CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Joshua
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Joshua
E mily’s gonna live with me. Live. With. Me. For only eight days, sure, but still. It’s unsettling; I know I should be creeped out by now. I’m usually the one to go to girls’ apartments when we hang out, so I can slip out easily and come home to my own solitude. During the rare times that girls come over to my place, we use the second bedroom because I’m uncomfortable sharing my actual bed with strangers.
Not that Emily’s staying in my bed, but I don’t mind if she does. Dammit. I’ve never been this hung up on a person before. Is it still the inexplicable itch? If we’d have sex, will this attraction dissolve?
Okay, that thought doesn’t help at all.
“So, where are you?” I ask as I call Emily back. I told her I wasn’t busy, but really, this day couldn’t get more stressful. In fact, I was in the middle of inspections when she called me.
So when we finished talking, I rushed through the toolbox meetings and made sure all my reminders were given immediately. I take the rest of the day off to go to her.
“Still here, on this bench, munching on a hotdog,” she says. I can’t help but chuckle.
“Do you have a lot of stuff?” I ask casually. I just need to get some details to make sure she’s comfortable during her stay.
“Oh, no, just a few, really,” she says in a tone that’s almost embarrassed. “I only have clothes and a few personal items. I don’t have stuff to put in your place, if that’s what you’re wondering. I don’t really have furniture or something like that,” she says so quickly.
“Emily,” I say slowly. “That’s not why I’m asking. I’m asking because if you have a lot, we’ll call a mover’s truck. If you have a few, I’ll pick you up in my car.”
“Oh,” she stutters. I can’t believe she would think that her furniture would bother me. “Driving in New York? Are you sure?” she asks. I chuckle because she’s right. Driving in New York is torture. I can’t remember the last time I used my car here, since subways and taxis take me where I need to go. Aside from the fact that my car is huge, New York traffic is terribly close to Manila traffic, but Emily is sitting on a random bench, with her luggage in tow. It’s the least I could do.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I say as we hang up.
When I pull up to the sidewalk where she’s seated, her face lights up and I can’t help but smile. She’s wearing a white knit sweater, dark jeans, and black boots. Her long, straight hair is blowing gently with the wind. She tucks a strand behind her ear, and waves at me.
I take a deep breath. Friends. She wants us to be friends. Be playful, be cool, but don’t make it awkward .
I open the car door and step outside. “Hey,” I say.
“My hero,” she says as she laughs.
I wink at her, because I apparently don’t know how to keep things simple. “Anything for you, Tantrum,” I say, immediately regretting how over the top that sounded. So much for not making it awkward. I quickly sidestep and grab her suitcase— why is it so heavy? —and load it to my car. She clutches her backpack like it’s the Hope Diamond, refusing to let it go. “I’ve got this,” she insists, her arms tightening around it.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I say, already moving to wrestle it from her. I tug it gently but firmly until she finally relents, rolling her eyes. I sling it over my shoulder like it’s nothing, but the weight of it suggests she’s been hoarding gold bars.
“Relax,” I say with a grin.
“It’s not that heavy!” she protests, laughing as she follows me to the car.
I raise an eyebrow at her, because she can’t possibly believe that. “Emily, this backpack is practically a weapon. If you threw it at someone, they’d file a police report.”
She snorts. “It’s just books and a few essentials!”
I laugh as I open the passenger door for her. “Books and a few essentials? Like what—spare bricks? This is why you have back pain, Emily. This backpack isn’t the world. Don’t carry it on your shoulders.”
She pauses for a moment, her smile softening as she looks at me. “I can’t help it. It’s kind of a habit.”
There’s something about the way she says it that makes me feel like we’re no longer talking about the backpack. I want to say something reassuring, but I don’t trust myself not to ruin the moment with another joke. So instead, I just smile and say, “Well, lucky for you, I’m here to carry it now.” I pause before I add, “The backpack.” No need to tell her that I’d go to the ends of the world for her.
As she settles into the car and I close her door, I glance at her reflection in the side mirror. She’s looking out the window with a small smile on her lips, and I realize I don’t mind this—helping her, being here for her. If this is what it means to be her friend, then maybe it’s not such a bad thing after all. But damn, it’s going to be hard to keep pretending that’s all I want.
“How in the world can you afford a place like this?” she asks, her eyes widening as we step into my apartment. Her voice echoes slightly in the space—it’s a bit too quiet, like always. She stands in the middle of the living room, her gaze sweeping over the sleek, modern furniture and the bare walls.
“Nepotism,” I say with a shrug, and her laugh is instant, softening the sharp edges of her surprise.
“Well, at least you’re honest,” she says, setting her backpack on the floor.
I grab her suitcase and nod toward the hallway. “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”
She follows me, her boots clicking softly against the hardwood floor. As we pass the dining table and the pristine kitchen, she glances around and lets out a low whistle. “This place is so... sterile. It’s like no one actually lives here… No plants, no pictures, no throw pillows.”
“No photo of The Last Supper and giant utensils hung on the kitchen wall?” I ask, referencing how most homes in Manila have it.
“Exactly. And white figurines that have no value whatsoever,” she adds. “Overall, it just not… homey.”
I laugh at her bluntness, even though she’s not wrong. “Honestly? I’m barely here,” I admit as I lead her down the hallway.
“Ah,” she says, her tone teasing. “Usually at a sexcapade or two?”
I freeze for half a second, caught off guard.
She glances at me, smirking. “Oh, come on,” she says as she nudges my arm. “I can joke about your dating life, can’t I? We’re friends,” she adds, as if that explains everything.
Friends. That word again. The way she says it, so easily, like it’s a fact set in stone. I know she doesn’t mean anything by it, but there’s this gnawing sensation in my chest every time she throws it out there like a shield. Friends.
My dating life has been a series of distractions. A string of names I barely remember, faces that blur together, moments that meant little beyond the moment itself. I could tell her she’s wrong—that my nights aren’t filled with some grand romantic drama, just the dull ache of wanting something more and being too damn scared to admit it. But I don’t. Because that’s not what friends do, right? Friends keep it light.
“You know,” I say finally, breaking the silence with a smirk of my own, “I liked you better in Manila. You’re a lot kinder.”
“Well, what can I say, New York brings it out in me.”
I shake my head, leading her to the guest room. “Well, let me know if New York’s influence makes you unbearable. I’ll drop you back at that bench you were sitting on.”
“You’re not gonna do that,” she says, laughing, and for a moment, the tension dissolves.
“Hey,” she adds, stopping abruptly in the entrance of the guest room. “Since we’re sharing an apartment and all, shouldn’t we make some new rules?” she asks with a playful glint in her eyes. “Just to be safe.” She fishes her phone from the pocket of her puffy jacket.
Emily and her rules. I sigh, but smile. “Alright, hit me,” I say, trying to focus. “What are the new rules of our new relationship—oops, sorry— friendship ?” I say sarcastically.
“Hmm…” she starts. “For starters, you cannot be shirtless. That will be… difficult for me.”
I’m sorry, did she say it would be difficult ? Me? Shirtless? For her ? I can feel my pulse quicken, and suddenly I’m conscious of how close we’re standing. Is it hot in here? No, it’s freezing.
“Okay, fair, I’ll keep my shirt on because my physique is distracting you,” I run a hand across my chest with a smirk that I hope says ‘casual confidence’ and not ‘panicking inside .’ I clear my throat, trying to regain composure. I walk closer to her and lean casually on the doorframe, then I say, “And while we’re on the subject of distracting, then you can’t show your back tattoo.”
Her head tilts, and she arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”
I shrug, trying to keep a straight face. “It’s too hot, hence, distracting.”
Her lips curve into this slow, knowing smile that is 100% going to be the death of me. “Really?” she asks with the tone of fake innocence.
“Yes,” I snap, feeling my face heat up. “Dangerously so. I’m just looking out for public safety here.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, tapping away at her phone, clearly enjoying herself.
“And lastly,” she lifts her gaze to mine like she’s about to drop a bomb, “no sex.”
WHAT.
I choke on absolutely nothing. “Excuse me?”
“No. Sex.” She enunciates each word like she’s explaining it to a child. “Do you agree?”
The sheer audacity of her tone sends my brain into overdrive. Does she think it was on the table? Does she think I think it was on the table? Do I think it was on the table? I can’t even deal with the implications here because my brain is now an endless loop of sex-table-sex-table . Well, I do have pretty sturdy tables… NO.
I shake my head. “Em, if you’re worried about that, I feel like you’re giving me way too much credit.” I flash a smile that I hope exudes nonchalance.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m just being clear.”
“Yep. No sex. Crystal clear,” I say, biting back a grin.
“So do you agree?” she asks again.
Shit, I have to be cool about this. “Of course.”
“Good, so here it is!” She hands me her phone so I can see our new shared note.
I skim the list, my smirk widening. “Just to clarify,” I say, handing the phone back, “I still consent to anything and everything under the sun. Just throwing that out there.” I chuckle, remembering our old list back in Manila.
She rolls her eyes, snatching the phone back.
“And,” I add, leaning closer with a grin, “You still can’t eat strawberries unless you want me to kiss you.” I can’t control myself. Flirting with her is second nature.
Her cheeks turn a brilliant shade of red, and I swear she mutters something under her breath as she storms into her room.
“Wait,” I say. She peeks out the door that’s half-closed, and raises her eyebrows. “Just wanna say, make yourself at home. You’re free to make this place as homey as you want it to be.”
She smiles. “You bet I will.” She shuts the door.
I stand there for a moment, grinning at her retreating form like an idiot. Then the silence settles in.
The grin fades as I drift into the kitchen, her words echoing in my mind. My gaze falls on the blank walls she’d so gleefully called soulless earlier. She wasn’t wrong—it is lifeless. And maybe that’s why her presence feels so strange. Like she’s dragging something vibrant into this space, filling corners I hadn’t even realized were empty.
I open the refrigerator, scanning its barren shelves, and grab a notepad to start a grocery list for Emily. Eggs, milk, bread.
My pen hovers over the page for a beat before I scribble one last item with a smirk.
Strawberries.