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One can only hope. Sure would make things easier if she did.
* * *
I stop at the Timmie’s on the corner and grab a box of Timbits for Emily, along with a couple of their brand-new foam lattes. No one has been able to shut up about them since they arrived on the market, but I haven’t had a chance to drink one yet. I hurry up the stairs—freshly clean and smelling decently enough thanks to the gym’s steam shower—and enter the apartment to find Emily curled up on the sofa, watching the terminal.
When I close the door behind me, juggling the munchkins and coffee, she beams at me so brightly it breaks my heart.
“Hey, you,” I say, and drop the food onto the coffee table in front of her. “Brought you something.”
Emily stares down at the box of sugary doughnut holes. “Wait, what’s this?”
“Doughnut holes. Well, they’re called Timbits around here. See, Tim—”
“I know what they are, but I can’t eat those.”
Frowning, I cross my arms over my chest and ask, “Why’s that?”
“Because I’m not supposed to eat sugar,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I roll my eyes, pop open the box of doughnut holes, and grin. “Yes, you can. Should we have another chat about food, Em?” I stride over to the kitchen to grab a couple of plates. Real ones, because I actually have a real kitchen and I like to use it. “Remember what I said about good food versus bad food, and how that’s all made up BS and perpetuated by fitness influencers?”
Emily makes a noncommittal grunt and shrugs, continuing to peer inside the box as though there’s a dangerous animal inside of it.
“It’s just doughnut holes. They won’t hurt. I promise. You can have a few without it messing up your day. Unless you don’t want them because you don’t like them.”
I’m not going to force her to eat anything she doesn’t legitimately want to eat, of course, but her disordered eating is constantly ringing alarms in my head. I know what eating disorders look like. A couple guys on the team had them. Fortunately for them, they had a team of doctors and therapists to work with. But Emily doesn’t have a solid support system. It would be my honor and privilege to help her, but I’m not totally sure how to go about it. I mean, aside from getting her a nutritionist, of course, but I’m pretty sure her label would lose their minds if I tried to overstep in that way.
“I like them,” she says. “I just … they’ve been on the list of ‘can’t haves’ for so long that it’s hard to re-conceptualize them as anything else.”
Emily moves on from the Timbits box and picks up the paper cup of coffee.
“And what’s this? It’s cold.” She looks back at me as I rummage for the plates. After grabbing a couple, I make my way back to the sofa and hand her one.
“Supposedly, it’s a new coffee that takes on the flavor of whatever you want it to be. The woman at the register was helpful enough to explain it. You hold the image of what you want it to taste like in your head for thirty seconds, then the coffee will mimic it.” Her mouth falls open, and I laugh. “I know. Sounds crazy, right?”
I pluck my coffee from the table, hold the image of apple pie in my mind for thirty seconds, and sure enough, when I take a swig, the flavor of cinnamon, apples, and butter explodes in my mouth. Weird.
Emily watches me with pinched brows, not taking a sip of her own drink until she waits for me to be the guinea pig and tell her it’s safe. When I swallow, she arches one of those pretty brows of hers and asks, “So? What’s the verdict? Did it work?”
“It worked,” I say, staring at the cup in my hand like I’m holding the actual holy fucking grail. “Holy shit, it works. I could actually taste the flaky crust.”
“Ew, did you wish it tasted like pizza?” Emily pretends to gag.
“What? No. Do I look like a frat boy to you? That’s disgusting, Em. I thought about my mom’s apple pie!”
Her eyes water as she shuffles across the sofa toward me, staring down at her own cup. “My mom never made me apple pie,” she murmurs, and my heart drops. Oh, shit. This was supposed to be a happy, fun moment. I didn’t mean to make her sad. For fuck’s sake.
I reach forward to scoop up one of her hands, and she breaks into a wide grin before dissolving into a fit of giggles. “Just kidding!”
I exhale a sigh of relief, but I don’t let go of her hand. “Geez, Em … way to make me feel like an asshole.”
“Actually, I was serious about my mom never making me pie, but I don’t care about that.” She holds the lid of the cup to her mouth and pauses. “What should I think about?”
I take a step back and gnaw on my bottom lip. “I don’t know. Whatever you pick is what you’ll be stuck with, though, so make it good.”
“Right, no hot dogs,” she mutters to herself, then looks up at the ceiling and thinks hard about what to flavor her coffee.
This is so weird. Weird, but amazing. Just doing something so mundane as drinking gimmicky coffees with Emily is a blast. When I took this job, I assumed I’d be babysitting a spoiled brat all day and wouldn’t be able to wait until I could clock out. Now, all I want to do is spend time with this woman. Wake up next to her every morning. Bring her breakfast in bed, take her to the gym with me, go on walks. Normal, boring couple stuff.
