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He’s almost out the door when I stop him with a quiet “Hey.”
He turns back and looks at me. “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Of course,” he says. “That’s what friends are for, right?”
I hold his gaze. I don’t want him to go. I don’t want to look away.
My confession is right on the tip of my tongue.
Again.
And then I remember the last time I told him how I felt.
And how he turned and walked away.
And after a “Hope you feel better,” he repeats the same exit as eight years ago.
The door shuts behind him, and I’m alone. In the quiet.
It’s been eight years, and after a few weeks of seeing him, I’m right back in the same hopeless place.
I look down at the food on the tray. How is it possible to miss someone three seconds after they leave?
My phone lights up again, and again, I ignore the calls, choosing instead to text Chad like any decent human being would do.
Emmy
Hey—so sorry I can’t talk…I think I got food poisoning last night, it’s pretty bad :(
I hope you’re having a good day!
Chad
My mom just brought home proofs of the new fireman’s calendar.
You didn’t mention you were in it.
Periods at the ends of both of those texts.
Is he mad?
Emmy
You didn’t mention you lived with your mom.
I erase that before I send it, but you better believe I was thinking it. Instead, I text:
Emmy
Oh, yeah, they asked me to be a part of it.
Goodwill for the fire department.
Chad
Oh.
