The sixth sense

Chapter 3

Emma
5 months ago

I'm running late, take the wrong turn in the subway and then find myself at a dead-end. I can feel sweat rolling down my neck and back. I can't calm down, make myself think straight again, and read the direction signs to find the exit to the Gare de Lyon. 
Damn it, I should have called an Uber, but it was raining outside, and waiting for the car would take forever. And I wanted to see him so much.
Adam . . . I haven't seen him for two weeks and it feels like a lifetime has passed since the day I said goodbye to him. He spent his fall break in Italy and I still regret letting him go there without me. If I told him I wanted to see Florence and Rome, he would book tickets and plan the entire trip for us. But I wanted him to initiate the joined journey and find the right words to make me go with him, telling me all about the beauty of Italy and its delicious cuisine. Instead, he said goodbye to me and left just like that.
Maybe two weeks without me didn't mean anything to him, but to me, half of the month without him was torture. I missed him like hell.
Today's morning was a disaster. Mom watched my beauty review of a new bright eyeshadow palette and said, "Red eyeshades . . . those are disgusting, Emma! You look like a domestic violence victim. Swells and bruises—that's what I saw in your new video. It didn't look like chic makeup at all. Maybe you should stop humiliating yourself?"
If I'd ever received a message from my mother saying, 'Well done! I'm so proud of you!' I would have thought she sent it to the wrong number and the message wasn't addressed to me.
"What are you wearing anyway? How could you put on that terrible blouse to record the video? Get rid of it immediately. It makes your short neck look even shorter, and the sleeves make your arms look too big. Emma, is it so hard to look at yourself in the mirror before making another video?" That's what she normally says about the clothes I buy myself. 
I should give her credit—she's a stylist and she's got really good taste in clothes. She's been working in the fashion industry for a long time, choosing clothes for the magazines' photo shots, writing articles about trends, pop prints, and brands, and discussing celebrities' looks, paying a lot of attention to their fashion downfalls. Needless to say, she did that with the unhidden evil irony, but her readers loved it. Too bad negativity finds a lot more appreciation in social media than praises and good reviews. If I say something bad about the cosmetics I review, my post automatically gets a lot more likes than the one showing my love for my favorite products.
I should learn to ignore my mother's comments, but I can't, no matter how hard I try. Her words always hurt. Every time she makes a public appearance, people begin to admire her style. One look at someone is all she needs to typecast a fashion guide for them and it will be super cool. But it looks like I'm the only person tired of asking for her advice every time I need to buy new clothes. It makes her angry, which is why she imposes her opinion even when I don't ask for it.
But the worst part of this morning was Mom wasn't the only person who commended on my short neck and arms. After the video went live, several subscribers left comments, telling me to never wear blouses like that again. Of course, their words went from the bottom of their hearts and didn't sound as harsh as Mom's. Though I doubted the so-called kindness of their hearts had anything to do with why they left those comments in the first place. What guides people who impose their opinion about everything? They mask it with curiosity and good advice, trying to demonstrate their knowledge, taste, and fashion sense. But they tend to forget about their bedside manners. They aren't my friends, they're just strangers. I think most of them are well-aware of the fact that their words might hurt me. But getting angry at them isn't a problem. The real problem is that I begin to think low of myself. I don't want to be just a waste of skin. My insecurity breathes my Mom's criticism and my followers' negative comments. And it doesn't matter how many times I tell myself to ignore all of the above, it's all for nothing. Good comments lift me up, but the bad ones bring me down to my knees, killing the remnants of my self-esteem. I still have no idea how to balance the two sides of my life. Maybe that's why I've been so MIA for the past two weeks, desperate to see Adam again. One look at his warm brown eyes and I felt better in no time flat.
We've known each other since the first grade. Adam had just moved to Paris from Florence and could hardly speak French. And I was just a fat girl, making everyone laugh at my appetite and the size of my shirts. They say kids can't be evil. Bullshit. I know for sure they can. They always say what's on their mind and when adults prefer to bite their tongues, kids will say everything they want to say. My weight was a favorite topic of discussion in class. 'Chubby Emma'—that's how they would call me. Back then, I thought there was nothing worse than that. Our classmates laughed at Adam when he spoke French, mimicking his misspelled or wrong words. Sometimes they would intentionally speak really fast so he wouldn't be able to make out what they were saying. And then there was their favorite part of the show—they asked Adam to repeat curse words, the meaning of which he didn't even know. That was how our friendship started. The two black sheep united and sent the rest of the class to hell.
Now, Adam is eye candy and speaks both languages fluently. The girls won't give him a break, trying their best to attract his precious attention. But he has me now and he doesn't need anyone else. Thinking about that warms up my heart pleasantly.
His train should be at the station any second, and I still haven't found the right exit to platform number two. After I take a deep breath and calm down, I finally find the needed platform. The strong smell of the railway station hits my nostrils. There're so many people around me. I want nothing but to disappear in the crowd or go somewhere no one knows me. I have no idea why those thoughts bother me so much, but they fill my mind way too often.
I look at the track model, saying Adam's train will be at Platform D in seven minutes. Lucky me, the train's running late. I scroll down the notifications on my phone.
'You could do better. You still need to learn how to work with the color. It looks like you have two black eyes.' And that comment just got one hundred likes from one thousand five hundred of my followers. The number hasn't changed much for the past year. Sometimes I get new subscribers, and sometimes they unsubscribe. But there's no actual audience growth, unfortunately.
'Is it just me, or have you really gained a few pounds? You looked much slimmer in your September video.' And right under that comment, there's a question, 'How's your diet going?'
It's dead. I fall asleep with a can of Nutella in my hands and sometimes it's nearly impossible to say no to it, which makes the unwelcome pounds return. There are positive comments on my video as well. And the general number of likes is higher than the number of dislikes. But it's the negativity that always sticks in my head like a curse. All those people who send it my way have a point—the makeup is a failure, and I did get weight, and like Mom said, now I look like a neckless elephant. My mood goes down the drain way too fast. I tried so hard for the makeup to look great, but it turned out to be a complete disaster. Why do I always fail?
Starting a YouTube channel was my dream, and Adam helped me a lot. I still remember my very first makeup tutorial with bright yellow eyeshadow and green eyeliner. The arrows turned out to be long, with small leaves on their ends.
"You're a spring girl!" Adam said and then helped me edit the video.
He never laughed at me. On the contrary, he always supported my pull to creativity. He could have never imagined the criticism and comments would affect me so much.
Suddenly, someone closes my eyes with their palms, and I gasp. As always, staring at the phone made me blind and deaf and I didn't notice Adam approach me.
"I missed you so much," I whimper. He puts his hands down and they land on my shoulders.
"What's that vinegar face about?"
God, his voice . . . I love it so much. It's soft and melodious.
"Is that about your fans' comments again?" He can read me like an open book.
"Well, yes. They say I'm fat and that I can't find my arse with both hands."
He turns me around, and I'm so happy to see him again. I place a kiss on his cheek and say, singing, "No words are enough to say how glad I am to see you!"
"Stop reading those stupid comments," he responds, frowning. He takes my phone, turns the sound off, and shoves it into my purse. "Do what you like doing. Period. It's not like you make them watch your videos or say that you are a super talented makeup artist or take money for making tutorials."
"It's not about my subscribers actually . . . Mom just had to put her two cents in it. Tell me something, Adam. Do I really have a short neck?"
He rolls his eyes, takes my hand in his, and pulls me to the exit from the platform.
"Your mom needs a therapist. She thinks everyone should be perfect, even if she's the only person who gives a damn about it when others don't."
"Does that mean I do have a short neck and no one gives a damn about it?"
"Emma, your neck is just fine and yes, most people don't care about its length. You will never believe it, but when a guy meets a girl, he takes her in as a whole, and not just her neck. No one's going to measure your neck, waist, or your breast with a ruler. We do it with our eyes," he says with irony in his voice.
I chuckle and squeeze his hand. Adam is my ray of sunshine. He always finds the right words to show his support. He'll be compassionate when needed and funny when I can't make myself smile. He feels every small change in my mood. A lock of brown hair falls onto his forehead, and he removes it with the familiar move of his hand. He's wearing a pair of worn sneakers, a wrinkled shirt, and a jeans jacket. Despite the mess, he still looks like a Calvin Klein model. Especially shirtless. Every time I get a chance to see his perfect body, butterflies start dancing in my belly. Though it doesn't happen often.
"Are you saying that for your eyes my neck looks good?" I ask with a smile.
Smiling back, he says, "It looks amazing and unbelievable, and you've got the best neck in the word. Now, you should stop letting your mom's words affect you. No one, except for herself, of course, will ever be perfect for her." 
"I know you're right. But I can't help it. Last time, she shouted at me for choosing a bright pink dress for Aunt Annett's birthday. She made me cry right in the middle of the reception. Sometimes I feel like I hate her and it scares me."
Adam stops walking and looks into my eyes. "You should tell her about it, Emma. I mean it. Keeping your mouth shut and swallowing your pain isn't helping. Does she have any idea how much her words hurt you? You should say it out loud and let her know her criticism is ruining your life."
I wrap my arms around him because he's the only person who can feel me so well and he never judges me for my weaknesses and flaws. But if I tell Mom everything, I think about her attitude she'll call me a sappy drama queen. She will also say she wishes me nothing but good, but if I can't think straight, her majesty will no longer waste her nerves, time, or efforts on me. And I'll feel like an idiot . . . a very lonely idiot. Again.
"Don't be sad, Emma. How about we stop by a café and order desserts?"
"I'm too fat for that!" I say, annoyed.
He caresses my hair with his palm. "No, you are not." I can't see his face, but I know he's rolling his eyes again.
"Yes, I am . . ."
"No sane man on the planet will ever be against the C cup size breasts. Your desire to lose weight is nothing but stupid noise in your head."
"Do you like a C cup size breast?" I ask with a smile, making it sound like a joke, but I really want to know whether my best friend finds me attractive.
"Of course, I do! I don't know anyone who doesn't, or they like boys. Though no size would be helpful in that case."
I burst out laughing, and so does he.
"Coffee and a cake?"
"Sounds perfect."
"It's a deal then."
One day, I'll grow some balls and tell him about my feelings. Though I really want him to be the first to say the words, I don't know if we can be together.
His phone starts buzzing. He answers the call and says something in rapid Italian. I can hear his grandma's 'Adamo!' on the other end of the line. And then I realize his phone's camera's smashed.
"Grandma wanted to know how my trip was," he says, ending the call.
"What happened to your camera?"
"You won't believe this, but my phone ended up under the wheel of someone's bike. And it was on my first day in Florence. The camera's dead and the screen hardly shows anything at all."
"That's why you didn't send me any pictures," I say, relieved. "And here I thought you were ignoring me on purpose."
"Emma, I never ignored you. Texting was impossible. Just look at the screen . . . the touchpad isn't working, not to mention the sending pictures option." Like he said, the camera was broken.
"But you didn't call me either," I say quietly. I don't want to sound like someone who's begging for his attention. But I didn't receive a single call from him.
"I was busy, Ems. I'm sorry," he says softly, and I can't hold back my smile. Ems is a childhood nickname he gave me a long time ago. He used to say we were like M&Ms, always together like salt and pepper. Adam's the only person who ever calls me Ems.
We leave the railway station. The air is thick with the smell of wet asphalt, but it's no longer raining. We jump over the puddles, and I enjoy the view of the gray autumn city around me. My childhood memories start to flood my mind. When I was a kid, my parents always took me to Bandol so I could spend my summer break at Grandma's. But I always loved returning to Paris. At the end of August, granny would accompany me to the train station and ask the check-takes to have an eye on me, and four hours later, my dad would meet me at the station. Mom wasn't there with him, but I was okay with that. I always got weight while staying at granny's and then Mom would lament about that. But it was when I returned to our old apartment. When at the station, I would run right into my father's arms and he would lift me up and spin me like I was a feather. Then he would take my hand in his and lead me to the exit, just like Adam did today. Then I would go to Louis Armand Square and enjoy the breathtaking beauty opening in front of my eyes. The café terraces, the ancient buildings—they made me feel at home. I always loved spending summer at Granny's, but even more, did I love coming back to the city.
"Where's your folder with the sketches?" I ask, all of a sudden noticing the missing thing. It's no news I'm a bit late with asking about it, considering how much I always want to tell Adam about my problems first. I feel a little embarrassed for being so selfish. He just arrived and the first thing I did was I poured a whole bunch of complaints onto him. Adam is a very talented painter and he always carries a folder with his sketches.
"I left it in Rome. The pipes in the studio broke when I was out. The folder was on the floor and it got wet. Some of the sketches survived; I left them on a radiator to dry. But I didn't have time to buy a new folder."
"The pipes broke? Oh, no . . . did it damage your neighbor's apartment as well?"
"Yes, but don't worry, my grandma will take care of that. It wasn't my fault the old pipes broke."
"I'm so sorry you lost your sketches," I say. "I'd love to see what you have painted when in Italy."
We walk across the road and Adam pulls me to a nearby café. We take one of the tables at the terrace and sit in the dainty basket chairs. Adam's eyes are searching my face as if he can't make himself say something to me. His skin is tanned and his hair looks a little lighter thanks to the time he spent under the Italian sun. His lips curve in a shy smile.
"I wouldn't show them to you anyway," he says.
"Why so?"
"Most of the sketches show a girl . . . and she's naked in them," he says self-satisfied, with a bright smile lighting up his face.
My heart skips a beat and I force a smile, trying to play it cool. "So, you met a girl . . . was she a muse for your break time?" I chuckle and add with a little venom in my voice, "I'd love to see your sketches anyway. Hardly she has something I haven't seen before."
Adam drams the table with his fingers and his face becomes serious. "It's not just a game, Emma. I have feelings for her. And I'm surprised how strong they are."
His confession is like a splash of cold water in the middle of December. It's not the first time that I hear about him falling in love with someone. He was in love, many times. In high school, he was in love with a graduate-year girl. In middle school—with a girl from a different class. And last summer, he had an affair with an American who came to Paris for two weeks to learn the language. Well, she could practice it every day with him. But I knew their dates were nothing but another adventure for Adam. He never talked about any of his girls with so much adoration in his voice.
I feel my heart sinking. "Wait a second. You couldn't have fallen in love with her, could you?" I ask a little nervous. "I mean your trip was too short to fall for her."
"You think two weeks are not enough to fall in love?" he clarifies with a scoff. "You wouldn't stop surprising me, Emma. Are there any rules for how much time you need to fall for someone?"
"Adam, don't be ridiculous. Two weeks are not enough to know a person. You're not being serious right now . . . you can't be in love with her."
Please say you're kidding. Say it's just a joke. Say anything, but not the L word again.
Adam's brows pull together in deep thought, but he doesn't get a chance to respond. The waiter finally comes to our table to take the order.
"Allongé, cappuccino, and a mille-feuille please," my best friend says, while I try to fight the tears burning my eyes. He doesn't ask what I'd like to eat. And it's not because he doesn't care. He simply knows me too well to ask unnecessary questions.
"Tell me about her," I say almost in a whisper.
A dreamy smile on his lips shines brighter than the sun. His reaction to my words is worse than being stabbed in the back, worse than anything that has ever happened to me.
"She's so not my type." He smirks. "She's tiny, slim, and with an attitude, and—" He runs one hand through his hair, tousling it.
I interrupt him mid-word. "Then why do you like her?" The echoes of his words ring in my head.
Tiny, slim . . .
Adam shrugs. "She's kind, beautiful, funny, it feels good to be with her, and . . . it sounds so trivial, but I honestly have no idea why I like her so much. I just do." He goes silent, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. "Believe it or not, but I said goodbye to her just last night and I already miss her like hell. I can't wait for Friday."
For the first time ever, I regret he and I don't have any forbidden topics to discuss. He had always been honest with me about everything that was going on in his life. Normally, I would anticipate his honesty. But not today. I open my purse, looking for my sunglasses, even though there's no sun outside. But I need something to hide my full of tears eyes and desperation that I fail so badly to suppress.
I clear my throat and ask in a thick voice, "What's going to happen on Friday?"
"I'm gonna spend the weekend with her. Can't wait to see her again, Emma. And I can't wait for you to meet her. I'm sure you will like her."
I jump from my seat, feeling like staying with him, even for a minute, will end up with a fight. How could you fall in love with anyone but me? I know it's stupid to throw accusations at him, but everything inside me is burning from anger and jealously. Like he has actually betrayed me.
"I forgot . . . I have a meeting with Pauline. She needs my help with something," I mumble.
"Pauline? Are you serious now?" Adam stands, trying to catch my hand. "I thought you said you canceled all the plans for tonight so we could spend some time together."
"I told you I forgot about the meeting!" I step back and he fails to catch me. Then I turn around and run to the subway, hoping I won't be run over by a car. The sunglasses and the tears blind my vision. I can hear the sound of honking behind me and curses directed at me. But I can't stop running or apologize. My legs are caring me forward. And once again I wish I could run away from my life if that was possible. I wish I could take a train and go somewhere no one knows me and start it all from the very beginning.
Adam has fallen in love . . . with a tiny, slim girl. He's missing her and can't wait to see her again. I bet he never once thought about me when in Italy. And I . . . and I . . . spent every second checking on my phone for the missed calls and messages from him.
But he was busy. Well, of course, he was! And knowing what exactly he was busy doing is tearing me apart.
Then I decide to go see Pauline after all. She lives in the sixteenth district, near the Boulogne woodland. I come to her door and see a guy walking through it with a dog. Good, I don't need to ring the doorbell. I can't but notice that the guy is pretty handsome. No doubt, my dearest friend knows that too, and maybe even has his phone number in case she wants to flirt with him in the future. Pauline lives on the sixth floor in a duplex together with her brother and their parents. I'm not thrilled with the idea of seeing her brother today. Paul and Pauline are twins. They look a lot alike. Both are beautiful, with green eyes and chestnut hair. And if my friendship with Pauline had never been a problem, my relationship with her brother varied between 'I hate you' and 'Today you're not as much of a pain'. I knock at the door and Celine, Pauline's mother, answers it. She's wearing a bathrobe and she's holding a cup of coffee in her hands; her fair hair is up in a messy bun.
"Good afternoon. Sorry for the unexpected visit. Is Pauline at home?" I say in one breath.
Of course, I should have called Pauline before going to the other side of the city to see her. But I didn't want to take my phone and see new comments on my latest video. Besides, I was sure I would see a missed call from Adam. But if Pauline wasn't at home now, I didn't know where else to go or what to do.
"Hello, darling! Yes, the couch potato is in her room, writing an essay for her history class that she didn't have time to write during her fall break." She opens the door wider and nodes. "Come in. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you and make you help her with the essay."
"Then I'll go to her room," I say, taking off my shoes.
Celine hates when someone walks in their shoes around the house.
"Okay. Would you like anything to drink? Coffee, water?
"No, thank you. Don't worry. I just need to talk to Pauline."
I force a polite smile and go up the wooden staircase, leading to the second floor. My friend jumps from her bed, readjusting her shirt and a bra.
"Emma!" she puffs and lets out a relieved sigh. "You scared the hell out of me! Don't you know how to knock?"
"Your mom said you were writing an essay for your history class. I couldn't have imagined you doing that taking nasty pictures."
"Nasty pictures? For God's sake . . ." she says angrily. "You're the only person who would call them nasty. Shut the door!"
"How else would I call them? What are doing with them anyway?"
"I'm bored and I'm flirting with someone."
"What about the essay?"
"Antoine will write it for me."
I can't help myself. "Will he also pass the graduation exams for you?"
"You're such a flea!"
I sit down on her bed. Her pale pink room is nice. I look at the posters covering one of the walls. Most of them show the guys from Nobles show that Emma is obsessed with. Timothée Chalamet's giant picture covers a good part of the ceiling.
"Whom are you flirting with?" I ask not sure how to tell her about Adam. Pauline and I have been friends for years now, but if taking to Adam is always easy and natural, sharing my secrets with her isn't so easy at all. She can be too sarcastic and she often laughs at my worries or doesn't take them seriously. Besides, she's too thoughtless and she doesn't believe in love or people loving each other until their last breaths.
"I have a new neighbor and his Labrador is such a cutie. But the guy's even more adorable, I swear."
"I think I met him at the door. Is he tall, fair-haired, and dark-eyed?"
Pauline jumps from her bed; her eyes are sparkling with excitement. "Yes! Yes! It's him! His name's Clément and he's a first-year student of the Economic department of l'Université Paris-Dauphine."
"He's really cute."
"And he has an iron torso," my friend chatters.
She's no longer mad at me. She gives me her phone, showing me her new neighbor's selfies taken in a bathroom. He has a towel wrapped around his lower body. The drops of water glisten on his skin. His chest muscles are tightened; his hair is tousled and I can clearly see admiration and narcissism in his bedroom eyes.
I can hardly hold back my chuckle and say, "I'm sure he let one slip while taking this picture, tightening his body with so much effort. It looks like he's trying to break the wind."
Pauline laughs and pushes me onto her bed.
"I love you, Emma! Is there an antidote running in your blood against guys like him? Unlike you, I love eyes candies. But don't worry, it's not like I'm in love with him. It's just a game."
"Enjoy it while you're young—that's what my grandma would say."
"And my grandma says I need a wealthy boyfriend," Pauline says with a chuckle. Then takes her phone away from me. "She thinks I need to invest into my future and use my youth for that because time flies way too fast and in ten years, I won't be as young anymore."
"It's a little weird to hear that from your granny. How old is she? Seventy, right? But I swear she looks a decade younger."
"She's eighty actually and she says she looks so good because she invested into her future when she was young."
"Do you think you could marry an old bag of money?" It was a silly question to ask. But silly talks were better than to let my thoughts about Adam consume me.
Laughing, she says, "I would sleep around with the guys like Clément and never let the remorse kill me."
I like her honesty and openness. She's not afraid to be herself. Pauline always flits with someone. She's funny and reckless. But she's not as stupid as the guys always think she is. She gets bored at times and when it happens, she finds a new toy to play with.
"Why are you here, Emma?" she asks all serious now. Her drilling stare is studying my face. "Did something happen? You didn't even call before coming here."
I stay quiet for the entire minute not sure what to say.
"Adam has fallen in love," I say in a whisper. "Like for real. He met that girl in Italy."
Pauline knows how I feel about him. She told me many times that I needed to be more persistent and take a hold of the situation. But I was too scared to change anything. I hoped one day, he would realize we could be more than just friends and take the first step . . .
"Is she cute?" Pauline asks.
"I don't know. I didn't ask him to show me her pictures. I don't even know her name. The only thing I know is that she's tiny and slim."
"It doesn't sound like she's his type," my friend says, frowning. "Normally, he would choose tall and curvy girls. Remember that American girl with fake boobs?"
"I don't think they were fake."
"For crying out loud, Emma! She was from L.A., the silicone country! Her lips and boobs were fake, I swear. Or maybe their favorite coming-of-age birthday gift is a plastic surgery certificate."
"It doesn't matter. So what she's not his type? I mean, she obviously isn't. He said that too. But you should have seen his smile and his eyes when he was telling me about her. His feelings were written all over his face!"
"It's your fault! This day would have come anyway. You didn't do anything to prevent it, preferring to go with the flow. You should have seduced him a year ago!"
I close my eyes, feeling tears run down my face.
"Hey, Emma, don't cry! I personally don't believe in long-distance relationships. They spent their fall break together and it was great. But it's time to get back to reality and everyday problems. They'll dive into the routine and forget about each other because that is how long-distance relationships end in most cases."
"Pauline, she's in Italy and not in the North pole! The planes are flying, the ships are traveling back and force. Nothing will prevent them from spending the weekends together. He's going back there this Friday!"
Pauline sits on her bed and takes my hand in hers. "So what? You still have a chance to win him because five days out of seven he's going to be with you. All you need to do is to seduce him! Flirt with him, Emma. For God's sake, the only thing you do now is complaining about everything and acting like his youngest sister. He's trying to comfort you, buying you sweets, and treating you like a child! Show him you're a woman, Emma. You can be passionate, attractive, and mysterious."
"But it will be ridiculous," I protest. "He'll most likely think I'm out of my mind or that I'm suffering a bipolar disorder."
Pauline throws a pillow at me and I feel lost for a moment.
"Then keep crying, feeling pity for yourself, or thinking you're good for nothing. Meanwhile, your Adam will keep spending time with his tiny Italian doll, who, no doubt, isn't scared of her sexuality and attractiveness."
"I don't know what to do, Pauline," I say. "I don't think seducing him is a great idea."
"Stop thinking about it and do it!"
"What shall I start with?"
"With epilation!" my friend says expertly. "What? Do you really believe bushes in your pans will help you feel like a great seducer? That is another brilliant thought that my granny once shared with me, by the way."
"Has she ever heard about body positive?"
"Seriously? She's been married four times. Trust me, she knows how to spellbind a man."
"And here I thought her long-time investment lasted forever."
"Oh, well, the investment was good no doubt. Then she divorced, keeping half of her first husband's fortune for herself, sent my dad to a private school, and started a new life as an independent woman."
"I guess she didn't like it much, since she got married three more times after that."
Pauline chuckles. "It's because she liked pompous weddings. Besides, she truly enjoyed dancing on the bones of her haters and gossipers. And her husbands were much younger than her . . . you know, wild sex makes life so much better."
I sigh and ask in a serious voice, "But isn't love just about sex?"
Pauline shrugs. "No one knows what love is. Unlike sex. It's much easier to give it a definition and list the things it helps with. As for love . . . it's more like a dream, a fantasy even. When sex is something clear and real. Do you understand? I'm more than sure that great sex is what drives most of the successful marriages."
"Too bad if you're right."
Pauline purses her lips. "It's not bad at all. Life is life! Everything starts with sex and then people see common goals and the desire to reach them together. I'm sure that is how my parents' marriage worked. And just look at my mom! She's forty-seven; she's sexy, attractive, and hot. Guess why? Because she believes in herself. You need to believe in yourself, Emma!"
"I still think love is more than that. What I feel for Adam is so much more than just a physical attraction."
"Your relationship with Adam is complicated because you don't love yourself. He gives you the support you need and he's always there for you, no matter what. At times, you forget he's a real person too, he has feelings like you do. But you use his kindness to spill your problems on him and then wait for him to comfort you. And just don't tell me it's not true, because I know better! I'm always honest with you, Emma. You're an egoist. But I can assure you, you're not alone in that. Everyone has an egotistical side. You wouldn't stop wondering why he never called you during the break. When he, in turn, thought about what he wanted and kept enjoying the company of a new girlfriend."
"I don't think it means he's an egoist. What if she affected him so much he couldn't think straight? I don't think I can do the same thing or make him fall for me, Pauline."
She squints her eyes, saying, "Stop being a naive idiot! Who the hell cares whether she affected him or not? Do you need him? Yes, you do. Then fight for him! And to win him, you need to stop being a misery, put on your big girl pants and do your best to make that nineteen-year-old guy yours. Is that clear?"
"Crystal . . ."
"That's why we're going to start with an epilation. Then we'll go shopping and buy you some nice lingerie. Trust me, Emma, that is the kind of therapy every girl needs. By the way, I need new lingerie too. I've taken pictures in everything I have in my wardrobe."
Her words are so ridiculously funny I burst out laughing. And it's not just her words about the lingerie that feel ridiculous. Our entire conversation is worth nothing but a good laugh. But with no plans for the rest of the day, I say yes to epilation and shopping.
***
The epilation was a pain. Literally. I'd rather use special creams to get rid of the unwanted hair. Besides, the hair on my body is so fair, something I don't even notice it. But today was the first time I decided to deleted hair in my bikini area . . . though I can't say it made me feel sexier, hotter, and so on. It hurt and it made me feel uneasy. All I can think about now is going home, eating something yummy, and watching Netflix. But as soon as I leave the subway, I see Adam. He's sitting on a green bench, watching me from afar. The yellow leaves dance in the wing above his head. I stop, mesmerized, not sure what to do. He stands and strides towards me.
"I called you many times," he says angrily. "What the hell made you run away? You scared me. I'd been waiting for you for two hours. Then, I thought if you didn't show up in half an hour, I would call your father." He looks pissed and tired. He rubs his temples, asking, "What happened to you, Emma?"
For a second, I feel lost. I'm dying to tell him the truth, to reveal my feelings for him and explain my sudden escape. Then, Pauline's words come to my mind, 'Stop being a misery, Emma.'
"I was with Pauline. I told you I was going to see her. Wanna see our today's selfies? We wanted to go to the epilation together and I completely forgot about our plans. I had to leave the café or I would miss our appointment." Wanna lie about something? Tell the truth. That's another wise thought my dearest friend shared with me.
Adam gives me a doubtful look. "Since when have you started doing epilation?" I can hear a scoff in his words and it makes me angry.
"Since when do you care?" I retort.
Adam shrugs indifferently. "I thought girls usually do that when they start dating someone and their relationship moves to a new level."
"Who said I'm not seeing anyone?" I spit out.
Adam looks confused. "Have you met someone during the fall break?"
Frustrated, I can't hold back my fury. Is it really so hard to believe I can have a boyfriend?
"Maybe if my best friend hadn't ignored me for two weeks, he would have known the details of my personal life," I say a little louder than usual. "But he was too busy to give a damn!"
"Is that why you're so angry at me, Ems? I knew something was off when we were in the café, but I couldn't put my finger on it." A guilty smile appears on his lips. He catches my hand and pulls me closed until my nose rubs his neck and I inhale the scent of his cologne mixed with cigarettes.
"I'm sorry, Ems. I always picked up the phone when you called, and I thought we were always in touch. I didn't know you needed me so much."
'I always need you!' I want to scream. It's been just three times that we talked to each other over the two weeks. THREE. TIMES. But now I know his thoughts were far away from me and it hurts.
"It'd been just three times that we spoke over the two weeks, Adam," I finally said, unable to hold it back. "And it's really sad that you pushed me away so easily, that you forgot about me. I'd always been number one for you, but I'm not anymore. You and I, we were like M&Ms, remember?"
I feel like a little girl, throwing toys out of the pram, and demanding immediate attention.
"I'm sorry, Ems," Adam repeats. His apology is so sincere. "It was my fault . . . but trust me, I never forgot about you. What happened in Italy, happened way too fast. So many things happened there . . ."
I break free from his embrace, feeling sick. I hate him talking about Italy and everything he and his Italian girl shared there. I don't want to hear a word about that.
"So, who is he? The guy you've met I mean." Adam's trying to change the subject.
"No one," I respond, exhausted.
"Then why did you need an epilation?" he asks, smiling.
I feel a lump form in my throat. I want to cry so bad, it hurts to hold back to my tears.
It was for you, Adam. And for me to feel all grow-up and attractive. Silly me . . .
God, how could I be so silly?
"You're right, it was all for nothing," I mumble. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you or make you wait for me, but I think it's best if you go home now. I feel like every inch of me hurts and I can't wait for this day to be over."
Suddenly, Adam hugs me again and kisses my forehead. "Don't be mad at me, Ems. You are and will always be my closest friend in the world."
I want to believe that. I want him to stay and insist on spending the night together.
But he says goodbye and leaves. "See you tomorrow!"
I go back home. The apartment is empty. Dad isn't there, he never is. The fridge is full of food from our restaurant, but since my parents divorced, I rarely touch it.  A childhood memory floods my mind. Dad brings food and sweets from work; I start jumping around him, waiting for something yummy. My frustrated to the bone mom begins to shout at him, "Why do you keep fattening her? Can't you see she's gained weight?"
Dad closes his eyes tiredly and sights. I don't know what he says in response, because I walk away and hide in my room. Their fight is never to enjoy. Mom keeps shouting, but I can hardly hear what my father says to her. He's always the quietest, she on the contrary.
That day was the first time that she left the house. I remembered my father knocked on my door, saying the dinner was ready. I came to the kitchen and saw Mom's empty chair, food on the table, and my father's fallen face. That night I eat simply not to sadden him even more. Since then, I can't stand the view of the containers from our restaurant. Mom returned the next day, but not for long. Very soon, they got a divorce. The worst part was that I knew I was the cornerstone of the story.
I shut the fridge loudly and, grabbing a half-empty can of Nutella, walk to my room. Tomorrow, I'll get back to my diet. But today, I say hello to Netflix and my favorite spoon. My eyes are full of tears. Adam has fallen in love. Not with me, of course . . . not with me . . .