“I love this city,” I confess to Jo. “I want to stay. I just hope I can.”
Jo grabs my hand, squeezes. “You and New York seem like a good pair. You’re both so tough.”
“I don’t feel so tough when everything can change on a dime.”
“I won’t argue with you there,” she says.
We drink again, both a little lost with how quickly our lives are changing. Then, she taps her fingers on my leg. “So . . . what’s going on with you and Nolan?”
Before I’ve even begun to explain, the door of the bar swings open and the guys come in, joining us. An impromptu quintet of friends.
Over the years, the five of us have moved around, but we’ve always found our way back to each other, through college, and after college, through work, and amidst all the ups and downs of adulting.
Now we’re together once more, but not for long. Jo’s taking off. Me, I’m roosting here for perhaps the first time.
As for me and my best guy friend, I have no idea what happens next with us. If he’s returning to San Francisco, and whether we’re staying or going. Most of all, whether I’ll let myself feel, truly feel, all the emotions storming inside me, or if the painful prospect of hoping so hard and so futilely for a different future will stop me.
Or maybe, I realize, he’ll stop us before I can.
Because Nolan doesn’t sit next to me, or hold my hand, or kiss me.
I try not to read too much into that. But as we reassure Jo that we’ll stay in touch no matter what, that friendships these days can transcend geography and oceans, I keep thinking about change.
How you can plan.
How you can learn.
How you can watch every how-to video on YouTube, but none of them can prepare you for what it means to lose a sister, to chase a dream, and most of all, to fall in love.
To fall in love and figure out what you’re willing to risk for it.
20
Midnight Meetings
Nolan
* * *
The next morning, Emerson rounds up the crew once again with a group text to TJ, Easton, and me.
We’re bringing Jo cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and we’re going to help her pack. Be there at nine or give up your friend card forever.
Seconds later, our group thread is full of obvs and I’ll be there responses. An hour later, Jo’s apartment is full of the lot of us bearing mini cinnamon rolls, hugs, and promises we’ll stay in touch while she’s across the pond.
When Emerson pops open the purple box she brought, Jo rubs her palms together. “Oh, look. It’s Emerson’s booty.”
I give my co-host’s ass a leer. I know how it feels in my hands and against my palm when I smack it. Know, too, how much she likes a swat or three or four. It’s a bit of a miracle that I can say drily, “It is a nice one.”
Jo bonks me on the shoulder. “Booty as in plunder. Food plunder. Baked goods.”
“Prizes, riches, loot,” TJ puts in, then adds, “At least, that’s how I sometimes use the word.”
The five of us joke some more, down coffee, eat sweets. Jo’s a touch cheerier than she was last night, but not much. “I’m going to miss you all so much.”
Emerson frowns then pulls Jo in for a hug. “I’m going to miss you too.”
Is it even harder for Emerson, because of her sister, when someone leaves? It must be.
After we help Jo pack, the rest of us fan out. TJ heads to a coffee shop to work on his book—or, as he says, attempt to drain words from his beleaguered brain—and Easton departs to his office for work. Emerson and I make our way to an afternoon shoot.
On the way there, I venture, “It’s hard for you because of Callie, right?”
Her brow furrows. “Jo leaving?”
“Yeah. Is that part of why it’s hitting you so hard?” I ask as we walk.
She hums as if considering the idea. “You’re probably right. I don’t think I realized that. Which is, maybe, silly of me.”
“No, it’s not.” But maybe I shouldn’t have tried to psychoanalyze this moment. “I didn’t mean to bring up something hard,” I say.
She grabs my arm. “I’m glad you did. I think you’re right. It probably is harder. Also, I was truly looking forward to spending time with Jo while we were here in New York—going to shows, getting a drink, and just hanging out. And now we can’t do that. I don’t like it when people leave,” she says, then smiles like you’ve figured me out.
“I think that’s reasonable,” I say.
I want to promise I won’t leave her.
More than anything, I want to promise her that.
Maybe someday I can.
The next night, after an evening shoot at a swank new supper club, Emerson and I are signing T-shirts and taking pics with fans, when from the end of the line, a redhead shouts, “Foodgasm!”