She’s smiling. I half expect her to say peace offering.
I don’t at all expect her to say what comes out of her mouth. “I want to stay in New York. No matter what happens with Webflix. I want to live here. So, I asked Jo to sublease her place to me,” she says, takes a shuddery breath, then adds, “And she said yes.”
“Wow. I didn’t see that coming.”
“Is that okay?” she asks nervously. “For the show. How to Eat a Banana. I won’t do it if you think you can’t make it work. But I want to try living here, and if you have to go back to San Francisco, we can do episodes remotely. We can do the kind where I try a restaurant in one city, and you do something similar in another, and we can still put out fun videos. We did that when you were in New York earlier this year,” she says, her words spilling out.
“Right, our Zoom approach.” I sound robotic. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how to feel except a little shitty.
Or shittier.
“Is that okay?” Emerson presses. “I just love it here. And I can’t entirely afford Jo’s rent, but she cut me a deal since her company in London is paying her housing for three months. So, she said she didn’t need the full rate. And we’ve made some money with Webflix, of course, so I figure maybe in three months, I’ll have paid off the loan, and I can snag some makeup jobs to help supplement the rent. I’m sure there are some good ones in New York.”
That stings, and I know why. “You don’t think our show will make it?”
“On Webflix?”
“Yes, Emerson. That one.”
“Nolan,” she says as if holding her ground. “You know I want it to, but I also want to start living my life.”
“You don’t think you were before?”
Her gaze is steady. She doesn’t waver as she answers. “I think I was a little stuck in San Francisco. I was living in the apartment where I lived with my sister, driving her car, looking at photos of our last trip all the time. Now I’m here, and I feel like . . . like I can breathe.”
This is the first time she’s talked about her sister without sounding like she’s gritting her teeth or teetering on the edge of anxiety. “I think it’s awesome, then,” I say, meaning it.
It’s fantastic for her, and if I feel a little left behind, that isn’t important. I’ve got to get over myself.
Emerson’s my friend. She’s always been my friend, and I need to win her back as a friend. “I think this is great.”
“Do you?”
“I do.” I down the espresso then roll up my sleeves. “Let’s make a New York plan. And maybe even a to-do list.”
“I love planning,” she says with a sheepish grin.
“I know you do,” I say.
“And I love to-do lists.”
“I know that too.” And even though we’re close, so close I think I could map her mind and her heart, there’s still so much more I want to know about her.
Goodbyes aren’t new for me, so they should be easy. Since, well, it’s what I do. I flit across the country, crashing here in New York, then there in San Francisco.
But saying goodbye to Jo thirty minutes later is neither hard nor easy. It’s just weird. Since once we put her in the sleek town car that’ll whisk her to the airport, I wish I could just walk away with Emerson, drape an arm around her shoulder, and kiss her cheek.
Talk about her plans.
Make more plans.
Instead, Emerson tosses Jo’s keys in her palm, then tips her forehead to the cute building on West Seventy-Third Street. “I guess I’ll check out my new pad.”
TJ arches a brow, and Emerson quickly explains she’ll be sticking around. He high-fives her. “Excellent. Let’s get drinks next weekend then. But no musicals. I am not going to be your new musical buddy.”
“Your deep disdain for musicals is well noted,” she says.
When Easton takes off too, it’s just TJ and me on an Upper West Side block, and my friend stares at me pointedly. “Soooo.”
“So what?”
He rolls his dark eyes. “Dude.”
The word contains multitudes.
“Okay, what’s going on?” I ask, unsure what he’s getting at.
He scoffs. “I think the question is, what’s going on with you?”
Ah, well. There’s no point pretending. TJ’s astute, and I’m . . . well, I’m in need of some help. “Where do I even start?” I ask, a little lost. I wish I knew what to do with my desire to make plans with Emerson.
He claps my shoulder. “How about at the beginning?”
And so, as we walk away from Emerson, heading south along Central Park, I tell him. “I’m in love with Emerson, but I don’t know how to make it work because of the show and Max, and Webflix, and her sister, and all those things.”