Chapter 8
We should
We should
We should
Emmy spent most of the next week rereading the half message her sister had sent. Axe Murderer hadn’t responded, and the thought
she’d scared him off only confirmed her fear that meeting in person was a bad idea.
At the same time, work had become grueling. With the trade deadline fast approaching, they were buried day in and out. Requests
would come down from the GM to their director, who’d then pass them to Alice, who’d pass them to the data analysts, and Emmy,
Gabe, Pedro, and Silas would hole up in their cave cranking out predictive models to aid in decisions. Emmy still hadn’t had
time to run Gabe’s feelings model, although she was curious about it. Trying to outdo each other and earn as many gold stars as possible, they stayed
later than everyone else. Even with the office empty, they remained, glassy-eyed and glued to the dim glow of their computer
screens. He returned from a long lunch one day clearly having gotten a haircut, and because he stayed late to make up for
it, Emmy stayed late too. She refused to throw in the towel before him and ended up leaving the ballpark near midnight three
nights in a row. It paid off when Alice commended her latest report in a department meeting, which earned her an approving
nod from Director Allen.
The consequent icy glare from Gabe was a cherry on top, but in truth, all of it served as distraction from worrying she’d
ruined things with Axe Murderer.
By the time she collapsed in bed on Friday night, Emmy thought she was too tired to do anything but sleep. Her leaping heart quickly corrected her when she got a message from Axe Murderer.
So, I’ve spent all week wondering if there’s an end to that last text...
She sat straight up with her heart in her throat and blinked at her screen. Her hands trembled. She had no idea what to say.
She’d figured if he ever responded, he would gloss over that text, and they’d pretend it never happened, like eating an entire
cake by oneself or spending a whole paycheck on a new handbag. Directly confronting it had not entered her mind as a possibility.
Was he bringing it up because he knew what the message implied and wanted to go there? Did he want to meet her?
The thought broke a clammy sweat over her skin. She almost went into cardiac arrest when he sent another message.
I’ve also been wondering if it was a butt dial and you’ve been trying to figure out how to backtrack it.
The sigh of relief that escaped Emmy could have inflated a blimp. She found herself smiling softly at her phone and much more
relaxed about talking to him since he’d given her an out.
Hey. Sorry for the silence. Work has been wild this week. But you’re right. My sister actually sent that message. She took my phone to write to you and managed to text that before I stopped her, and I wasn’t sure how to come back from it.
Her heart had eased into a calmer rhythm, but it quickly picked up pace again when he didn’t immediately respond. What was
he thinking? What was he going to say?
Eventually, he came back with:
You told your sister about me?
Emmy quietly laughed.
That’s what you took from all that?
Yes. I mean, it’s kind of a big deal.
He was right. It was a big deal she’d told anyone about him.
I guess you’re right. I did tell my sister. And my best friend.
Wow. Not to sound full of myself, but TWO people know about me?
She blushed and pulled her knees up to her chest, grinning like a schoolgirl at a sleepover.
Yes.
Well, I am honored. And if we’re making confessions here, I have to tell you that THREE people know about you.
Her pumping heart positively soared to the moon.
One-upping me, I see. Who are these 3 people?
My sister, my mom, and, oddly, my barber.
His mom? His mom knew about her?!
A literal squeal snuck from Emmy’s throat, and she was glad no one was there to hear it. She composed herself to send back
another message.
Wow. Barber. That’s a big step.
Indeed.
She tapped her thumbs on the sides of her phone, not sure what to say next. She’d been reluctant to admit what they had was
more than just a texting thing, but it was clear it was. They’d both told important people in their lives about each other.
Emmy may have been out of the dating race, but she knew that meant they were already beyond casual.
And she knew in the past week of silence, she’d missed him.
Her phone buzzed with another message.
So?
So, what?
A measurable pause passed. Emmy’s mind filled it with a thousand tiny pricks of nerves.
She felt herself standing on a very high ledge with one foot dangling out over the deep expanse below.
The thought of falling in was at once terrifying and thrilling, and he was poised to push her.
She was almost certain she knew what he was going to say. And sure enough, he delivered.
Should we meet?
And with that, she felt herself fall. Gravity pulled her down at the same time something far more amiable lifted her up. The
tug-of-war left her twisting and turning in indecision over the potential outcomes: hit the ground or hope he caught her before
the bone crush.
She thought about what her sister had said. They had to jump together, and he had just jumped.
But the thought of joining him stilled Emmy with too much fear.
She hadn’t planned to meet anyone. She was buried at work—and trying to get promoted on top of that. Her sister’s wedding
was in a week, and she still had to make it through the bachelorette party this weekend and find a date. Yes, asking Axe Murderer
to be her date was a solution glaring at her with the obviousness of a sunburn, but what if that turned out to be a disaster?
What if she felt no in-person attraction when she saw him, and then she was stuck with him for a long weekend nearly three
thousand miles from home and having to explain to everyone how they’d “met” and navigate what was sure to be a painfully awkward
situation for all involved?
Again, she heard her sister’s words: What if it was better than what they had texting?
Her data-driven brain tried to write an equation to figure out if that could possibly be true.
Given what she knew of him, what was the probability their experience would enhance if they took it to the next level?
Yes, he was charming, funny, thoughtful.
He was obviously close with his family despite what he’d told her about his parents’ dashed hopes for his future.
He knew his way around a pun like no one she’d ever met.
And on that note, he was easier to talk to than anyone she’d ever met.
But was that because all their communication had been through a screen?
Would their chemistry translate face-to-face?
Emmy was about to open a spreadsheet and assign numerical values to her pro/con list and literally write an equation to determine
next steps when another text came through.
No pressure. Sorry. The timing finally felt right to me seeing that my hang-ups are communication and finding a connection,
and we’ve established we’re pretty on fire with both of those things.
Emmy softly smiled at his sincere and accurate message.
You’re right, we are ?
But...?
She sighed and knew she could be completely honest with him.
But this is perfect. I don’t know about for you, but talking to you is the best thing in my life right now. Aren’t you worried
things will get ruined if we take it to the next level?
See, when you say things like “the best thing in my life right now” it makes me want to scour the city door-to-door until
I find you.
Emmy chewed at the smile on her lips.
There are a lot of doors in this city.
I am a tenacious man.
And a patient one.
Indefinitely.
The conversation paused for a few moments. Emmy wondered if he was waiting for her to change her mind. He eventually came
back with a long message.
But listen, I don’t mean to pressure you. Honestly. I know your hang-ups are harder to work through than mine. (If I ever
meet your ex, trust that I will have choice words for him!) So, I will be ready when you are. But please know it’s taken enormous
strength not to even ask for a picture of you. (Hint hint.)
She quietly laughed in relief when she realized he wasn’t going to push her. And she had thought about the picture thing—she
longed to know what he looked like, but crossing that boundary was nearly as hazardous as meeting in person. Exchanging photos
would shake the status quo of what they had, and clearly, given her reflex to turn their relationship into a math problem,
she was not ready to disrupt anything. Yet at least. And thankfully, he knew that without her having to tell him.
Thank you.
Of course, Bird Girl. I’m here. And I’ll tell you where to find me IRL if and when you want to know. ?
And with that, Emmy turned over and went to sleep feeling like there was no way he’d ever let her crash when she eventually jumped.
Saturday night brought the event that had been in the making nearly as long as Piper’s princess wedding fantasies. The bachelorette
party. Knowing her sister would want the penultimate step before she officially became a Mrs. filled to the brim with stereotype
staples—booze, boas, Team Bride sashes, a veiled tiara, phallus-shaped everything—Emmy went all out.
She, Piper, and eight of Piper’s closest friends—five bridesmaids and three co-workers who’d been invited to the wedding—made
for a party of ten at a downtown restaurant. Emmy had shelled out extra for a private room, thankfully, because the noise
reached a deafening level after the first round of drinks. Ten women in dresses and heels with a rainbow of party favors with
Piper as the all-in-white star of the show were hard to miss. Once they’d all showered her with praise and envy ( Look at that rock! My god!) and gift bags of see-through lingerie that was too scandalous to give her at the bridal shower, they piled into rideshares
to make their way to the harbor.