Cheeky

№ 24. I'll Hurt Him

"That's it, that's the one. Your mom has to let us wear it."

I nodded, "Hopefully," as we both looked on at the sweetheart neckline that plunged just enough, leading to a cascade of light, long pale grey fabric and a cinched waistline of small crystals.

Emma rested her chin on my shoulder as we looked on in the mirror at each other, and she exhaled deeply.

"Cassidy, what are you not telling me?"

I swallowed, maintaining some sort of composure as she eyed me carefully.

"It's becoming more than just a casual thing. I think - well I know  that he's more serious about us than I am."

"So you guys are an "Us" already. Hm."

My forehead creased in frustration as I realized what Emma was getting at. She was my mirror, a reflection staring back at me that I couldn't deny.

She wrapped an arm across my back and squeezed me tightly to her side, "I know that the past has been scary. But from what I see, from the way you look when you talk about him, he seems like a great guy."

"He's more than great," I breathed.

Emma smiled, "Then don't let everything else hold you back."

"I'm going back to LA after my semester ends. We're having a good time, that's all."

Emma steps down from the stool, leaving me to fight with my inner self, but she turns in her stall to face me.

"You're right. Besides there's nothing better than looking back thirty years from now with a healthy dose of regret."

I roll my eyes at her sarcasm and wait for her to close the door. As she does I step down as well, peeling off the dress to begin putting on my jeans. But all the while, I think of just how painful it would be when I'm in my fifties, no longer youthful and probably not as skinny, wondering about 'What If.'  What if I missed out on the one relationship, the one boy I dreamed of. But we've only known each other for a whopping three months, so, it's nothing serious. I hope.

Emma and I left the bridal shop and caught a bus back to my apartment. Mom had put Emma up in a nice hotel room, with Dad's money, and soon the rest of the guests would join us next month and stay there as well. She wanted to see though what kind of "British,  hipster" life I'd been living the past few months, so I took her into the building and led her through the lobby.

We're about to get in the lift when I realize I haven't checked my mail in a week, and I rip off one of my keys and hand it over to Emma.

"Could you go to my mailbox, 201, and check for me?"

Emma swipes the key with a huff, but spotting a strapping young fellow there as well, she eagerly turns down the hall of the lobby and towards the rows of small, steel mailboxes. I tell her I'll meet her upstairs and punch the number correlating to my level. Arriving on my floor, I turn the corner and towards the apartment, about to unlock the door when I hear heated voices in the midst of an argument. They sound like Chelsea...and George.

For some odd, wacky reason, my brain instructs me to remain incognito,  and I try, in the best, clumsy way possible. So, stealthily, with great care, I slip my key in quietly and turn the lock ever so gently, slowly pushing open the door. Just enough to lean in and be within earshot of the whole conversation. One that again, I innately know that I shouldn't be eavesdropping on. But I do anyways, I can't help myself.

"You're such an idiot, George!"

A slam of something heavy hits the wall with a thud and I cringe. No broken glass; that's hopeful.