Chapter Eight
Eight
EMMA WAS FINISHING UP EDITING A NEUTRAL THIRD PARTY video when her phone buzzed. With Jackie’s help, she’d filmed a Q it wasn’t the same as a normal first date. She didn’t need to have nervous butterflies to fall in love—in fact, in some ways, she’d prefer not to. Romance and anxiety were experienced a bit too similarly in her body for her liking.
Emma arrived at the trendy wine bar about fifteen minutes late, which might have been the latest she had ever been to anything. She’d wasted some valuable time trying to parallel park in a spot that far exceeded her parking abilities. By the time she got through the door her bangs were damp with sweat and she irrationally felt like she was in a lot of trouble. But when Rob saw her, he didn’t look mad. He looked delighted.
“I’m so sorry! I have no excuse,” she blurted out as she barreled into Rob for a less than graceful hug. She noted that he had forgone another graphic tee for an overly tight button-down that didn’t look comfortable or flattering.
“Don’t worry, you’re well within the acceptable range of lateness.”
“Still. I hold myself to a different standard. Moskowitzes are never late. Except for my sister, which is why we made her take her husband’s last name.”
Rob laughed loudly. While Emma had always found her own jokes to be hilarious, she didn’t know if this one warranted such a reaction. But she was happy to take it.
The waiter arrived and provided an extensive tour of the wine list. Rob and Emma both selected an Argentinean Malbec, mostly so they could be left alone. Emma wasn’t even sure if Malbecs were red or white but she had discovered that the snooty waiter thought anyone who liked Riesling had no respect for themselves—and anyone who didn’t like Bordeaux somehow had daddy issues. It was one of the strangest interactions she’d ever had with a person outside of her office; Emma was dying to dissect it.
“Well…that was interesting ,” Emma said, barely holding in her laughter as their waiter walked away
“I thought so too. I know almost nothing about wine,” Rob remarked without a hint of sarcasm. Emma looked at him to decipher if he was just being polite or if he genuinely hadn’t found the waiter’s three-minute monologue about the evils and sadistic nature of organic wine to be off-putting.
“He was a bit intense, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. But I always love when people are passionate about what they do. So many people hate their jobs. It’s nice to find someone who cares.”
Emma nodded. It was a good point. But her brain couldn’t help but jump ahead to the possibility of a lifetime of not being able to connect over other people’s weird behavior. If Emma got hassled by a man on the street about the restorative power of accepting Jesus into her heart while he flung a handwritten pamphlet in her face, was Rob just going to politely say how wonderful it was to see someone with such a profound spiritual life? One of the perks of having a partner was always having a safe space to trash-talk other people. She and Ryan had spent as much time dissecting what other people had said at parties as they did at the actual party. If Ryan had experienced that exchange, he would have made fun of their waiter for at least the next four to five months.
But Emma wasn’t with Ryan anymore. And maybe the type of guys who didn’t poke fun at other people’s general existence also didn’t abruptly leave their partners.
“So where are you living these days?”
Rob looked at her strangely. “You know where I live. You used to live there, too, remember?”
Emma did her best to hide her shock. “You’re still at Baxter?”
Baxter was the name of their old street in Silverlake, and what she had taken to calling the hellhole apartment complex where she met Rob. The twenty-unit monstrosity was managed by a woman who seemed to hate both humans and material goods. Emma had once caught her kicking the lobby garbage can for no apparent reason other than “it was asking for it,” which, quite frankly, was a pretty unhinged thing to admit. During the year she lived there, Emma had lost hot water about fifteen times and had three roach infestations. It was hard to believe anyone would stay if they had a better option. Or a medical license. But Rob merely nodded.
“Twelve years and counting. I think I’m officially the longest tenant other than that married couple in 3C.”
“Oh my god. I can’t believe they’re still married.”
“I don’t think they can either.”
The fights in 3C were a thing of legend. The combination of thin walls and booming voices meant everyone in the complex was always up to date on the latest drama between two people who looked like librarians and fought like reality TV stars. The night before Emma moved out, there was a huge blowout because the wife had bought the wrong kind of toilet paper—again!
“Do you like it there? I feel like all we did back in the day was talk about moving.”
Rob shrugged and took a sip of the wine that had mercifully been dropped off by a silent busboy. “I don’t hate it. And it’s such a hassle to find a new place. I’d rather do that once I’m in a relationship and we’re moving in together.” Rob’s eyes quickly met Emma’s before diverting elsewhere.
Emma smiled to let him know he hadn’t scared her off. Quite the contrary. “That’s smart. It’s always better to move in somewhere new together instead of one person having to claim space in the other person’s home.”
“Is that what you and Ryan did?”
Emma laughed in response—caught. “No, he moved into my apartment after my roommate left. Maybe that was the beginning of the end.” Emma made a mental note to return to that possibility in therapy.
“Look, I obviously don’t know the guy, and maybe this isn’t my place, but he must have been an idiot to leave someone like you. I mean…” Rob gestured in Emma’s general direction.
The compliment caught her off guard and emboldened her to admit, “You know what? I’ve thought the exact same thing a few times.” Wow. It felt good to confess that, even if it made her seem arrogant. Why pretend she didn’t have a lot going for her—including access to all her parents’ various timeshares? The one in Mexico was breathtaking.
“I’m glad we’re in agreement.” Rob reached across the table and brushed some hair out of her face. Emma felt herself float out of her body and observe the moment from above. Everything was objectively perfect.
Except for a gnawing sense that she should bat his hand away and run.
***
“You’re not a real person to him. You’re a trophy. A beautiful, midsize, trophy.” Imani was spread out on their office couch, while Emma was perched in the therapist chair, although their seating arrangement didn’t stop Imani from doling out advice.
“No, no. Rob’s a good guy,” Emma protested.
“How many times have you heard a client use those exact words to describe someone who was definitely not a good guy?”
Emma rolled her eyes as memory after memory popped up. She tried not to think about one woman who had said that after her boyfriend had stolen all her savings to start an exotic animal business. The things people do for love (and large reptiles).
“I get why you would think that, but I don’t think he’s the problem,” Emma said. “I think I have an aversion to romance or something.”
Imani looked at her with enough skepticism to turn a Catholic agnostic. “What do you mean by that?”
Emma shifted in her chair so her legs were tucked under her butt. She knew her body language was betraying any sense of authority she hoped to convey over her own experience, but it was more comfortable.
“Okay,” Emma said. “So, you know how I love love?”
“Yeah, it’s like half your personality.”
“Well, I think I love love in the sense that it is wonderful to have a partner and someone to share your life with. But I don’t want to stare into anyone’s eyes or have them say sweet nothings in my ear for hours on end. To me, the best kind of love is more like a friendship where you also hold hands sometimes.”
Imani nodded. “That tracks.”
“But I think Rob might be more of a ‘I made you this mixtape because these are the songs I listen to when I think about you’ kind of guy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He made me a mixtape.”
“Stop!” Imani was so thrown she sat up and stomped the floor in disbelief. “For your first date?”
“After the date. And it wasn’t a mixtape so much as a Spotify playlist.”
“Show it to me.”
“I can’t. I’d die of mortification.”
“Fine. Describe it to me.”
Emma scrunched up her face. “I don’t think I can. I’m too embarrassed.” Mostly about the Coldplay. Not to mention the Celine Dion.
“So, what are you going to do, immediately break things off and change your number?”
Emma shifted her legs around again, essentially curling herself into a ball. “Not quite. We’re going out again tomorrow.”
“Emma!” Imani reached out and flung the tissue box at her. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I’m trying to break my old habits! Sure, maybe Rob can be a little cringey, but he’s a freaking doctor who seems to be obsessed with me. I could do a lot worse.”
“Since when is that the only barometer for finding the vice president of your life?” Imani asked, using Emma’s own terminology against her.
Emma picked at an angry cuticle in response, wincing at the searing pain. “I think I should examine why outward displays of affection and romance make me so uncomfortable. And I think Rob is a safe person to do that with.”
“Mm-hmm. And you also think he might just be nutty enough to agree to your ridiculous plan?”
“Don’t say words like nutty . It’s not nice.”
Imani glared at her. “Do you know what’s not going to be nice? When you find yourself married to a guy you can’t stand.”
“That’s why they invented divorce,” Emma joked back, even as a sense of dread took over her body.