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It’s tight and I feel just as ridiculous wearing it as I thought I would.
Sonya ties it off above my navel and then I don the skirt, because what else can I do? Is this my exact dream birthday? No. Is it extremely nice of my friends to go out of their way to do this for me? Absolutely. I know they want the best for me. I know they don’t understand why it’s so hard for me on days like this, and it makes sense. There’s still so much about me they don’t know, and even the things I have shared don’t tell the full story.
In the beginning, no one could get the details straight.
I remember a conversation I had with CJ when I was first getting to know him freshman year.
“Where are you from again, Emelia?” he asked. “I thought it was England, but you don’t have an accent.”
Sonya had laughed. “How long do we have before our next class? Because this is going to take a while…”
“Right, so I’m a dual citizen of both the US and Scotland.”
He frowned. “So…you’re Scottish?”
“No. My mom is American and my dad is French, but I grew up in Scotland for the most part.”
“Are you following?” Sonya asked him.
“Barely.”
She grinned. “Don’t forget to add in the boarding school.”
“Oh yes, and I went to boarding school in York before coming here, which I think is where you got the English part from?”
“So you’re basically equal parts Scottish, American, English, and French.”
I grinned and gave him a little round of applause. “You get an A+!”
“That explains the accent then.”
“Don’t I sound a bit British?” I teased, doing my best impersonation of my boarding school friends.
They laughed. “Only when you’re putting it on. Otherwise, you just sound plain ol’ American. No offense.”
“None taken.”
I like explaining my life this way, making it all seem silly and fun. It’s easier to spare them the truth: a strange childhood spent in a dilapidated castle in Scotland, a French father I’ve never met. When friends ask about him, I lie and say he’s an architect. I say he’s the reason I’m so curious about the field. And when they ask about my mom, I tell them the truth: cancer killed her when I was seventeen.Not much family then, someone always says with a pitying downturned smile, and it’s at that point that I always change the subject.
“Who’s the hotty?” Annette asks, staring at my laptop. “Wait.” She leans in closer. “AlexanderMercier? Are you related to this guy, Emelia?”
“No,” I insist emphatically, and well, it’s the truth. We aren’t related. I walk over and close my laptop before turning to the group with a question I know will pique their interest. “Now, what should I do with my makeup?”
Hanover is a small college town, and short of taking the train to Boston or crashing one of the frat parties around campus, there’s only one other place to go out: Main Street. It’s right near campus and houses everything from CVS to Starbucks, and jam-packed in the center of it all is a row of quintessential college bars that are filled to the brim on most weekend nights. Each one has its own vibe. The Roosevelt Room is upscale and expensive. The Nightingale is dark and a little dirty and usually has live music and good drink specials. Murphy’s on the Green is my favorite. It’s themed to look like a library inside, rows and rows of books on shelves, dark wood furniture, low-burning lights. Unfortunately, it’s everybody’s favorite. Most weekend nights, it’s standing room only in there. Our plan is to start at The Roosevelt Room and end at Murphy’s, if we make it that far.
“So what’s the situation tonight? Are yousinglesingle? Single but hung up on someone? In a relationship but it’s complicated? Or fully committed to someone?” CJ asks as we head inside.
“I’msinglesingle.”
CJ squeals with glee.
“What ever happened to Owen?”
“We broke up last spring.”
“We broke up.” Sonya snorts. “She says it like she didn’t rip the poor guy’s heart out. He was obsessed with her. For weeks after the breakup, he showed up at our apartment to try to win her back.”
“Sounds like he had some groveling to do. Did he cheat or something?”
