Is it possible to feel a color? Something tangible and solid, turned into an emotion? Bulls see red, and they charge with blind fury; others say that green is the color of envy. But is it possible to feel every color imaginable, all at once. To feel golden and warm, like a setting sun over a wide ocean. To feel navy blue, like the sky as a curtain when night falls and it tucks the whole world to sleep. Or to feel pink, like fresh roses just as they bloom.
I felt everything, everything when Emma asked me how George made me feel. I went through the motions of trying to dance around the subject, but in the end my emotions got the better of me. I gave up on my head and decided that logic wouldn't serve as the best guide in this situation.
"Well, Cassidy?"
Emma looked up at me from the floor where she munched on strawberries in a pile of poofy fabric, nearly swallowing her delicate frame whole. I stood on a stool, examining my reflection in the three paneled mirror. It was a strapless dress, made of lavender chiffon with a massive bow stitched onto my midsection for gaudy taste. Mom had made arrangements with the bridal store in London to provide a closet full of possible bridesmaids' dresses for the wedding, for once giving me the option to choose if I liked any of them. But of course, she had last say as to what Emma and I would wear for her special day. The one I was wearing now wasn't nearly as revolting as the last five, so my spirits began to pick up. I turned back to Emma, twirling for her.
"What do you think of this one?"
Emma shoved away the plate of strawberries and attempted to get up, but from the mound of layers suffocating her, she reached out desperately for my aid. I grasped onto her thin arms and hauled her up beside me, where she stood to get a good look.
"I like this one. Now if we could just burn the bow, it's be fantastic."
I picked at the sides, trying to smooth out the buttery fabric over my not-so slender frame. Hey, I had hips, sue me. That's what Spanx were made for anyways.
I glanced over at her dress, shooting her an amused frown, "Now that one is just plain ugly."
Emma shrugged, lifting up the skirts of the dress to try and see if she could at least get a view of her feet, "Eh, it's not all bad."
"You look like you can get buried alive in that thing," I tugged at her shoulder strap.
She shooed away my hand and returned to the other side of the dressing room to grab another possible candidate, "You still didn't answer my question."
I pretended not to hear her as I began to unzip my dress and shimmy out of it.
"Don't ignore me."
I groaned, heaving the dress on a growing pile of rejections as I picked another, "Why does it matter?"
Emma popped her head out from one of the changing stalls,
"Because you're my best friend, and I want to kick any guy in the balls that might remotely hurt you."
I smiled at her statement, slipping on a garment that felt amazing to the touch, and surprisingly enough, I actually really liked.
"Well, you don't have to worry about that," I called back to her when I managed to get the zipper to stop jamming.
Emma shuffled out of her stall in a teal atrocity and I burst out laughing as she shook her head in shame, "I'm really beginning to doubt your mother's taste."
"Told you so," I giggled.
Her eyes grew wide though when she caught sight of the dress I was in, and she gestured with her hand for me to spin. I did so, slowly to let her analyze every angle, and she grinned in approval.
"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.
"Look, I came just to talk. I know something has been up these past few weeks, so tell me."
George's voice enters the room now, quite calmer in comparison with Chelsea's hysteria. I gulp, wondering why it's suddenly ten degrees hotter.
"Wow, took you that long to notice."
"I'm not a bloody mind reader Chels."
"Yeah, you're not a lot of things. Smart isn't one of them either," she scoffed.
There was shuffling and movement, sounding as though they sat.
"Tell me what's wrong," George pled.
A pause. Then Chelsea says, "It's her."
"Cassidy?"
I stop breathing at the mention of my name.
"Yes, her. "
"Chelsea, what are you getting at?"
"You're too damn stupid to see what's right in front of you! Right under your nose!"
With no reply from George, she continues. My leg begins to cramp as I keep it against the door, cracked ajar the slightest bit to allow my ear to make its way inside.
"She doesn't know you, you dont know anything about her. And she will hurt you."
"I do know her. I know enough."
"Enough to know what? That she's mental and probably a psychopath! She comes in here, goes off God knows where, and suddenly you two are snogging uncontrollably. Pathetic!"
"Chelsea, I don't need your permission or approval. I care about her."
"I've known you since we were seven," she managed to say, betrayal clearly lacing her tone.
A sound of feet touching the floor leads me to presume she's risen, and I cautiously lean away from the door frame; they're loud enough to hear.
"Don't come running to me when things don't work. I'm not going to be your rag anymore," she's back to screaming.
"Chelsea!"
"No, I mean it. I am done. Done trying to be there constantly, trying to make you realize what's been here all along."
"What are you talking about?"
I feel my cheeks flush as suddenly I catch on, a lot quicker than George has.
"Jesus! George," her voice cracks and I feel my heart plummet.
"Just, tell me - what do you see in her?"
Another fervent pause fills the air, and the silence has me gnawing on my lip.
"I just, I - I know. Alright? I just know that she wouldn't do that."
"How?"
"Because I do."
"That's not an answer!" Chelsea cries.
"Stop forcing me!"
"I deserve an answer George!"
With another slam of feet against the feeble floors, George answers swiftly.
"Because I love her!"
With an abrupt, shark intake of breath, I'm frozen in place. My mind stops, my nerves grow numb and I stand, shaken to the core as nothing but heavy silence surrounds me.
"Y-you what?"
Her voice is weighted with disappointment.
"I love her," George whispers.
"You bloody fool," Chelsea sneers.
The sound of her storming towards the apartment door is enough to pull me out of my spell, and I jump back from it just in time. She takes swift strides out the door, but halts, surprised to see me standing a few feet away. She's an absolute mess, eyes ringed with fallen mascara and raw, tear stained cheeks. But one, icy glare from her is all I need to lower my gaze with the linoleum tile as she sets off down the hall. Emma rounds the corner at that precise moment with envelopes clutched to her chest, and springs out of the way to avoid the charging Chelsea.
I feel nothing but guilt and terror, and sliding against the cool, beige wall behind myself, I'm drained of any happiness I had felt earlier. Emma rushes to me, tucking an arm around my waist as I rest against her.
"Cassidy-"
At that moment, George comes walking slowly out the door, a grim expression written over his handsome, dark features. I try to erase my same discontent, and plaster on a fake smile.
"Oh, George, I didn't know you came over-"
"I'll catch up with you later Cass," he tries his best to return the smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
He walks down the hall, following the same way out as Chelsea, and as I watch him go, my same paralyzing shock seeps back in as I let Emma and myself inside. She takes me to the couch, watching me sit quietly, never once letting me leave her sight.
"Cassidy. What just happened? I was only gone a minute, some cute neighbor of yours and I got to talking. Now I'm here, and you're practically catatonic."
But I can't speak; it's as though this gigantic lump filled with all these words - words of what I wanted but couldn't say, block up my throat. I'm beginning to drown, from fear, from sheer panic. And it's consuming me until I manage to turn to Emma, and grasp her hand.
"He's in love with me."
Emma's eyes look as though they're about to bug out of her head, and I stare straight ahead, letting the weight of my words wash over me.
"Isn't that...good?" She mumbles.
But I shake my head, deliberately and sadly.
"I gave up on that a long time ago. And because of that, I know I'll hurt him."