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Emmett: You’re going to be a great nurse, Jenna. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there today to see you walk the stage. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.
His sweet words blur as the tears fill my eyes. Of all the people in this world, he is who I would have wanted to have seen today, sitting in the metal chairs of the auditorium, clapping like a lunatic as I accepted my diploma and nursing pin. I’m sure he would have made a scene, too. Clapping and howling and waving his arms as if I couldn’t see him plain as day. His apprenticeship schedule has been grueling, most days working sixteen hours on a trivial amount of sleep. Our conversations sometimes go weeks on hold, surviving on text threads that go unanswered until late at night when the other person is sound asleep.
My fingers hover over the keys, reading his words ten times over and the alcohol in my system debating whether to tell him how much I miss him when my phone is ripped from my palm.
“Hold on,” says Patrick, “you have been holding back on us, because as long as I have known you, you haven’t dated. Yet here we have someone named Emmett that seems to have taken an interest in our Jenna.”
I shove him with one arm and pull my phone from his hand with the other. “Shut up,” I mumble, embarrassed by his statement.
I don’t tell people about Emmett because I don’t know what to say. I could say he’s my best friend, because that’s the truth. But the last few years it feels like we’ve become more than that. With both of our busy schedules, and opposite hours, we have still managed to find time to keep our relationship afloat. Sometimes when we’re both half dozing in the late hours of the night, we’ll confess our deepest fears to the other knowing the words will never go further than that phone call. Best friend is too small of a term for how I feel about him.
I tell the group a little bit about Emmett, about moving to Chicago at fifteen, meeting him the first day. The start of our friendship, moving in with his family at the end of senior year, his pep talk that led me to enroll in nursing school, which was probably the best decision of my life to date.
“Hold on,” Genevieve interrupts with a hand raised in the air like she’s still in the classroom. “Question—you’re telling me you guys were best friends all those years, had sleepovers at his house—”
“Sleepovers, but not in the same bed, or in the same room,” I interrupt. His mom wouldn’t have allowed that.
“You were each other's date for all dances, for prom. You never dated other people. Yet he never so much as tried to kiss you? Cop a feel during a hug, anything?” she asks again. “Hate to break the news girl, but it sounds like maybe he’s gay and you were his beard.”
“Is he hot? If you do find out he’s gay, hook me up!” Patrick interrupts.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, he’s not gay. And yes, he’s hot. He’s like . . . like . . . like a muscled football player meets the nerdy quiet guy.” He’s the best of both worlds, and while they’re not wrong that it seems odd we never kissed, the night on his couch where I was about to kiss him and his sister walked in the door is forever burned in my mind.
I mumble an excuse and slide off the stool, opening my phone as I stand.
“Looks like you’re second-guessing yourself,” Genevieve teases.
“Not second-guessing, curious now. I’ll be right back.”
“Girl!” Patrick squeaks. “You arenotgoing to call him at one A.M. to ask him why he never kissed you!”
I finish off my drink and set the glass on the table and turn to leave. “That’s exactly what I plan on doing. Someone order me another shot; I'll be right back.”
I stumble to the nearest bathroom, shove open the door, and thankfully find it empty. The door slams behind me, and it muffles some of the music screaming from the dance floor. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, hair still wild and frizzy though I’ve spent the morning smoothing it into a half ponytail. Dipping my head, I check the stalls to make sure I’m alone, and that there isn’t some poor drunk girl fighting her stomach.
Finding a dry spot on the sink, I slide up onto it and let my feet dangle for a few minutes as I scroll my phone. I should let him sleep, I know that, but that doesn’t stop me from leaning my back against the mirror and dialing.
I hold the phone to my ear, listening to the soft ringing. The bathroom is quieter than the rest of the bar, but the bass from the music still pounds in my chest, my ears ringing from the change in noise.
“Looks like someone is having a late night.” I hear that familiar sand-scratched voice say and I immediately smile.
“Sorry to wake you.”
A grumbled laugh. “No, you’re not.”
“You’re right,” I admit softly.
I’m quiet for a second, working on building up the courage to ask him the burning question.
“I hate myself for not being there today,” he starts.
“Emmett . . . don’t you dare. I know you’d be here if you could.” With the distance between us, and my graduation being on a Thursday night, my excitement became quickly doused in cold water when I realized there wouldn’t be a flight he could take that could get him here in person while still making it back for work the next day.
“Everything okay?” he asks. “Thought you'd still be out celebrating.”
“How come you never kissed me?” I blurt out.
I hear the rustle of sheets and imagine him repositioning so he’s lying on his back, maybe propped up on some pillows. My mind wanders to him being shirtless, wondering what it would feel like to be lying next to his warm skin.
