by Cat Carmine
You know, except for the part where it feels like my heart is being literally wrung out by a ruthless eastern European washerwoman.
Tyler hasn’t texted or called since I walked out on him. Which I know is what I wanted, but I’m not going to lie, it’s also a little surprising. And it stings. I had thought he’d at least try to make me reconsider my decision to call things off … but I guess I should be glad that he hasn’t. It’s better for both of us this way. Being together was getting too messy. Not just for me, but for him, too. I didn’t miss the way his father had yanked him aside that night, and I certainly hadn’t missed the furious look in his eyes. Tyler was toast, that much was obvious.
So yeah, it’s definitely better this way.
“Up,” Blake demands, grabbing me by the elbow and lifting me off the sofa. I try to ignore the butt imprint I’ve left over the last week. It looks like it might be permanent.
Literally the only good thing to happen this week is that my ankle is feeling better. I still can’t wear heels — not that I even want to — but at least I can get around the apartment without the crutches. Which is good, given the unforgiving way Blake marches me into the bathroom. She turns on the shower. “Get in.”
“A little privacy please,” I grumble.
“Fine.” Her lips twist into a smile. “I’m going to go pick out something for you to wear.”
She leaves me alone for a few blissful minutes, but even from in the shower, I can hear her flinging things around in my bedroom. I roll my eyes. I can only imagine what she’s going to pick out for me.
I had tried to cancel this weekend with Blake, or at least postpone it, but she wasn’t hearing it. She got Rori on her side, too, and between the two of them, I was outnumbered and outgunned. So here I am on Saturday night, shampooing my ratty, unbrushed hair and trying to remember if I even have any clean underwear to wear tonight. I better not mention that to Blake, I think, as I let the water pummel down on my shoulders, because she’ll probably make me go commando.
Still, I’ll give her credit for this — by the time I get out of the shower, I actually feel like a half normal human being again. I brush my teeth and slick on some deodorant and, despite Blake insisting I don’t need to, I put on a touch of make-up. First time I’ve done it all week. I actually look a bit like myself again.
I come out of the bathroom in my robe and find Blake has ripped through most of my closet. My bedroom looks like a tornado has gone through it, and, to be fair, it sort of did. My sister might look innocent, but she has the personality of a Tasmanian devil. She’s a wild and whirling dervish, and all you can do is go along with it or get out of the way.
“Okay, I’ve narrowed it down to three options,” she announces proudly. “Unfortunately you own about zero colors, so they’re all black.”
“Black is classic, Blake.”
“Black is boring, Emma.” Blake, herself, is already dressed in a very form-fitting fuchsia number that looks amazing with her blonde hair and blue eyes. I could never pull off something like that. “But it’ll have to do for tonight. Now, what do you think of this one?”
She holds up a dress, and I realize it’s the same one I wore last time we went out dancing … also known as the night I took myself over to Tyler’s house and drunkenly tried to seduce him. The same dress I’d peeled off in his living room. No way am I wearing that again. In fact, I think I might burn it.
“No. Next option.”
She holds up another black number, and I recognize this one right away, too — the wrap dress I’d worn to the Kinsmen Club. The one Tyler had buried his face under, right before those two bus boys had walked in on us. My cheeks start to burn, and I shake my head.
“No, not that one, either.” I glance over at the third dress she’s pulled out and recognize it as the one I’d worn the night Tyler took me to Darkly. Apparently, I really do need a wardrobe refresh. I stalk over to my closet and start pilfering through the few things that Blake hasn’t already tossed over the bed. Why don’t I own anything that doesn’t remind me of Tyler?
From the far reaches of the closet, I pull out a grey sheath dress. Perfect. I’ve definitely never worn this with him. I hold it up, and Blake wrinkles her nose.
“Are we going dancing, or are you going to a job interview?”
“I’m wearing this.” I unzip the back and try to shoo Blake out of the room. She stands there with her hands on her hips.
“Fine. Don’t leave.” I rummage through my drawers for undergarments and pull them on under the robe. Then I turn around and let the silky fabric fall from my shoulders. I tug the sheath dress on over my head. God, it’s so tight I can barely get it over my chest, even with the zipper down.
“Emma, seriously, you can’t wear that.” Blake has her hands on her hips. She stares me down as I awkwardly try to get the dress down over my hips, wrestling the fabric into submission. “I’m telling you this with absolute love, but you look like a sausage. A boring, corporate sausage.”
I feel hot, stupid tears prick my eyes. Blake must see them, too, because she claps her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I was just joking. You look gorgeous, of course.”
“No, you’re right,” I half laugh, half sob. “I do look like a corporate sausage. But I can’t … I can’t wear any of those.” I gesture to the pile on the bed.
“Okay, no problem. Let’s see… well, I brought a couple of extra dresses. Do you want to try one on?”
I nod, already trying to peel off my sausage casing and nearly falling over in the process. I hear Blake scurry out of the room, and a minute later she returns with a dress over each arm. One is black but tiny — more of a tube top than a dress, at least in my books. The other is emerald green but at least appropriately sized. I reach for it.
“I was hoping you’d pick that one,” Blake grins. “This color would look amazing on you.”
I let the stuffy, grey sheath dress fall onto the bed with the other discarded garments, and pull the emerald number on over my head. Blake has always been a bit curvier than I am, but surprisingly the dress fits me perfectly, thanks to my recent baked good binges. When I look in the mirror, I find it hugs all my curves just right. It’s got a deep vee in the front that highlights my chest, and it’s nipped at the waist before flowing out around my now generous hips.
“Babe-alicious,” Blake announces. She grabs her phone and is already snapping a picture. “I’m sending this to Rori as proof, because I have a feeling that in about five seconds you’re going to declare that you hate it and pull it off.”
I laugh, but I don’t take off the dress. Instead, I stare at myself in the mirror, smoothing the silky fabric over my curves. The way my body has changed is foreign to me, but in Blake’s dress, I don’t hate it. I look … good. Hot, even.
“Hubba hubba!”
I turn and find Lucy standing at the doorway to my room. Her hands are planted firmly on her hips, and she purses her lips, attempting a wolf-whistle. The three of us dissolve into giggles when it comes out as more of a raspberry.
“I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not,” I laugh.
Lucy tosses her hair behind her shoulder. “Oh, it’s definitely a compliment. You look smoking hot.”
“I feel … kind of okay.”
Blake and Lucy exchange a look, but I catch them both rolling their eyes.
“Come on.” Blake hooks her arm through mine. “Rori’s coming by to pick us up at ten. Let’s finish getting ready.”
After that, I have no time to think about the dress or anything else, because Blake is pancaking my face in foundation and concealer and more blush than a burlesque dancer. Lucy thrusts a pair of silver ballet flats at me, and then we’re rushing down to the street to pile into the car with Rori.
My sister does a double take when she sees me. “Emma, I didn’t know you owned anything even half that bright.”
Blake giggles, and I shrug. “Not mine. It’s on loan from Rainbow Bright ove
r here.”
Rori laughs. “Should have known.”
By the time we reach the club, I’m feeling in better spirits than I have all week. Maybe that’s because I haven’t had time to think of Tyler. The girls have been laughing and joking all night, and I have to admit, it’s nice to be surrounded by the positivity. Even if part of me would rather be home in my sweats still.
Once we’re firmly ensconced in the bar, though, I start having my doubts about this whole thing. There are too many people here, all dressed up and looking to score. Male gazes light on us as soon as we make our way to the dance floor, as if we were a pack of helpless gazelles crossing the savannah.
But my sisters and roommate are all looking at me so expectantly, so hopefully, that I put on my best smile. After all, it would be ungrateful of me to not at least try to have a good time, right? I know they just want to cheer me up, and it would be rude to pout about it now. So instead, I let them lead me onto the dance floor, where I try to throw myself into the beat.
Half an hour later, I’m a sweaty mess but not exactly feeling any better.
“Drinks?” I yell to the girls, and when I get three thumbs up, I head over to the bar. The crowd is three deep, and I shoulder my way in far enough to try to make eye contact with the bartender.
After several minutes of being ignored, I’m about ready to give up my mission when a male voice cuts through the noise.
“Need some help?”
I turn and find a man grinning down at me. Slicked back hair and a cheap suit, not to mention cologne so strong it seems to emanate from his pores. Not good cologne, either, but the really nasty stuff, the kind that smells like air freshener and formaldehyde.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Come on, let me buy you a drink.”
“No thank you. I’m here with my girlfriends.”
“There’s enough of me to go around.” He grins lecherously.
That’s the moment my fight gives out. I don’t want to be here, in this packed club with all these people, and I especially don’t want to be around men like this. There’s only one man I want to be around, or be with, and since that’s not happening, I really just want to go home, climb into bed, and sleep until I can’t feel anything anymore.
Without giving him an answer — because, seriously, a line like that doesn’t even deserve a response — I find my way back to the girls. They’re still dancing, laughing, and having fun.
“I’m sorry, you guys. I’m going to call it a night.”
Blake stops dancing and wraps her arms around mine. “Nooo!” she whines. “We just got here.”
“I know, but I can’t do this. You guys stay and have fun. Don’t let me ruin your night. I’m just going to take a cab home.”
“Are you joking?” Blake shouts over the music. “We’re coming with you. I didn’t come into the city so I could go dancing; I came because I missed my sisters. If you’re going, we’re going, too.”
My heart swells a little at that, and I wrap Blake in a hug.
“If you just want to get out of here, I know somewhere else we could go,” Rori offers.
“Where?” I ask suspiciously.
“You’ll see.”
One short cab ride later, the four of us spill into Fran’s, a retro 24-hour diner near Rori’s old office. Even though it’s almost midnight, the place is bustling. A harried waitress shows us to a booth, and we order a round of chocolate milkshakes.
“Best in the city,” Rori promises, and as soon as I take my first sip of the thick, sweet shake, I know she’s right.
I feel better now that we’re out of the bar, and soon the four of us are talking and laughing. Tyler’s never far from my mind, though. No matter how many times I try to push him out, he weasels his way back in. I push my straw around in my glass, trying to blink back the tears that spring up every time I picture his face.
Around me, I can feel Rori and Blake and Lucy exchanging looks.
Rori nudges me gently in the side. “Want to talk about it?”
I shrug. What’s the point, really?
“Yeah, come on, Em,” Blake chimes in. “You’ve been down since I got here.”
I hadn’t told Blake everything that had happened, although she was savvy enough to suss out that it had to do with a guy.
“Okay, fine,” I say finally, dropping my straw back into the glass. “Do you ever think maybe … the life you thought you wanted isn’t really what you want at all?”
The three of them are quiet.
Finally, Blake nods. “All the time.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah,” Lucy agrees.
“Oh.” I crack a smile. “Well, I’m glad it’s not just me.”
“Definitely not just you,” Lucy grins. “My life feels like it’s a constant work in progress. But hey, that’s what your twenties are for, right?”
“A work in progress,” I repeat.
“Exactly. Like, what would be the fun if you had it all figured out from the get-go?”
Huh. I guess I never thought of it quite like that before. I’ve felt like I was going through an identity crisis these last couple of months, but maybe I was just … growing up.
I suck at my milkshake as I think. “Okay, so let me ask you this. Have you ever fallen for someone you thought was completely wrong for you?”
Rori grins, and I swat her arm. “Not you,” I add. “You’ve been Wes’s since you were sixteen. But what about you guys?” I turn to Blake and Lucy.
“Are you kidding? I’d love a Mr. Wrong,” Blake laments. “Highfield’s choice in men is dismal.”
Lucy is shaking her head, too, but her smile looks forced. “Not me, either, sorry. Lou is perfect for me.”
I squint at her, but decide to let the comment go. “Well, you guys are zero help.”
“So change the question,” Rori says. “Why do you think Tyler’s wrong for you?”
“Is that a serious question?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Fine.” I start counting things off on my fingers. “He’s reckless, he’s a player, he’s never had a real job…”
“Well, neither have you,” Rori so helpfully points out.
“That’s different. I still have a career, not a trust fund.”
“Fair enough.”
“And he turns me into a complete maniac” I finish, undeterred by my sister’s snarkiness.
Rori chuckles at that. “Well, I’ll give you that. But Emma, love doesn’t have anything to do with what’s on paper. Look at Wes and I — we shouldn’t have worked out, either. In fact, I was determined as hell that we wouldn’t. Yet look at us now.”
I can’t argue with that. Rori and Wes have an enviable relationship, and it’s obvious to anyone who meets them that they’re madly in love with each other.
“Even though we’re both very different, we support each other, you know? We hear each other out. We can lean on each other. And, maybe most importantly, we see each other. No one sees the real me like Wes does.”
I swallow hard at Rori’s words. What if … all this time … Tyler has been the one to see the real me? The me that’s less than perfect? I’ve been feeling like I turn into someone else when I’m around him, but what if that Emma isn’t really someone else but just … someone I buried a long time ago?
“You know, in case you’re wondering, we never loved you because you were perfect, Emma,” Rori announces, as if reading my mind.
I blink at her a couple of times. She laughs and shakes her head.
“We love you in spite of that. You’re just fine the way you are, you know. So maybe, just maybe, you can stop trying so hard.”
Twenty-Seven
I think I’m going to throw up.
Dear God, please don’t let me throw up.
Solange puts her hand on my knee, and for a second I think she’s trying to make me feel better, but then I realize she’s trying to get me to stop shaking my leg, which is vibrating so fast it could
power a generator.
“Relax,” she intones. Her caramel voice is soothing, but there’s no calming me.
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. I reach for my phone again, checking my text messages for about the zillionth time today. I’ve gotten well-wishes from my parents and my sisters, and Lucy had seen me off this morning with a plate of good luck blueberry pancakes, even though it was five in the morning and I’d been too nauseous and nervous to touch them.
Nothing from Tyler. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but there’s a small part of me that hoped he’d at least reach out to say good luck. He knows the interview is today — Solange says everyone at Good Grant Books is tuning in to watch. Somehow, knowing that only makes me feel even more like throwing up.
I toss my phone back into my purse, then glance down at the notes I’d made last night. I had hoped they’d help me feel brilliant and capable, or at least marginally prepared, but the letters just cross in front of my eyes. My vision swims.
“I need some water,” I say, standing up and pacing around like an anxious tiger. “Do you think I could get some water?”
“Of course!” Solange leaps up, and I think she’s just glad to have something to do.
We’re in the green room at Channel Nine, where I’m waiting to make my debut on the Wake Up New York! morning show. The room we’re in is small, with a black leather couch and a glass coffee table. It’s designed for guests waiting to appear on the show. The space is actually painted green, just like the name says, because apparently that’s supposed to be calming, but there’s also a small garbage can lined with an empty grocery bag, and the whole thing looks suspiciously like it’s meant to be a barf bag. I wonder if anyone else has ever thrown up in here or if I’ll be the first?
Solange grabs a water bottle out of the mini fridge and hands it over to me. “Do you want some trail mix? Chocolate-covered raisins?”
“Do you want me to throw up for real?” I try to joke, except it’s so not a joke. I haven’t been able to eat for the last three days. No sleep, either. I keep thinking about this interview and about all the myriad ways I could screw it up. I had been nervous that first night at Veneer, too, but nothing compared to this. These past weeks have shaken me to my core, and even though I’ve tried to spend the last few days rebuilding, the result is something like a Jenga tower — precarious and ready to come tumbling down at any minute. Or at least that’s how it feels.