by Cat Carmine
Once we get to the fourth floor, she directs me to her door and fishes in her bag for her keys, which she hands to me. I lean the crutches against the wall, unlock the door, and carry her into the darkness.
Through the moonlight, I can make out the outline of the sofa, so I deposit her there gently.
“Thank you,” she says grudgingly.
“You're welcome.” I smile for the first time since we left the Catskills house. I look around the apartment. “Is your roommate really home? It doesn't look like there's anyone here.”
Emma mumbles something unintelligible.
“What's that?”
She looks down at the couch. “She's at her boyfriend’s.”
“Well, I'm not leaving you here alone.” I fold my arms across my chest.
Emma rubs her temples and sighs. “I’m too tired to fight with you,” she says. “I really just want to go to bed. So if you want to stay, stay.”
It's not exactly the warm welcome I would have liked to get the first time I spend the night at Emma's place, but for now I'll take it.
I hoist Emma back up and help her to her bedroom. She turns on the bedside lamp, and I discreetly check out the room — the pale yellow walls, the gauzy white curtains, the neatly made bed. There's a tiny desk with a laptop against one wall, and I imagine her sitting there, working on her column, writing her book. It twists something in my stomach, something foreign and unfamiliar.
“I can sleep on the couch, if you want.” I clear my throat.
Emma looks up at me. Her grey eyes are hazy, but I don't know if it's tears or all the codeine she's had tonight.
“Maybe ... maybe you could sleep in here,” she says. She picks at the quilt. “If you want to.”
“Hell yeah, I want to.”
“Will you get me a t-shirt out of that second drawer? I'd really like to get out of this stupid dress.”
“Of course.” I open the drawer and rustle through her clothes. Everything is folded neatly, and a smell like lavender tickles my nose. “Do you have a preference?”
“The purple one.”
I find it and hand it to her, then help her out of her dress. Despite the circumstances, I still can't help but admire her body when she peels the dress off. Look, I'm only human, okay? But just as quickly, she tugs on the t-shirt and burrows down under the quilt. Her dark hair spills over the pillow, her eyes suddenly sleepy, and I think to myself that she's never looked more beautiful.
The only thing better is when she pats the spot on the bed beside her. I quickly whip off my t-shirt and jeans and slide in next to her. I pull her to my chest, taking care to avoid her ankle, and hold her there. She falls asleep quickly, maybe thanks to the painkillers, but I lie awake for a long time, thinking about everything that happened … and wondering what will come next.
In the morning, I wake up before Emma. Actually, I'm not really sure I slept at all. I decide that the least I can do is make us both some coffee. I reluctantly unwrap her arms from around my waist and pull on my jeans. I find my way to the kitchen and start opening random cupboards. She must have coffee here somewhere.
“Um, can I help you?”
I turn suddenly at the voice — definitely not Emma's — dropping a box of peppermint tea in the process. “Coffee?”
The girl in front of me eyes me suspiciously but points to a white canister on the countertop. One clearly marked coffee.
“Oh. Thanks.”
“Are you ... a friend of Emma’s?”
“Yes. Sorry. Tyler Grant.” I hold out my hand, and she shakes it, but with some reluctance. “You're Lucy, right? Her roommate? Emma sprained her ankle, so I stayed the night to make sure she was okay. I was going to make coffee.”
I know I'm rambling, but she's still staring me down in a way that says she doesn't trust a word I'm saying, and I have to wonder what Emma might have told her about me. Or worse, maybe she told her nothing at all.
“Is she okay?” Lucy asks finally.
“I think so. Just in some pain, but hopefully the codeine will take care of that. Filters?”
“In the cabinet over the stove.”
“Right.”
I get the coffee going while Lucy stands and watches me silently. The machine starts gurgling, and I'm wondering how long we're going to have to stand here in awkward silence when I finally hear Emma moving around.
Lucy and I both rush towards her and find her hobbling out of her bedroom on her crutches. She's managed to pull on a pair of shorts, but her long shapely legs still catch my eye. Well, you know, the part of them that's not encased in the tight wrapping the ER doc had given her.
“How are you feeling?”
She shrugs, or as well as she can shrug with crutches shoved up under her arms. “Better, I guess.”
“Do you want some more of your codeine? I can go get it.”
She shakes her head. “I have to finish my column this morning. I'd rather have a clear head to do it.”
“Sure. Well, I'm making coffee. That should help.”
“Thanks.” She licks her lips. “I think Lucy and I can take it from here.”
I look back and forth between her and her roommate. Lucy looks awkward, but she nods at Emma. They exchange one of those knowing wordless glances that all women seem to have mastered.
“Oh. Okay.” I shove my hands in my pockets. I know when I'm not wanted. I try not to feel put out about it — I'm sure Emma just wants a chance to work and sleep — but the part of me that wants to take care of her and make this right isn't happy about being told to take a hike.
“Thanks for staying last night,” Emma says, which makes me feel marginally better. “And for the coffee.”
“Sure. Anything you need, anything at all, call me, okay?”
“I will,” she promises, even though I get the distinct feeling that's unlikely.
As soon as I get home, I'm on the phone with my father. I texted him last night to tell him not to expect us back at the house, but I haven't spoken to him since, and to be honest, I'm not entirely sure I want to. None of this would have happened if he hadn't shown up at the house. Right now, Emma and I would probably be lounging in bed, eating the strawberry crepes I'd planned on making, and drinking espresso and then going back to fucking some more. Instead, she's at home with a sprained ankle, and I'm at my place with a case of blue balls and a serious feeling of nagging guilt.
“You left your things at the house,” my father says, as soon as he picks up. “I’m leaving now, so if you plan on coming back up, feel free.”
“I’m not coming back. Emma's home — she sprained her ankle.” Of course, he hasn’t even asked about her.
“Your mother will be back on Tuesday; you better collect everything by then.” It pisses me off that he doesn't even acknowledge what I just told him, but I don't know why I would expect anything different.
“I’ll talk to Mom,” I say, instead. “Don't worry about it. And by the way, Emma isn't 'some bimbo' I decided to take on vacation.”
My father chuckles. “Son, they're all bimbos.”
Anger bubbles up inside me, and I clench the phone. “Not Emma. She's …”
“What?” he chides. “Special? Oh, they're all special until they've got a ring on their finger. Then see how things change.”
Now I'm pissed on Mom's behalf. Their marriage is far from perfect, but it's obvious who takes the lion's share of the blame on that one. Of course, my father doesn't see it that way. My father never does anything wrong — at least not in his eyes.
“Dad, I really don't want to have that conversation with you right now.”
“Very well. Oh, Tyler—” he starts, before I can hang up. “You're coming to the annual gala, right?”
“If I have to.”
“Very funny. Of course you have to. You know I normally have your sister up there with me, but since that's not happening, I need at least one of my children to be there with me. What will people think otherwise? I mean it, Tyler — do n
ot blow this off. If you make me look bad….”
“I get it, Dad. I'll be there. You won't look bad.” I want to roll my eyes. Of course my father won't look bad. Everyone in this city is either in awe of him or indebted to him. Either way, they're going to show up to fawn over him with slavish devotion, just like I'm expected to. I'm starting to understand why Lacy decided to run off with Brendan and become a beach bum — at least right now, I can see the appeal.
I finally manage to get my father off the phone, and then pace around my loft for a while. I feel restless and unsettled, like there's something missing or unfinished, only I can't quite put my finger on what. I have the overwhelming desire to call Emma — or even better, to go see her — but I decide to give her the space she wanted for the rest of the day. Instead, I shoot my sister another text message, even though she didn't respond to my last one. I tell her that I miss her, and that I wish she was going to be at this gala with me so that at least I'd have someone to crack jokes with when all Dad's sycophants are giving their drawn-out toasts.
I wait a few minutes, but she doesn't reply. I don't hear from Emma, either. My phone stays stubbornly, depressingly silent.
Twenty-One
By Monday morning, the pain in my ankle has faded, but the humiliation is still fresh in my mind. Every time I close my eyes, I replay the moment at the Catskills house. Running into Tyler's father naked. Falling over myself trying to get away. Crying ass-up on the stairs while my ankle swelled up to six times its normal size.
Yeah, not going to forget those images any time soon. And I doubt Tyler or his father will, either.
My cheeks burn red hot, and Lucy glances over at me across our tiny dining room table.
“You're thinking about it again, aren't you?” She sets her coffee cup down.
I nod.
“Well, stop it.”
“I can’t!”
Despite my intentions to bury this weekend and never think of it again, I had found myself telling Lucy every detail over a plate of fresh, homemade cinnamon dolce donuts. Maybe it was the codeine, or the pure sugar high, but for a few minutes, we actually laughed about it. Now, though — now, I'm back to that emotional toxic stew of humiliation, horror, and abject misery.
“Look at it this way,” Lucy says. “There's no way Tyler thinks any less of you. I saw the way he was looking at you yesterday, and that guy's got it bad. Naked humiliation or not.”
I chew my lip. “It's not that.”
“Then what?”
I shrug. Lucy is looking at me expectantly, but I don't know if she'll understand the real reason I'm so upset. It's not because I'm afraid Tyler thinks any less of me. It's because I think less of myself.
Ever since I met Tyler, I've thrown all my normal rules out the window. And look where it got me ... It's been one humiliation after another. This never would have happened to the old Emma, and I'm disappointed in myself for letting it happen now.
Filing my column late was the last straw. It's bad enough to let down myself, but now I'm letting down the people who depend on me. After Tyler left on Sunday, I pulled up Not Sure in Nebraska’s letter and pounded out a heartfelt response. I told her everything I'd initially planned to tell her — that kind, polite, responsible men don't come around all the time, and that even if he didn’t set her loins on fire, she should still embrace what she has. That a responsible husband and a good potential father is plenty to be grateful for.
Even as I typed them, the words felt hollow, but the rational part of me knew it was the right answer. I'm living proof that coloring outside the lines only leads to humiliation and heartbreak.
Lucy is still staring at me like she's waiting for an answer, but instead of giving her one, I get up and hobble to the kitchen. I haven't quite mastered the crutches yet, but I'm getting there.
“I’m going to make another pot of coffee,” I call out. “Do you want one?”
“It's only ten o'clock, and you've already had two pots.”
I laugh. “I know. I have a lot of work to get done today.” I had made a vow to myself that I'd get ahead on my column so that this would never happen again. Plus, endlessly drinking cups of coffee is giving me something to do other than think about Tyler, which is all my poor brain seems to want to do.
I set the pot to brew and pour myself a giant steaming mug when it’s ready.
“Shit.” I stare down at my crutches and then at the mug. I try to wrap my hand around the handle and hold the crutch at the same time but end up sloshing hot coffee all over the counter, instead.
“Shit,” I say again.
Lucy appears at the entrance of the kitchen. “Need some help?”
“No, no, I've got it,” I say automatically.
“Really.” It's not a question. She stands and watches me while I fumble with the mug, trying to pick it up while maneuvering the crutch under my arm.
I try about six different angles before I finally look at her sheepishly. “Okay. Maybe I sort of need a little bit of help. Just this one time.”
“All you have to do is ask, Emma. There's nothing wrong with letting people help you, you know. You don't have to be perfect a hundred percent of the time. In fact, I would vastly prefer it if you weren’t.”
It's almost as if she can read my thoughts. I stare at her for a minute and then shake my head.
“If you can help me carry it to my desk, that would be great. That's all I really need.”
Once I'm settled in my room and Lucy has headed over to her boyfriend Lou's — though not before checking in on me a half dozen times to see if I'm sure there's nothing else I need — I plow through a few columns, enough to last me a few weeks at least. Every time I compose an answer, I feel a gnawing sense of guilt. I've always stood by my well-rationed, reasonable advice, but now my words seem to ring hollow. I have to force myself to type out the replies — telling the man in New Jersey not to leave the well-paying job that he hates, telling the woman in Oregon not to make waves by standing up to her tyrannical mother-in-law, telling the teenager in Detroit that she should listen to her parents and go to college instead of backpacking across Europe to study the great artists.
They're the right answers ... I know they are. So why do they make me feel a little bit like gagging?
Finally, I snap my laptop closed. I'm caught up now, and I can't bear to type out any more of these things. Instead, I grab my phone. I stare at the call log. Tyler's called a couple of times since he left here, but I haven't answered. I sent him a quick text last night to tell him my ankle was doing fine, but that's it. Despite all my resolve about playing it cool and following the rules, I find myself missing him. He always seems to make me laugh, even when it feels like everything is terrible. I could use some laughing right now.
I run my finger over his contact info. It would be so easy to tap it, to call him up and ask him to come over. I know he’d be here in a heartbeat if I asked. But where would that leave me? Right back where I started. And who knows what awkward situation I'd find myself in next time, if I let this continue? No, better to cut it off now, before things can go any further.
There’s someone else I need to call, though.
I flip through the log and find the number quickly, then hit the dial button before I can change my mind.
“Emma!” Solange's voice comes through almost immediately. “So good to hear from you! How are you?”
“I’m okay,” I say, then grimace. “Actually, I'm not. I sprained my ankle.”
“Oh, damn, girl, how’d you do that?”
“I tripped up some stairs.” Well, that's one version of the story. And not strictly untrue.
“Ouch. I'm sorry to hear that. But I'm guessing you didn't call me to tell me about your ankle?”
“No.” I grin. “I’m calling to accept your offer to go on Wake Up New York! and talk about my book.”
“Oh, thank God! I was hoping you'd say yes. I'm going to get in touch with the producer right away and let her know.”
/> “Great. You don't think they'll mind if I'm on crutches, will they? The doctor thinks I'm going to need them for at least a few more weeks.”
“Hmm. I don't think so. You'll likely be sitting down to do the interview, so I don't think anyone would even know.”
“Okay, good. Thanks, Solange.”
“Oh, Emma — before you go, I have something else to discuss with you.”
“Oh?”
“Would you like to come to the Good Grant annual gala?”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, it's this annual company party but, like, on steroids. It's at the Plaza, and all the Good Grant subsidiaries go. They have meetings all day to review the annual reports and discuss strategies for next year, and then they wrap it up with a gala in the evening that everyone attends. Usually, it's just employees, but this year we're bringing a few authors along, too. Mr. Grant thought it would be good to show Mr. Grant — uh, senior — some of the work we're doing here.”
I swallow. “So, Tyler wanted you to invite me? Mr. Grant, I mean?”
“Oh, no, I got the direction from our VP. Diana Cunningham. Have you met her? I guess she's a big fan of your book, because she specifically told me to invite you after it was decided we'd be bringing a stable of our authors.”
I let out the breath I've been holding. I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed that it wasn't Tyler's idea to invite me.
“What do you say?” Solange finally prods. I realize I've been silent for a whole minute.
The thought of facing Mr. Grant Senior again is not exactly one I relish, but I made a promise to myself that I would dive back into my work. So if this is what Solange wants me to do, then I guess I should do it.
“Sure,” I say, forcing a smile, even though she can't see me. “I’d be honored.”
