by Lori L. Otto
“You won’t say anything?” I asked Teresa as she nearly pushed me out the door.
“About that?” she joked with me once more, glancing down.
“About anything?”
“I won’t say anything about anything, honey,” she said, and her reassuring voice was finally of comfort to me. “Especially to her brother, who has already doled out one black eye this evening.”
“Really? To who?”
“Whom,” she corrected me. Fucking English major.
“Whatever.”
“The guy who kissed her at the party,” she’d said.
I couldn’t hide my smile. “Good.”
I had called Randi on the way down to my car, letting her know I’d be coming over after all. She was thrilled, as was I, anxious to finally get rid of the raging problem that had plagued me since Emi first touched me under the covers. I stayed out all night, too, my mother under the impression I was with Emi.
I totally used Randi that night... and she wouldn’t be the first woman I would use to keep my attraction to my best friend in check.
The next morning, Emi had called the house shortly after I returned home. My mother answered, but was none-the-wiser about my whereabouts after talking briefly to her.
“How do you feel?” I asked her.
“Like hell,” she admitted. “What the hell was I thinking?”
“I’m not sure, Em,” I told her. “I wasn’t there for the drinking part. Just the after effects.”
“Yeah... can we talk about that?”
“Sure.” I felt sick to my stomach at that point.
“What exactly happened last night?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I answered immediately, hoping she was truly drawing a blank.
“I know that’s not true.”
Fuck. I stayed silent for only a second. “Well, then why did you ask?”
“Because I think we need to talk about it.”
“Whatever happened,” I began, being vague on purpose, “changes nothing between us.”
“I wasn’t wearing my clothes this morning.”
“And...”
“Did we...”
“No, Emi, we did not. You’d know.”
“Promise?”
“Emi, you were drunk, what kind of person do you think I am?” If only she knew...
“No, I know. I’m sorry. But I think we need to talk about the kiss.”
Which one? I thought, unable to narrow it down, but knowing deep down she wasn’t talking about any of the kisses we shared. I decided to ask. “Which one?”
“So we did kiss.”
“Maybe once.”
“Stop being aloof, Nate,” she whined. I shut up. “I know what I felt when you kissed me last night. It was unreal.”
“No, it wasn’t–” I nearly swallowed the words before they came out. “You don’t know what you felt. You don’t even know what really happened.” I knew I needed to tell her it wasn’t me, but I didn’t want her to rule me out, as she had seemed to try to do the night before.
“I do.”
“Emi,” I had finally told her, unwilling to face my actions or the unwelcome truth. “You were drunk, and it was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened. I don’t think we ever need to talk about it. Ever again.”
“But–”
What you felt was for a guy who could never even begin to appreciate who you are and what you mean. He was taking advantage of you! What you felt wasn’t for me.
“I’m serious, Emi. I wasn’t myself...” I had chosen my next words carefully. “It wasn’t really me.”
To say any more might have provoked her to find out the truth. Finding out the truth would have meant there was no hope for me in the end.
And I wanted to hold on to hope.
We weren’t meant to be together then. We’re not now, either. But as she goes through life, boyfriend after boyfriend, searching for that elusive “feeling” she felt one night, I know I may have a chance later, when she lets go of the silly notion that a single kiss could really change everything in her world.
Once upstairs, I pick up the receipt and pull my phone out of my jacket pocket. It’s eleven, but I take a chance and dial Samantha’s number anyway. Her cheerful voice greets me after one ring.
CHAPTER 5
A pounding on the door startles me as I’m painting one afternoon in late January. I open the door to Emi, her smile wide as she bounces on her toes. She’s dressed in tight jeans and a basketball jersey. Her hair is pulled back into two little pigtails at the nape of her neck. My god, the pigtails.
“What are you–”
“Come on,” she says, excited. “Me and you. Knicks game. Right now. Starts in an hour.”
“Emi, you hate basketball.”
“No, I don’t hate it.”
“Yes, you do,” I correct her.
“Okay, so I’m not a huge fan, but we’re going.”
“Every time I take you to a game, you get bored, drink way too much, heckle the players and wind up embarrassing yourself.”
“Well, then it’s good entertainment for you, anyway. Come on.”
“I’m painting,” I tell her. Knowing I’ll end up going, I take my brush to the sink and begin to rinse it off. I can’t say no to her... would never pass up the opportunity to hang out with her.
“Mmmmmm,” she says as she crosses the room to inspect the artwork. “It’s no good. You need to take a break and come with me.”
“Who gave you these tickets?” I ask her.
“That editor I’ve been working with. The magazine has a suite and he gave me and Teresa four tickets. So we’re going. Pronto.”
“Do I have time to shower?”
“What part of ‘pronto’ don’t you understand?” she asks, impatient.
“Well, I have to change, at least.”
“Go, then!” she laughs, taking a seat on the arm of the couch. I walk to the closet and pull out a long-sleeved t-shirt, checking to make sure there’s no paint on it. I take off my work shirt and glance in the mirror, noticing Emi staring at me. It takes her a minute to realize I’m looking back at her.
“See something you like?” I tease her, turning around and causing her to blush a deep crimson. I smile smugly.
“Shut up and get dressed already!” she exclaims as she stands up and walks toward the door.
“Alright, alright. Hair?”
“It looks perfectly messy, let’s go.”
“Where’s your jacket?” I ask her, pulling mine on. The jersey she’s wearing has no sleeves with a deep v-neck. It’s obvious her bra is helping to enhance her cleavage... her breasts don’t typically look so... full...
“I don’t have one that goes with this uniform-thingie.”
“Take one of mine,” I offer her my leather coat.
“Nope,” she smiles. “I spent a lot of time putting this look together. Not covering it up.”
“It’s cold,” I try to talk some sense into her.
“Don’t I know? I ran over here, after all. I just have to keep moving... so come on!!”
“You ran in those shoes? You’ve already been drinking, haven’t you?” I ask.
“Two glasses. I’m good to go.”
“I bet you are,” I raise my eyebrows at her, running my hand flirtatiously down her arm.
She looks at me through slanted eyes, slapping my chest. “You’re pathetic,” she chastises me in jest.
“Like ya, Em,” I taunt.
“Yeah, whatever, come on.” She leads me out the door, down the hallway to the elevator. She rocks back and forth from her toes to her heels, anxious. I love it when she’s feisty like this.
When we get to the arena, she allows me to rub her arms to warm her until we get into the suite, at which point she shrugs me off and smiles apologetically. We say hello to Teresa and her editor and a few other guests. Emi orders a glass of wine for herself and water for me. We take a seat in the bleachers in front of the suite as the game begins.
&
nbsp; “Nate, you seeing anyone these days?” Teresa asks me.
“Mmmm...” I hedge as Emi’s bright eyes look on curiously. “I’ve been talking to a girl I met a few weeks ago, but it’s nothing serious.”
“When are you ever going to ask me out?” she asks, a running joke we’ve had for years. We’d discovered long ago that she was the female version of me.
I just nod and smile. Emi looks away from Teresa, directly at me, and rolls her eyes. She never has liked our teasing about this. Teresa is very much not my type, but even still, Emi has threatened bodily harm if the two of us ever hook up. It likely has something to do with the lack of privacy in their apartment and the incredibly awkward situation that would ensue. I’ve assured her numerous times that she needn’t worry.
“So,” Emi says as she takes my elbow in hers, leaning in close to me so our conversation can be heard in the loud arena.
“So?”
“I need some advice.” I strain to keep my eyes off her chest... fortunately, her green eyes are completely captivating, her lips soft...
“Let’s say you know a girl...”
“I know many girls,” I answer.
“Right, obviously, but let’s say it’s one particular girl.”
“Is this a girl, or a woman, Emi?”
“A woman, but she hates that term.” She hates that term.
“And is this woman someone I know?”
“She’s irrelevant...”
“Okay, an irrelevant woman...”
“No,” she laughs. “Stop it. So anyway, this woman...”
“Yes?”
“Let’s say you met her under certain circumstances... and she wanted one thing from you, but with the way things panned out, you got the distinct impression that she wanted something else.”
“Okay...” Is she talking about us?
“How would this girl– this woman– go about correcting this?”
“She shouldn’t beat around the bush, and she should just come out and say it. Guys are dense, we need for you to spell things out.”
“Okay, yes, that would be the obvious answer... but what if this girl really likes this guy, and he really is just interested in her for the other thing?”
“I’m not following,” I tell her. “Dense, remember? Be plain.”
“She likes him for one thing... but he sees her differently, based on some things she... did... hypothetically...”
“Right.” What? “So you don’t think the guy and the girl want the same thing?”
“Right. Like, maybe certain circumstances caused this girl to be someone... other than the person she really is... what if the guy just likes the girl he thinks she is but not the one she really is?”
“Why wouldn’t he like the girl she really is?”
“I don’t know...”
“If the girl is you, I’m sure the guy would really like you, for you.” And if the guy is me... no, I can’t go there.
“This is all hypothetical,” she blushes. “Irrelevant girl.”
“You are never irrelevant, Emi,” I tell her. “If he didn’t like you for who you were, he wouldn’t be worth your time or trouble, Em. But why don’t you think he knows you?”
“Hypothetically?” she plays with me.
“Hypothetically.”
“Because she led him to believe she was someone else... that she wanted something else.”
“Well, what caused her to lead him on in the first place?”
“Poor judgment,” she sighs. “Wine and terribly poor judgment.”
“And you’re sure the guy likes the girl for this ‘something else?’”
“Pretty sure.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He seemed to be enjoying himself... with her...” She blushes again, this time tucking her head into my shoulder.
“I think you’d be surprised, Emi. You should ask him.”
“Okay, no,” she shakes her head. “That would be too embarrassing. I don’t think I could do that... um, she could do that.”
“Sure you could. Try it.” Just say it.
“I’d be afraid he wouldn’t like me the same way... and then he’d be gone... probably run into the arms of someone better.” She laughs lightly under her breath.
“He wouldn’t leave you. There’s no one better.” I tuck a strand of hair that had fallen out of her pigtail back behind her ear, losing my breath in the process.
A strange look of awareness flashes through Emi’s eyes. Her lips part slightly as she stares at me.
“He’s probably on the same page as you,” I tell her, my voice hushed. “You just have to tell him, Emi, and find out.”
Her cheeks redden for the third time in the conversation as she pulls her arm from mine. “Right. I think I will. I need a drink.”
Abruptly, Emi stands up to get another drink. She trips over my feet as she crosses in front of me, falling into my lap, my hand touching her breast as she tumbles into me. Good lord...
“Maybe you don’t need another,” I suggest quietly.
“It’s the shoes, idiot,” she laughs nervously, “and your big feet.”
“Right,” I agree with her, unconvinced. Let the entertainment begin... Teresa slides into Emi’s vacant seat.
“When’s your next gig?” she asks.
“Nothing on the calendar yet,” I tell her. “But I’ll be sure to let you know.” We sit together until half-way through the second quarter when I begin to wonder where my best friend has gone. I turn around to scan the room, finding her seated at a bar in the suite talking to a man. He, too, is wearing a Knicks jersey and cap. His posture screams jock, his muscular arms further proof. She’s never been into that type. I wonder who he is, what they’re talking about.
She’s leaning into him, her back straight, chest out. She plays with her damned pigtail, twirling it coyly around her finger. I can see her pronounced dimples all the way across the room. Her laugh stands out among all the other crowd noise.
“Who’s that?” I ask, nudging Teresa.
“That’s the guy she’s been talking to... Colin, I think is his name.”
“They’re dating?”
“Not exactly,” her roommate answers. “They met at a happy hour that the magazine sponsored a few weeks ago. He’s a sports writer. Apparently,” she says, her voice dramatic, “they made out in his car till the wee hours of the morning.”
“Huh.” I have no words. “Really.”
“Yeah, they’ve been texting ever since. She wasn’t sure he’d show up... I’m glad he did, for her sake.”
“Yeah...” I say, running my hand through my hair. Why am I here?
“He’s a big Knicks fan... hence the outfit tonight. It’s her cute cheerleader look.”
“I see that,” I mumble, unable to tear my eyes away from her. Were we not just talking about us? About what she wants from me?
“When are you gonna ask her out?” she asks quietly.
“What?” I look at her, startled, the confession of my feelings written all over my face.
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“Yeah, keep it up,” she says, exasperated. I sit in silence for a few minutes, eventually turning back to the game but just seeing a blur of action in front of me, my eyes not wanting to focus.
“I could never be what she wants,” I murmur, a part of me hoping Teresa won’t hear me, an equal part wishing she would.
“You don’t know that,” she argues.
“I do. I’m just her friend. Her fucking best friend. And... she sees something in me that isn’t really there.” My frustration is obvious.
“I’m not sure,” she counters. “I think she knows you well enough to know what you can offer her. And I think she likes what you have to offer.”
“I can’t offer her enough. She may not realize it, but I do. It doesn’t matter how I might feel about her... until she stops looking for a fairytale ending, sh
e won’t be happy with me.”
“You could convince her to stop looking. If you just accepted how you feel and told her. But you hide your feelings well. You play the friend role masterfully.”
“I have to. For now, it’s the best I can offer her. And it’s served us well all these years. I mean, fuck, look where I’m at right now. She brought me to this game, and she’s on a date with another guy. When did I become another one of her girlfriends?” I laugh through my sigh. “Am I here for moral support?”
“You’re here because she’s comfortable around you.”
“I’m here as her backup plan. Only if super-jock over there doesn’t get to take her back to his place, I’ll get to deliver her to your front door, where I will leave her with you and go back to my place, alone.” I look back over my shoulder to catch another glimpse. I imagine them together, in the backseat of what I can only assume would be his late-eighties muscle car, paint chipping off the dented bumper... she looks so tiny, so fragile next to his bulky body. She’s so much classier than that. How tacky that he took her back to his fucking car, hoping to score with my Emi, to take advantage of her after one too many glasses of wine. Maybe he did... maybe they did, and she wouldn’t admit it to Teresa... No, she’s not that type. He’s not her type... I think I actually taste the bile rising in my throat.
In that moment, Emi looks over from her conversation with the man and smiles warmly at me. She waves us both over to her. My body suddenly feels leaden.
“Come on,” Teresa encourages me by pulling on my jacket.
“Nate,” Emi says, “I’d like you to meet Colin. Colin, this is my best friend, Nate.”
“Good to meet you,” he says, standing up to shake my hand. He’s got to be 6’6” at least. His grip is strong, crushing on my hand. When he sits back down, he puts his hand at the top of Emi’s thigh. She looks down at his hand briefly, noticeably shocked, and she puts her hand on top of it. He’s obviously staking his claim on her. I don’t like him already. His expression is smug when I look back up at him.
“Tequila shots all around,” he orders the bartender.
“That’s okay,” I tell him.
“I insist.”
Teresa passes the shot glasses around to each of us. “To a Knicks win,” she says, raising her glass.
