Understanding this about her, I’ll give her time to think. Not forever, but for a while.
Saturday afternoon, right when I’ve run out of things to do to stay busy (clean the house, run, game, nap, examine the ragged edges of my fracturing heart), Emmy calls to ask if I’d like to come over and have dinner. I think I break speed walking records going over there.
When I arrive at her condo in the three-story brick building in City Park South, Meadow meets me at the door. I pet her and follow her inside. Emmy’s place smells great, like grilled meat, and soft music plays from a speaker somewhere in the bookcase on one wall of the small, square living room.
I’ve never been to Emmy’s place. And every time I’ve seen her before, she’s worn normal things like summer dresses, shorts, jeans, whatever. But tonight—tonight she’s dressed to stop hearts. Barefoot and in an emerald green, off the shoulder mini dress with her hair down and begging to be touched.
Except . . . not by me.
While she’s sweet, kind, gorgeous, and talented with a disc and a dog, I don’t have any romantic feelings toward her. I thought she knew that. But now I’m not so sure. And, to make things worse, I’m totally underdressed in my jeans and flip-flops.
“Um . . . hey.” I hand her the six-pack of beer I’d brought. We’d learned quickly that Emmy’s a beer drinker. No wine or cocktails for her.
“Hey, glad you could come.” She leans in to kiss me on the cheek, sending bolts of alarm shooting through me. She’s never kissed me before, even on the cheek.
“Thanks for inviting me. It’s been a rough week.”
“Yeah? Why?” She checks her watch and turns back toward the stove, where she’s stirring something that smells both sweet and spicy. I bend down and pet Meadow in order to avoid staring at her mistress’ backside in that dress.
I think about telling Emmy about skydiving with Stevie, but it’s still too painful, and frankly, I don’t know how the dive ends. I’ve been suspended in mid-air since Thursday. Instead, I make an excuse about work and ask how I can help her get dinner on the table instead.
She has me make a curry and mayo-based dip for some vegetables she’s grilled. Then I set the table. As I do, and we talk about this and that, I wonder what it would be like to really fall for Emmy. Or any woman other than Stevie. My Fudgsicle-shaped heart was claimed by my best friend when we were six, and I have no idea how to free it.
As Emmy and I carry plates loaded with chicken kebabs with a peanut satay sauce and the grilled veggies and dip to her small, round dining table, I’m hit again with the realization that I’d made the right decision to tell Stevie how I feel. She needs to face her own feelings, and if they don’t match mine, we need to free ourselves from the friends-but-we-could-be-more knots we’ve tied each other up in. I don’t want to lose her, but I can’t live like this.
As Emmy puts the last of the trimmings on the table, I excuse myself to use the restroom and wash my hands. When I get back, I realize she’s shimmied the chairs so we’re sitting less than a foot from each other.
Hesitantly, I sit beside her and lift my beer glass to toast hers while Meadow settles under the table by our feet. Her nose lifts up, sniffing the air under the food. “Thanks again for having me over.”
“My pleasure.” She looks at her watch again before taking a sip.
Which makes me glance at my own. Three minutes to eight o’clock. “Are you . . . waiting for something?”
“No, sorry.” She touches my leg. My thigh. I’m terribly tempted to scoot my chair away from hers. Or at least ask her what the hell she’s doing. “Try your kebab. The satay recipe is from my mom.”
I slide a nugget of grilled chicken off the wooden stick and dip it into the sauce. It tastes as outstanding as it smells: tangy and savory with a nice touch of peanut butter. As I chew, I hear a key turn in the lock behind us and the door opening.
As Meadow shoots to the door, barking, Emmy grabs my face and kisses me. Like right on the lips. Which could have at least been enjoyable if my mouth wasn’t full of chicken satay. I don’t push her away or anything because I’m doing my best not to choke.
When she lets me go, I finally turn toward the open door. Jude’s hand is on the door handle, and his mouth hangs open like he’d been about to speak. While Meadow jumps on him, whining, his eyes roam over Emmy. She stands with a hand on my shoulder while I swallow the mouthful and finally get to my feet.
Slowly, he tears his gaze away from Emmy’s long legs and her hand that’s now on my lower back to take in the dinner table, the room, and I think even tries to place the artist currently playing through the speaker.
He blinks and runs a hand through his hair nervously. “Looks like I’ve interrupted. Sorry, Logan. See you, Emmy.” He stalks out the door, almost closing it, but then darts back inside and drops a set of keys on a side table. “Thanks for letting me borrow your car.”
And he’s gone.
I turn to Emmy, speechless. I thought she knew I wasn’t interested. She knows how I feel about Stevie, and she loves Jude, right? Or have I fallen into some alternate reality?
Emmy’s hand drops off my back, and she leans against me, laughing. “Did you see his face? If that doesn’t make him think about how he feels about me, then I don’t know what will.”
I put a hand on my chair to steady myself. “You mean you were . . . this was . . . You were pretending because you knew he was coming over?”
Emmy’s face grows contrite, but she giggles. “Yes, I’m so sorry to, well, sort of use you like this, Logan, but I knew Jude was bringing my keys back at eight and I thought it was now or never. I had to show him what he was missing out on.”
“Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing? You scared the hell out of me. I mean that dress, and sitting all close like that . . . I thought I was going to have make an excuse and get out of here before things went much farther.”
“Honestly? I didn’t think we could pull it off without laughing or looking like we were faking it. I’m really sorry, but your shocked reaction when he came in was really genuine. And priceless.”
I let out a long breath. “I wasn’t shocked by him coming in. It was you kissing me. And almost choking.”
“Forgive me, Logan. I didn’t know what else to do. Nothing’s working with Jude.”
I shake my head and lick my lips. “No, it’s okay. I’m only glad the kiss wasn’t real.”
She laughs, perfectly normal again, and pats my shoulder. “You’re a great guy, Logan, but Jude has my heart, and I know Stevie has yours. Sit and eat. I’m going to throw on some jeans, and I’ll be right back.”
When Emmy returns, we eat, drink beer, feed scraps to Meadow, and I tell her about skydiving, the note, and Stevie. And she listens like a good friend does. After washing up, we take Meadow for a walk through a night-darkened City Park, and I head home.
Nothing got decided about Stevie or Jude, but it was a very good evening and—near heart attack aside—I was glad I’d gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Stevie
On Saturday morning I pack a bag for myself, collect up Bean’s food, dishes, and her disc, and retreat to the relative comfort and safety of family.