Chapter 25
When I finally wake up the next morning, I have a bad taste in my mouth. It’s like I’ve taken a swig of soapy water—it’s bitter, it tastes horrible, and I can’t ignore it. The aftertaste of a fight with Harrison, apparently.
My phone buzzes repeatedly on my nightstand. It’s just after nine a.m., and the light streaming in through my blinds slaps me in the face as I roll over and blindly grab my phone. I rip it off the charger and hold it a few inches away from my face, attempting to blink the sleep out of my eyes.
I’m so relieved it’s not Harrison, I pick up the call from my dad without thinking.
“Sweetheart?” he says after a few moments of silence.
I immediately burst into tears.
“Oh, Emma,” my mom’s voice pops in from a distance. “Sweetie, it’s okay. We’re here.”
They are, of course, not here, since I moved 1,300 miles away.
“I think I messed up,” I choke out, my voice ragged.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” my dad says. There’s a moment of silence, and I can picture him and my mom exchanging a glance. “Tell us what’s going on.”
When my mouth opens for another sob, words start coming out.
“I hated teaching,” I say, my voice quiet, muffled by snot and tears and the pillow I’ve buried my face in.
“I didn’t just quit because of the parent and the stupid book.
I quit because I hated teaching.” It’s not actually an explanation for my tears, but it feels like the explanation they deserve.
Neither of my parents responds immediately, which I take to mean they either didn’t hear me or are shocked into silence.
Instead, my mom quietly responds, “We know.”
I let out another sob. “And I…I don’t know what I’m doing.”
My dad sighs, the phone crackling. “No one does. That’s the secret. But that’s why we’re so lucky to have one another. To help.”
I sniffle into the phone like the enormous baby I am. “I felt like I was letting you down. I was supposed to love teaching. I’m supposed to have it figured out by now.”
“You’re supposed to do what makes you happy,” my mom says. “We don’t give a shit whether that’s teaching.”
I giggle despite myself. My mom doesn’t even like the word “stupid.” This might be the first time I’ve ever heard her curse.
“Why were you crying, sweetie?” my mom asks.
“Because you do give a shit,” I whimper. “Because I’m stressing you out and I don’t want to worry you and—”
“Emma.” My mom’s voice is firm as she cuts me off. “Stop. You don’t need to worry about us. You need to worry about yourself.”
My dad chimes in. “I’m sorry we made you feel like you were worrying us. Of course we’re concerned about you, but we’ll always be concerned about you because that’s what we do. We worry because we love you. But we’re not worried because of you.”
“What if you should be?” I murmur. “I worry myself.”
“What, because you moved?” my mom asks. “Because you’re working at a coffee shop? Please. Both your dad and I were still working minimum-wage jobs when we were your age.”
“Yeah, but you had a plan to go back to school and become teachers. I don’t have a plan, and even if I did, I couldn’t execute it.”
“We didn’t go back to school to become teachers until we met and convinced each other to follow our dreams. You think we had some grand plan to wait until we were in our late twenties to actually start the job we wanted? We didn’t. We were winging it, and it all worked out in the end.”
I sniffle into the phone again. “What if I’m trying really hard not to wing it but I always end up winging it anyway?”
There’s a momentary pause. “Do you want to talk about it?” my dad asks. “Is this about the move? The job?”
“Er—friend trouble. Sort of.”
“Jo?” my dad asks.
My mom immediately scoffs. “Bill, don’t be ridiculous. She’s obviously talking about Harrison.”
My dad and I both let out confused grunts. “How on earth did you know that?” I ask.
“I was twenty-seven once. I know how hard it is to stay away from attractive men.”
“Mom, that is disgusting. Don’t call my friends attractive, please.”
“Friends?” she immediately asks. “So, you and Harrison are…friends? Again?”
“Remind me why we’re talking about this?”
“Because you’re crying.”
“She’s not crying anymore,” my dad points out. “My magical happiness powers worked.” There’s muttering in the background, and I can make out something along the lines of I’m not going to high-five you, Bill.
“Do you want to talk about it?” my mom hesitantly asks.
I could tell them about it. They both know about my vaginismus and surely understand its implications, even if we’ve never talked about my sex life (and never will, thank you very much).
It would be so easy to tell them what happened with Harrison in college and about how badly we screwed up this week.
I could tell them I don’t know how to fix this or any of my other problems, but they probably wouldn’t have any advice beyond something useless like “Be yourself” or “Do what makes you happy.”
My mom takes my silence as a no. “Listen, Emma. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk to us about your love life.”
“Who said anything about my love life?”
She ignores me. “But you need to be talking about this with someone. You can’t keep this to yourself.”
“I’ve been going to therapy again,” I say, exhaling a little.
“That’s amazing. I know that must have been hard for you,” my dad says, his tone empathetic. “You’ve always had a hard time letting people help you solve your problems. Therapy’s a great start. I’m glad you’re not struggling alone. But it helps to also let the people who love you in.”
“Your friends want to help you, and they want to know how you feel,” my mom adds. “And so do we.”
Inhale.
Exhale.
It’s not that simple. There’s no way it’s that simple.
Of course it is, idiot.
If I had told Harrison I had feelings for him, we wouldn’t have both been left wondering.
If I had explained my hesitations, he wouldn’t have felt like he was the problem.
If I had let him in, I would’ve realized I was lovable a long time ago.
“Emma? You okay?” my dad asks.
“Yeah,” I mumble into my pillowcase. “I’m really, really sorry I’ve been ignoring you. I should’ve just called you and talked it out.”
“It’s okay, baby,” my mom says. My dad murmurs his agreement. “Call more often, though, okay?”
“I will, I promise.”
“And now you need to get off the phone to go take care of something else, right?” I can practically hear my mom’s smile through the phone.
“Yeah. I have to go do something.”
“Say hi for us!” she says.
My dad’s muffled whisper is still entirely audible. “To whom?”
“Love you two!” I say before my mom can explain.
“Love you,” they chorus back.
It’s nine-thirty now, and I hear the front door above mine open, a good eight hours earlier than anticipated. Solemn footsteps, creaking floorboards. A bag dropping on the floor. A thud as someone lies down on a couch. Sounds like I’m not the only one who cut their trip short.
“I’m sorry, Harrison,” I whisper toward the ceiling. “I’m coming back for you, I promise.”
Just not yet.
I drag a box out of my closet (Assorted Shit <3) and grab the notebook sitting at the top. I turn to the second page, dated a couple of months after graduation. The paper crinkles in my hand. Water damage. Possibly from tears, possibly from Florida humidity.
The night we met, I think something in me—mind, body (probably not body), soul (definitely soul, though)—identified you as a kindred spirit. It’s been almost four years since that night, and I’m waiting to find someone else who provides the same level of comfort. Surely it can’t just be you, right?
(Correction—yes, it definitely could be, and as time passes, I become more resigned to that idea.)
You felt like home, even on that first night.
I think that’s why I bought you so many pairs of those stupid socks.
They reminded me of home, just like you did.
One day I’d like to take you to Florida, and we’ll go on a drive outside the city and look at the orange trees, and we’ll go canoeing in a natural spring so I can introduce you to the manatees and alligators.
You’d probably be scared but pretend not to be, and even if you were scared, you’d still keep your eyes wide and eyebrows raised, always studying, always observing.
Were you always observing me like that? Probably. What did you find? Did you know all my secrets? Did you know I loved you?
That was five years ago. How is it that I’m still sitting here wondering the same thing? Did I really mess up my second chance that badly?
Yes. Yes, I did.
I grab a pencil from my coffee table and flip to a blank page.
Emma’s Short and Sweet Plan to Make Amends
Step one: Talk to parents. Check.
Step two: Prioritize time with Jo.
Step three: Apologize to Harrison.
Step four: Tell Harrison I love him.
Before I lose my willpower and sink back into my cave of blankets and pillows, I call Jo.
“Hi, girly pop,” she says, answering the phone.
“Is your sister still there?” I ask.
“Nope. She headed back this morning.”
“Great. Listen. I’ve been a shitty friend. I love working with you—or for you, or whatever—but I really want to spend time with you outside of work, and I’m really sorry I haven’t been prioritizing that. I feel bad about it, and I’d like to change.”
There’s a lengthy pause before she speaks. “Thanks for saying that. I appreciate it. And I want you to know that even though, yes, I feel like you haven’t been prioritizing seeing me outside of work, I am still incredibly appreciative you’re here and supporting me right now.”
“And that goes for you, too. I’m glad you’ve been here to support me,” I say, and I can hear Jo’s smile through the phone.
“I don’t know what your vision for the day was, but I have nothing going on, and I’d love to actually go to yoga with you this time.
I pinky promise I won’t flake. Does the studio you practice at have any classes this morning?
And then maybe we can go out to lunch after? ”