41. Emory
EMORY
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
The elevator stops on eleven.
Of course it does.
I let out a breath, and it ends in a sad little sputter.
The woman standing in front of me turns around. She has soft gray hair, pearl earrings, and the kind of face that suggests she has raised teenagers, survived menopause, and once cried in a Publix parking lot for reasons no one had the right to question. She gives me a smile full of sympathy.
Apparently the heartbreak exhale is part of the universal girl code.
A man behind me clears his throat. “This is me.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I shift my grocery bag higher against my hip and flatten myself against the mirrored wall so he can squeeze past.
He gives me one last glance on the way out.
Sorry, sir. This girl’s heart is closed for renovations. Possibly condemned.
The doors slide shut.
Ding.
Ding.
Fourteenth floor.
The woman with the sympathy smile steps out, and then it’s just me, one overpriced bag of Whole Paycheck groceries, and my own lousy company reflected back at me from three different mirrored angles.
Ding.
My floor.
I step out into the hallway of the old factory building converted into “luxury loft residences,” which is developer speak for exposed brick, drafty windows, and rent that should come with a personal apology.
The hallway is quiet except for the soft click of my hells against the concrete floor.
Twelve steps from the elevator to my door.
I stop halfway through unlocking it.
Twelve.
I hadn’t realized I’d started counting steps again.
I turn the key and push open the door.
The loft is exactly how I left it this morning. Impersonal.
Original wood floors. Brick wall. Old beams. Two distressed leather chairs the last tenant left behind and an antique table I rescued through an alley adoption.
I set the groceries on the counter and look toward the windows, where the sun is dropping behind the buildings. If I stand at exactly the right angle near the third window and squat two feet, I can see a sliver of lake.
We’re not in Blue Crab Bay anymore, Toto.
There, water never played peekaboo. It was everywhere. Under the docks. Around The Point. In the air. In my hair. Here, I have to play Twister to catch a glimpse of it between two buildings and a parking garage.
I reach into the grocery bag, pull out a beer, and pop the top.
Psskt.
The sound hits me square in the chest.
Jake’s text tone.
I take a long swallow, then chase it with a sip of pickle juice straight from the jar because I’m fresh out of ladylike fucks to give. I peel the lid off a container of smoked mozzarella pasta salad the deli label calls a perfect side.
I’m calling it girl dinner.
I drop into one of the leather chairs. It sighs under me like it’s also had a day.
“Same,” I tell it.
I unlock my phone and start scrolling, because nothing supports your emotional health like entering social media.
A creamy tomato pasta recipe. BECASA’s newest linen collection.
A woman I went to college with pretending she “just threw together” a cozy kitchen the size of a boutique hotel lobby.
An influencer hawking a Christmas tree five other influencers have also claimed to be “obsessed” with this week.
In September.
Then—
I stop.
Jake.
A photo from a practice field. Helmet off. Sun on his face. White shirt stretched across his shoulders. One hand on his hip. The other holding a football.
For one irrational second, I think maybe it’s old. Somebody posting a throwback.
Then I read the caption.
It’s from three hours ago.
Jake Wheeler returns to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.
My stomach drops so hard it feels physical.
Not metaphorical.
Actual organ movement.
I stare at the screen. Jake. Back with the Bucs. Back where he started. Back where he was supposed to be.
I should feel relief. This is what I wanted, right? Jake getting what he deserves.
My thumb drifts over the screen to touch him.
Instead, I like the post.
“Shit.”
I was just here to lurk. Not like.
I stab at the screen and unlike it, but the notification probably already went through. Maybe he doesn’t check them. Maybe notifications don’t go to the collaborators.
Maybe I’m just an idiot.
I toss the phone onto the table like it bit me.
Jake’s with the Bucs again.
My leaving was meant to be.
That thought should comfort me.
It doesn’t.
My phone vibrates. I don’t pick it up. I know it’s not who I want it to be, so I don’t care who it is.
It keeps vibrating until it skitters off the table and lands facedown on the floor.
There’s a metaphor.
I reach for the remote instead and turn on the TV, volume low. I scroll through the guide, hoping the perfect distraction exists in a box somewhere, just waiting for me to click on it.
Runaway Bride.
No.
When Harry Met Sally.
Absolutely not.
Grease.
You have got to be kidding me.
I just sit there staring at the title while the universe laughs directly in my face.
Grease.
Movie night on The Green. The white screen flapping in the breeze. Granny loudly getting half the lines wrong and none of them quietly.
Hank snoring in his little T-Bird bandana. Jake behind me on the blanket, one arm around my waist like it had always belonged there. The smell of buttered popcorn and salt air.
His mouth brushing my ear when he said, I don’t want this to just be another summer.
My pinky hooking with his in the dark like a promise my body made before my fear could stop it.
Okay. No movies.
I click over to one of the Real Housewives because there’s nothing like watching a bunch of rich women whose lives are an absolute mess to remind you it could be worse.
Two of them are going at it. They sound like feral cats in sequins screeching at each other.
I make it less than a minute before I turn it off. I lean my head back against the chair and close my eyes.
My phone buzzes again. This time from the floor. “What?” I say out loud, to the room, to my life, to whatever cosmic intern is currently running my emotional state.
I bend down and snatch the phone up. Granny. The preview reads: I know you’re ignoring me. “I’m ignoring existence, Granny,” I tell the phone.
I tap and open the message.
I know you’re ignoring me. I’m an old woman who could keel any moment.
Before I do, I wanted to tell you Jake left yesterday.
Playing football again. The whole town’s been carrying on over it.
For once, I kept my mouth shut and let Gladys Kravitz spread the gossip.
I have to start behaving myself. More on that later.
Games on The Green start this Sunday. Hattie’s sitting here right now throwing out ideas for a special hot dog.
I cannot get her off THE JAKE WIENER. Walt said to tell you this: The bravest thing you will ever do is love someone.
And Willard said tell that girl hello. So. Hello.
My eyes sting immediately. I react with a thumbs-up because I cannot handle actually typing words to any of that.
A new message appears almost immediately.
It’s not safe to hitchhike.
Another bubble pops up.
He turned it down.
I read it again.
Then again.
Then a third time, because surely my brain is misfiring.
I type.
Granny, he’s there
They asked him while you were here. He turned them down.
He chose you, Emory.
I stare at those four words until they blur.
He chose you.
I didn’t think I had any tears left. Apparently my body was just saving them for catastrophic new information.
I stand too fast and nearly knock the beer over.
He turned it down.
While I was there.
While I was still close enough to choose him back.
And then I left anyway.
I walk into the bedroom. My suitcase is still on the floor. Jake’s jersey is draped across the bed where I left it this morning. I stop and just look at it. White and red. Number 11. Soft with wear.
I peel off my clothes and throw them into the hamper.
He chose me.
I wash my face, mascara smearing under my eyes, my reflection looking worse by the second.
He turned it down.
I brush my teeth. The normalcy of it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.
He went to Tampa. And that should prove my point, shouldn’t it? That I did the right thing. That I got out of his way and let him be free. I stepped aside, and he walked straight back into the life he was always meant to have.
I spit, rinse, and grip the sink.
No.
That’s not what this proves.
This proves he went after I left. After I removed myself from the equation. After I made the choice for both of us.
I told myself I was protecting him. Giving him freedom. Doing the right thing.
But he didn’t ask to be saved from me.
He asked for me.
He chose me.
I pull his jersey over my head. Then I climb into bed and grab my Kindle from the nightstand because maybe I can read my way out of this spiral.
I make it through a paragraph. Maybe two. I have no idea what either said. Every thought in my head is the same.
He turned it down.
He chose me.
I lower the Kindle to my chest and stare at the ceiling.
He chose me over and over.
Not just with words. With the way he kept showing up. The way he made room without making me feel trapped. The way he let me come closer at my own pace, even when he had every reason to stop waiting. With every chance he gave me to stay.
He never gave up.
“Oh God,” I whisper into the dark.
Because suddenly I know exactly what this is.
Me.
Just me.
Doing what I always do when the moment gets too big.
I sit straight up.
No!
Not this time.
Not again.
I throw the covers back so hard they tangle around my legs. I nearly trip getting out of bed, sprint into the living room, slide across the floor Risky Business style, and grab my phone off the table.
My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it.
I type.
Delete it.
Type again.
My vision blurs. I wipe at my face with the heel of my hand and force my thumbs to work.
I need your help
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat and hear it rushing in my ears.
Can you get me into the stadium Sunday
I stand in the middle of the loft, crying in Jake’s jersey, clutching my phone like it’s a life raft.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Ryan: Finally.
A laugh breaks out of me in the middle of the tears.
Half sob.
Half relief.
Entirely unhinged.
Ryan: I’ve got you.