he’s already got a gallon of this in his freezer. You know Viola has a soft spot for him. As soon as it’s made, she calls her little Nicky so he can stop by to pick it up.”
After we finally got to the head of the line, paid, and started eating, my stress headache nearly disappeared thanks to a healthy onset of brain freeze. By the time we reached HLBC, my ice cream cone was gone and Henry was throwing our papers into the recycling cans. Inside the restaurant, Nick was sitting, playing on his phone and snacking on what I could only assume was round one of his dinner feast. I had never seen a man who could eat as much as he did and still stay ridiculously fit.
“What’s good?” I asked, sitting across from him at the small bistro table.
The shiny wood table was spattered with pasta sauce. “Did you actually get any into your mouth?” Henry asked, grabbing a napkin and tossing it to Nick.
Nick rolled his eyes, wiping his face before moving to some sort of deep-fried ball. He held it up to us. “These are so good. He’s got a piece of mozzarella stuffed inside them, and he’s got jalapeño ones, too. I could eat these all day for the rest of my life and be happy,” he said, leaning back to unbutton his jeans.
“You’re so classy,” I joked, cutting one of the fried balls in half and seeing meat inside. “Are these meatballs?” Before he could answer, I popped it into my mouth.
“Holy shit, these are the best things I’
ve ever eaten.” I groaned, then automatically slapped my hand over my mouth. “Don’t tell my mother!”
It was too late. Nick had recorded my reaction. “I’m sending this to her later,” he teased, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
“You’re such a shit. I’ll never bring you her cooking again if you send that to her!” I threatened, but we both knew it wouldn’t matter. If I stopped taking the guys food, she would just invite them over or send it to them instead. Between them and Cooper, she had all the extra kids she could ever want. And she kept all her kids well fed.
“You love me. Deep down, I know you do.”
“It’s very deep down. Believe me.”
“Whatever, I’ll take it,” he said, sipping his beer.
The server made her way over to get our order, and against my better judgment, I ordered a beer to have with the guys. I was so tired that I knew one beer was likely going to put me to sleep, but still, HLBC’s craft IPA was too good to pass up. “Tonight couldn’t have come at a better time.”
“Yeah, I heard things are really ramping up with the campaign. Need any more help?” Henry offered, pulling out his phone. “I’m not on detention detail for the next month, so if you guys need something, let me know.”
“Same here!” Nick chimed in. “I’ll be working the polls that day. And I mean P-O-L-L, not P-O-L-E, though I’m sure I could get a lot of votes for Cooper if this body was working the steel.” He threw his head back and laughed at his own joke. “Get it? Poll and pole?”
“You realize you’re saying this to an English teacher, right? I know what a homophone is,” Henry said, rolling his eyes.
“I don’t know what that means,” Nick said seriously. “I just meant that poll and pole sound the same but are spelled differently.”
“Yes, and they mean different things,” Henry began but stopped. “You know what, never mind.”
“I never want to have this discussion again.” I laughed, tearing off a piece of bread from the basket.
Nick shrugged and continued to eat. “Are you going to have room for dinner after that?” I asked, but honestly, I knew the answer. Yes, yes, he would.
After we ordered dinner, we sat and I unloaded. Having a relationship like ours was a hard line to toe. We knew nearly everything about one another. For Nick and Henry, that included all the bullshit that went along with Cooper and me.