“You did that for her?” He sounds awestruck.
I give a what-would-you-do shrug. “It was her dream. How could I not?”
He smiles, and it feels like a new kind of grin, full of an even deeper understanding of me. “You couldn’t.”
I twist the necklace in my hand. “Am I stupid?”
“No. That’s . . . beautiful, Emerson.” He looks like he wants to hold me, and kiss me, and tell me all the things.
Instead, he clears his throat and drags a hand along the back of his neck. “Thanks for sharing. I’m really glad you did.”
So am I. Funny, because I didn’t think I’d want to tell him. I didn’t think I could say that without feeling foolish.
But he made me feel the opposite. I shouldn’t have been afraid. Talking, sharing, showing him the sad, scared, ugly, and weird parts of me is what I’ve always done.
Trouble is, I fall a little more for him every single day.
The genie is getting so much bigger than the bottle.
The next night, I head out to Jo’s apartment, wearing a cute black dress and Converse sneakers, and a backpack with makeup in it.
As I step onto the elevator, a broody man looks up from his paperback. It’s Max, in the flesh. He practically drips Mister Rochester vibes. I’m surprised he’s not carrying the dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre he stepped out of. But he’s reading The Sun Also Rises, so that tracks too.
Better to catch flies with honey, though. “Hi, Max. I’m Emerson Alva. I’m a food person too.”
In slow-mo, he rakes his gaze over my face, studies me. “I know.”
Okayyyy. “And I think your videos are great,” I say.
He’s silent for several long, weighty beats. “I suspect yours are too,” he says, then nods crisply when we reach the lobby. “After you.”
Weirdo.
“Have a good night,” I call out, then I put the broody guy out of my mind. My brain only has room for so many men, and someone else is occupying the prime real estate.
Over at Jo’s place on West Seventy-Third Street, we get dolled up for the Tommy revival on Broadway. I do her makeup, giving her fabulous smoky eyes and glossy lips.
“Gorgeous, babe, just gorgeous,” I tell her, then spin her around and show her my work in the mirror.
She gasps. “Don’t ever leave me. When I run my next auction, I want you to do my makeup too,” she says, grabbing my hands, playfully begging.
“I won’t even charge you, babes,” I stage-whisper. “Speaking of, when will you be wowing the New York art world with this fab collection you’re working on?”
“Next month,” she says, and as we finish getting ready, she gives me details of her new projects and a promotion she’s applying for at her auction house. “I have an interview for it next week. Fingers crossed.”
I cross mine and hold them up. “I’m proud of you, woman. You have made a name for yourself in the New York art world,” I tell her as we make our way to the St. James Theater.
“I’m proud of you too, Em. Doing your thing, making it all happen.” We reach Times Square, and she gazes up at the glittery lights of the marquee, beckoning us to enjoy a few hours of make-believe. “I knew I could get you here in New York at last. I manifested it and it happened.”
“You’re magic like that,” I say as we go inside and snag our orchestra seats.
“Speaking of magic, how’s everything with you and Nolan?”
It’s a leading question. I sit up straight, my radar beeping. “Why do you ask?”
She points at me. “Why do you react like that?”
I groan and drop my head in my hands, then serve up my heart. “I think I’ve had feelings for him for a long time, Jo.”
When I look up, she smiles sympathetically and rubs my shoulder. “I know you have, sweetie.”
Funny, how we’ve had this long-distance friendship, talking on FaceTime and seeing shows together when I’ve been in New York, but we’ve rarely lived in the same city. Yet, that hasn’t stopped us from forging this deep bond.
Nor has it stopped her from seeing right through to my heart. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.” Saying it hurts more than it should, but then the overture swells, the music billowing throughout the theater, and I lean into the make-believe for the next few hours—something I’ve been doing a lot of these days.
15
Food and Other Gasms
Nolan
* * *
Sometimes when I’m alone, I practice things I want to say to Emerson. The stupid secrets I want to share with her. The why of them.
“Funny you should mention loans. So, about mine . . .”
After learning what she did for her sister, I’m even more convinced my story, the reason I’m so determined to keep my head above water, makes me sound like a complete nitwit.