“Yes,” I say. “I am. And you’re…”
“Brother of the groom?” A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Right,” I say. “Exciting.”
The smirk is still on his face. “Yeah. You said.”
We both drink, silence stretching between us. It ate me up, once upon a time, that Eliot and I went from friends to people who could barely hold a conversation. I’d lie awake at night, torturing myself by replaying memories, like film clips in my mind: Eliot and I laughing hysterically at the dining table after Jean would scold Lucas over dinner for swearing; Eliot holding a tissue to his nose, clutching his chest, mock-crying as he waved me off on the ferry, as Lucas pretended to console him, the pair of them holding on to each other like they were waving their husbands off to war. The times I couldn’t sleep and would creep out into in the garden for fresh air, at midnight, to find Eliot out there too, hunched over his phone, texting a girlfriend, or with his earphones in, singing softly to himself. “Welcome to the insomni-club,” he’d always joke. “Pick a life crisis to mull over and take a seat.” I missed Eliot desperately for a while. But I had to remind myself that it was on him why more memories ceased to be made. And that turned the missing into anger, which eventually fermented into a sort of indifference. I didn’t have Eliot anymore, but I had Lucas. And he was the only friend I needed.
“A bit mad, though,” says Eliot now. “Not that I can judge—but, I dunno, it’s…”
“Quick?” I suggest, and he bows his head in a nod.
“Yeah, I guess that’s what I meant. But then that’s Luke, isn’t it? Mr. Haphazard. Thinks it’s something he should be doing ’cause everyone else is doing it.” I say nothing. “I mean, come on,” Eliot carries on, leaning in. “We’ve been here before. He got engaged to that poor girl at uni. Holly.”
“He was a kid then, though.”
Eliot cocks his head as if to say, “Yeah, but still.”
I look around to check nobody is listening, but I don’t react. I want to. I want to agree and add loads of other things to the list too—like when he went backpacking because a few friends at university did and came home after four weeks because he “couldn’t hack hostels”; like the time Lucas moved in with Joanna, the ten-years-his-senior barrister, after knowing her six weeks, only to move out five weeks later—but I don’t, because Lucas is my friend, and Eliot, divorced at almost thirty-three, is probably jealous. I might be too, if I were him. And the truth is, I don’t trust Eliot. I can’t. Yes, it was eleven years ago now, the night of Lucas’s and my nineteenth birthday, but he has never apologized for what he did. He was why the three of us never had a single car ride together again, or bundled under one blanket for films and drinking Jean’s beer concealed in coffee mugs. He broke the trust we spent two years weaving between the three of us.
“Yeah, well, Marie is different,” I say. “She’s lovely. Truly.” And she is. Despite everything, despite myself, and the heart in my chest that’s barely holding it together, it’s impossible to call her anything else.
“Yeah, no, don’t get me wrong,” says Eliot. “I just—well, put it this way, I don’t think I’ll be buying my suit just yet. I mean—”
“Canada.” I swoop in changing the subject. “Lucas says you lived in Canada for a year. Working. How was that?”
Eliot pauses, eyes narrowing just slightly at the sudden change of topic, but he goes with it. “Y-Yeah, with a friend. Mark. He’s a joiner, in the same game as me, and he had loads of work over there. And to be honest, I needed to get away.”
“Your divorce,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says matter-of-factly. “Perfect place, really, for pulling your head out your arse. It’s beautiful where he lives. Quiet. Far enough to feel like you’ve actually got away.”
“Do you miss it?” I ask, and he nods.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thinking of going back soon, to be honest. Mark’s starting up his own business—” And at that exact moment, Ana appears. I recognize her from a photo Amanda uploaded to Facebook last year of the whole family out for Jean’s sixtieth. Tall, heart-shaped face, and a wide, glittering smile. One that fades quickly at the sight of me.
“Hey,” says Eliot as Ana’s hand snakes over his shoulder and rests flat on his broad chest. “Ana, this is Emmie.”
“Emmie?” says Ana, stone-faced. “Lucas’s Emmie?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling wider than usual, as if to coax one onto her lips, but she gives me nothing. I hold out my hand. She takes it weakly, barely shaking it, then drops it.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and she says simply, “Yes,” then turns and says something to Eliot in whispered French. His cheeks flush, and he looks at me with a flash of embarrassment.
“Emmie, we just have to go and say hi to some friends, but—”
Ana cuts in again with something I don’t understand, pulling at his shoulder, and as Eliot opens his mouth to speak again, I put him out of his misery.
“See you later,” I say. “Think I’ll go and… eat some leaves,” and I whisk off in the opposite direction. You are the company you keep; that’s what they say, don’t they? I’m not sure I ever expected Lucas’s brother to date a bitch, but Cold Ana and Jealous Eliot belong with each other, I am sure.
I meander through guests to the kitchen, and stand eating a little square plate of balsamic vinegar–soaked tomatoes. I watch Eliot and Ana, all hand-holding and big grins, and then Jean, marveling proudly to anyone who will listen, about Amanda’s dedication and incredible pastry skills, and I scan the room, from happy couple to happy couple to happy couple, and… I can do this, can’t I? Can I be the best best woman for Lucas, stay positive, and trust it’ll work out how it is meant to? They may even get married. God. They might. But I suppose I just have to keep trusting. Maybe we’ll end up like Patrice and his wife. Maybe it’ll take us twenty years and two marriages for us—well, him—to realize it. That it’s me. That it’s us.
I place my empty plate in the sink and move into the hallway, heading to the little cubby of an under-stairs loo, when the front door clicks and opens. Lucas and Marie appear in the doorway, Lucas wrangling free his key from the door with one hand, the other holding on to hers. The ring on Marie’s finger glitters like the hallway’s chandelier.
“Emmie!” She grins, dropping Lucas’s hand and holding her slender, brown arms wide. “You’re here! Shall we sit? We have so much to speak about. Oh, you look so beautiful!”
“And so do you,” I say as her arms envelop me, her warm, perfumed cheek to mine. “You look lovely. Truly.”
Impossible. Impossible to call her anything else.
From: [email protected]
Date: June 25, 2018
Subject: School Counselor Services Administrator position
Dear Emmie,
I wondered if you would be interested in a position that has become available at a local secondary school. I know you said you would prefer not to work in a school environment, but it seems a shame to not pass on a position like this to you, considering your certificates in education and training, and your experience in admin. The salary is also very competitive.