3. EMERSON
3
EMERSON
Six Summers Ago
“This is ridiculous! Emme, did you even book two beds?” Natalie snaps at me.
“Yes, Natalie, I did.” Is she serious right now? It’s almost midnight. We’re both tired from the fifteen-hour train ride from Barcelona—I knew we should have flown.
“Then why is this happening again ?” The emphasis she puts on again makes my eyes roll to the back of my head. “I trusted you to book all the logistics.”
“Do you want to see the booking confirmation?”
I flash her my phone. The confirmation email already pulled up before we even checked in. Two beds, city view. In bold, right at the top. I booked the same type of room in every city we are traveling to.
Natalie huffs, rolling her eyes, and turns away from the counter.
The lovely, older woman working the concierge desk has already apologized proficiently after informing us they only have one king bed and city view room available. If we wanted two beds, we would have to substitute the city view for a street view. I was about to agree to that offer when she told me it was all cars and garbage on that street. I opted for the king bed and a better view. We could share a bed. We have several times in our friendship. Plus, I don’t need another Natalie episode when she wakes in the morning to the site of garbage.
“Natalie, did you hear me? Is that okay with you?” I try to wrangle a final agreement from her before I take the keys from the concierge .
“Whatever. I’m tired.” She’s on her phone trying to connect to Wi-Fi as she spins on her heels and trudges toward the stairs. “Let’s just go to the room.”
I turn back toward the concierge. “I’m sorry,” I quietly say to her. Dropping my shoulders, I remove the keys from her hands. Rolling my suitcase behind me, I follow Natalie up the stairs.
Natalie doesn’t speak to me as we unpack our bags and prepare for bed. Brushing past each other in the bathroom. An annoyed glare when we both reach for the last hanger in the wardrobe. The silent treatment is extremely childish, but I’m used to it.
After what happened in Rome, I should have triple-checked and reconfirmed all of our hotels. Barcelona, we were in the clear, but I can guarantee that if it happens again after tonight, I might not make it back alive from this trip.
Even though I booked the correct accommodations—these are mistakes I wouldn’t make—the hotels are changing our reservations. It’s still my fault. I know this is letting her down.
And I hate letting Natalie down.
I hate letting anyone down.
Nat releases a dramatic sigh as she climbs into bed. My trusted telltale code for ‘I’m disappointed in you.’ She’s had it since we were ten.
Kicking her feet at the covers, she wiggles her way into the sheets and pulls them up to her chin—only a mess of blonde curls sticking out on the pillows.
“I’m sorry,” I say to her as I climb into bed on the other side and turn off the glass lamp on the bedside table.
She doesn’t respond verbally. She rolls onto her side, away from me.
The disappointment in myself outweighs the tiredness I feel at the moment. I lay there in the dark, listening to the sounds of Natalie already fast asleep. Question after question consumes my thoughts. One after another, keeping me up.
How can I make this up to her ?
Why do I always disappoint people?
How can I make sure this doesn’t happen again?
We have four weeks left in our eight-week Europe trip. Besides the extremely minor, easily fixable one-bed situations, there haven’t been any other hiccups.
It’s probably been the best four weeks of my life. Hers too.
I was initially hesitant when Natalie approached me with the idea of spending the summer in Europe after we graduate from college—two months, no one else. It confused me why I was hesitant. Europe with your best friend is practically every girl’s wildest Pinterest board dream.
Natalie proclaimed it as our last hurrah before we officially had to become adults.
As she laid out her idea, a.k.a. the Pinterest board dream, it all sounded ridiculously irresponsible. We needed to accomplish too much before we high-tailed ourselves out of our small Midwestern town in Indiana to Chicago. But to Natalie, all of this was ridiculously fun.
And here we are.
But that’s how our friendship has always been. Natalie, the cool, confident, carefree spirit—no worries, no problems. And me? The opposite.
Growing up, we were always sunshine and a storm cloud.
Natalie Thomas and I met fifteen years ago when we were seven. Her family moved in four houses down from ours in the cul-de-sac. I had lived on Wellington Court my entire life. Growing up, our section of the neighborhood didn’t have any other girls. I either had to play with the boys, which they hated, or keep to my books and Barbies. I wasn’t thrilled when my parents told me someone moved into the old Peterson’s house. It was fairly easy to assume it would be another family of boys.
Imagine the expression on my face when my parents dragged me to introduce myself. The teal blue front door opened to a blonde little girl smiling directly at me. Squeezed against her chest was a Barbie—the same one I had been playing with before we walked over.
My eyes were big, but my toothless smile was bigger.
“Hi! I’m Natalie! This is Lilly, my Barbie.” Those were Natalie’s first words to me ever.
She unclasped one of her hands on the Barbie and waved. Her parents were walking toward the front door to greet us.
“I’m Emerson,” I shyly replied with an encouraging nudge from my mom. I kept flicking my eyes from her to the ground to my parents. I didn’t want my excitement to come off too strong and scare her away. I came to learn that nothing could scare Natalie. She was—is fearless.
“Can I call you Emme? I like Emme better.” Natalie replied with a big toothless grin. She was missing both of her front teeth. Informing us that she had lost them last week, and that’s how she got her Barbie. Her tooth fairy was awesome.
We’ve been inseparable since.
She’s the best friend turned sister that I never had.
When I was thirteen, I asked my parents why I had no siblings. They told me they knew my life needed a place for Natalie. They were right about that, but even then, my intuition didn’t believe that was their real reason. That same month, my dad left my mom and me. . . but that’s another story for another day.
It didn’t take Natalie long to convince me to go on this trip, and it never takes her long to convince me of her ideas. I need to see her happy.
I just needed to confirm the logistics. Ironic .
I let out a soft huff in the bed, reflecting on the memory.
That was March. Three months later, here we are. College graduates and already halfway through our trip.
** *
My alarm goes off at seven.
Waking up this morning, I was reminded why I booked two beds at all of our hotels. Natalie is the worst sleeper. She tosses and turns all night, losing complete control of her body movements, and doesn’t know how to stay on her side of the bed.
I’m on the edge of the king bed with a sore back. In her conquest of the bed, she kicked me square in the back.
I try to roll over but am chained to my spot by one of her legs draped over mine, the full weight of her lower body holding me there. Natalie’s torso, though, is twisted the other way.
As I take in her form, a silent laugh escapes my mouth. How is that comfortable? Another laugh, not silent this time, escapes. I hope this isn’t how she sleeps when she has a non-platonic sleepover.
I try to get out of bed without waking Natalie.
Gently and as quietly as possible, I grab her ankle to push her leg off me. Successfully, I give myself space to get out of bed without waking her. Flinging my legs over the side, I slide my feet into the soft hotel slippers. Three sizes too big, but they might be my favorite part about hotels abroad—slippers that are to die for. Turning off my alarm, I stand up and head to the bathroom.
“Good morning, Lisbon!” a sleepy Natalie shouts.
In the bathroom mirror’s reflection, I can see both of her arms stretched out above her head, making a giant V. I ignore her, closing the door until it’s only opened a slim crack so we can talk.
“Are we still going to Sintra today?” Natalie yells.
“Inside voice Nat. People are sleeping,” I try to remind her.
“That’s not my problem. They should wake up then.” She does her witch laugh.
“The tour leaves at ten,” I tell her.
“What time is it now?” she asks.
I flip my phone over on the white marble counter, pressing the side button .
“It’s only seven. We need to leave in two hours to arrive at the pickup location on time.”
“Emme,” she groans. “It’s summer. We are on vacation. We are in Europe! Why are you up this early?” Miss overdramatic in full effect this morning.
“You know I can’t sleep past seven, ever.”
“You would if you’d—”
“Don’t even finish that statement, Nat,” I cut her off.
Natalie’s laughing from the bed. Her contagious laugh carries into the bathroom, and I join in. “Whateverrrr. I’m going back to sleep. Beauty calls for it.”
When I exit the bathroom, she’s cocooned once again in the bed. This time, the covers are pulled all the way over her head, and pillows, including mine, surround her. She fortified herself in the middle of the bed. Beauty sleep must be protected.
This is my favorite part of the day.
Indeed, my body can’t sleep past seven. But I also don’t let it sleep past seven.
I love mornings. I love the peacefulness and opportunity to seize the day before the world awakens. The slowness calms my mind.
I also love traveling and spending time with Natalie, but being with her or anyone else twenty-four-seven can be daunting. After our first week, I learned that if I booked a tour late enough in the morning, I could have a couple of hours to myself, doing whatever I wanted while Natalie slept.
Most of the time, I just walk around the city. Find a café. Read by a park or the water. Take photos of the scenery or architecture. Never anything fancy or riveting, but enough to keep my sanity.
Slipping out of my pajamas, I pull out a hunter-green linen dress to put on. I pair the dress with my usual pair of chunky, black Converse. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I check myself out, using my hands to flatten out the few wrinkles in the linen .
The sun has tanned my skin slightly, enhancing my few freckles and giving me a couple of new highlights in my hair—the lighter brown contrasts with my dark chocolate-colored hair. My fingers twirl the end of one of the braids I slept in. I take my hair out of its braids. Naturally, it’s thick and wavy, making it, at times, uncontrollable. I use my fingers as a brush, combing my hair and giving one final peek in the mirror.
There’s this urge to look. . . presentable this morning, and I have no clue why.