“What? You expected Prada or Gucci?” she asked at my curled lip.
“What’s wrong with treating yourself to a new bag, Em?” I asked. “You’ve had that since season two.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “It’s not that old.”
“Oh, so it only looks like a relic,” I teased.
“Do you have any idea how bad the fashion industry is for the environment? If you knew—”
I held up a hand and she stopped. “You have time for one speech with this cuppa. Is this really the hill you came to die on?”
She frowned but stopped talking.
“Didn’t think so.” I slid a steaming mug to her, and she wrapped her hands around it, sighing as she warmed herself.
“Alright. Out with it,” I prompted, watching the steam swirl off my tea. “Who sent you? Harrison? The studio?”
“Nobodysentme. I came to check on my reclusive friend and make sure you haven’t started collecting your fingernails in jars.”
I held out my arms and gestured to the spotless kitchen. “No jars. Now the people locked in the basement, you can’t see them.”
She rolled her eyes but softened her tone. “I’ve just missed you.” She shrugged innocently. “I’ve not even talked to you since the funeral.”
Good lord, she was good at that. Even if she was still planning to push me, my shoulders relaxed.
“I’ve missed you too,” I said. “And sorry about missing the last few chats. Haven’t felt up for it.”
We smiled softly at each other, passing two decades of feelings in a glance as only long-time friends can. Emma was more like family than my own flesh and blood.
She took a dainty sip and said, “That being the primary reason for my visit, I do also—”
“Ah, there it is.”
“—think that you should consider the reunion special,” she finished.
“And why’s that?”
“Twenty years since the first episode. It’s a big deal. I know you already told your agent and publicist no.”
“And the director and the producer,” I interrupted.
“It would be good for you to get out. The funeral was awful, and you had a small hiccup.”
“Understatement, Emma.” I gave her a flat look.
She had been there. Of course, I hadn’t done anything humiliating. I caught myself in time. But it had been a close call. Too close.
She went on, “This can be the last thing related to TF. A final high note to end on. The cast and crew were our family for so long. I know how much they meant to you especially. And the fans …”
As she rambled on, I felt my eyebrows contorting into a grimace. I hated that while she knew me so well, she couldn’t understand everything. I was tired of needing sympathy and understanding. It was easier if I was just left alone.
“… there’s going to be a lovely segment in memoriam of Robbie and a few others who have passed …”
My frown deepened, and my hands shook as I gripped my mug tighter.
She didn’t seem to understand that seeing everybody again only worsened the loneliness. That it would rip off the Band-Aid that was barely holding together the gaping wound in my chest. I couldn’t even handle the funeral; how would I handle a trip across the pond and on a set in LA? It would be too much.
Instead of conveying all these complicated emotions, I said, “I’m done with the show. It’s time to move on.”
