ETHAN
Sunday Brunch, September 24
"Why aren't you gloating?"
Emma sips her mimosa. "Why would I gloat?"
"Because you know full well that you saved my ass."
She shrugs. "That's what you're paying me for. I don't need to gloat. I already know I'm good at what I do."
"Yes, you are. I . . . underestimated you. I apologize."
She gives me a startled look, then studies me, as though looking for sarcasm. She can look all she wants; there is none. I can give credit when it's due, and it's definitely due here.
We've been seated at our table for nearly half an hour, and every moment that passes, my tension eases a little bit more. While I'm not out of the woods as far as my reputation goes, I'm confident I made a solid step forward in the damage-control department, thanks to her.
"Are they watching us?" I ask.
"Can't tell," Emma says. "But just in case . . ." She scoops up a forkful of eggs and holds it across the table for me, an adoring smile on her face.
I roll my eyes, something I can get away with, since my back is to the Wolfes and Feinstein.
Still, I dutifully eat the eggs off her fork, because apparently, that's what people in love do? I wouldn't know.
"You think he bought it?" I ask.
"Who, Adam?" she asks before taking another sip of her mimosa.
I shake my head at her casual use of his first name. "Yeah, Adam. How is it you've never mentioned you're on a first-name, best-friend level with Adam Feinstein? And his wife? And his daughter?"
"This is why you're paying me the big bucks," she says with a smile. "And they're a sweet family. They invited me to a Hanukkah party last year."
"You celebrate holidays with them? You're not even Jewish."
She shrugs. "So? They know that. Just like they know the holidays can be lonely."
I look up at that, a little startled by the admission. For some reason, it never occurred to me that someone as sassy and confident as Emma Chamberlain would ever be lonely, but . . .
Of course she would be. How could she not be? My family drives me up the fucking wall, but it's still a warm place to go during the holidays, where they're happy to see me.
I don't know the details of Emma's family situation beyond the fact that she has none. Or at least none she keeps in contact with.
My throat tightens with guilt at never having thought to include her in any holiday festivities. Not that she'd have taken me up on the offer, but thinking of her spending them all alone . . .
"Quit looking at me like that," she says, nibbling on a piece of bacon.
"Like what?"
"Like you feel sorry for me. I assure you, I'm just fine with my holiday routine."
I want to ask more about it. If she celebrates alone. Or with Michael. Or . . .
"Your bunnies just left," she says, derailing my thoughts.
"My bunnies?"
"The bar bunnies: Kara and Robin."
I wince. "Right. In my defense—"
She holds up her hands. "Don't. You don't owe me explanations, remember? And I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable defense for how you can't be bothered to remember the names of women you—"
I reach across the table and stuff some of my Benedict into her yapping mouth.
"Sorry," I say as she chews, glaring all the while.
"Thought I saw Feinstein coming this way. Wanted him to know how besotted I was by sharing my food."
She swallows and opens her mouth.
"And,"I say before she can speak, "I knew their names at the time. It's just . . . been a while. I mean, what are the chances that two women I haven't slept with in years not only know each other but also show up today, in the same restaurant?"
"It's a popular brunch spot," she says, lifting her shoulders. "I know half the people here."
"Yeah, I figured that out. We can't seem to go five minutes without someone stopping by to schmooze with you."
"Which is working in your favor." She points her mimosa at me. "The more people who see us together, the better."
"I know."
She leans forward. "Why do you look so tense? It's just brunch. Don't you like brunch?"
"Not really."
"Everyone likes brunch."
"No, not everyone likes brunch. I hate all the fanfare. Why can't we just get a pile of eggs and be done with it?"
She lifts her eyebrows. "A pile of eggs?"
"You know what I mean." I push my plate aside.
"Brunch is always such a fucking production."
"You're getting pretty pissed about a meal, Dolan. You're still on edge?"
"Yeah, I guess," I admit. I thought my tension was gone, but perhaps it's only eased. I still feel . . . off.
"My plan of showing up where I suspected The Sams would be came dangerously close to backfiring."
"Yes, well, that's why we should follow my plans. But regardless, I think I dug you out of that pile of crap quite nicely. Though, to be honest, I don't see Adam giving you his business. He's very old-fashioned."
"That's fine," I say, taking a sip of mimosa. "I don't want him as a client."
"No?"
I shake my head. "The Sams have been after him for weeks, but if they get him, Kennedy's got dibs. It's a good fit. The two of them can discuss chess strategy or whatever."
Truth be told, I love chess. And I'm damn good at it. But I don't get off on the dignity of the game or whatever, like Kennedy does.
"Yeah, that makes sense," she says thoughtfully. "If nothing else, Kennedy would probably go crazy for the Feinsteins' first-edition Dickens collection."
Snore.
"Also, he just left."
"Who?"
"Adam."
"Thank God," I say, exhaling. "I feel like I've been on display. The Sams didn't leave with him?"
She shakes her head, glancing over my shoulder toward their table. "No, it's just the two of them."
"Probably trying to figure out which one has to fire me."
"I don't think so," Emma murmurs, still watching the older couple. "They seem sort of . . . romantic. She's feeding him a bite of something chocolate, and he just wiped a bit of powdered sugar from her lip."
"Blech."
"I think it's sort of sweet."
I give her a sharp look, surprised to see a wistful expression on her face. "Wait." I lean forward. "I thought you didn't believe in the whole romance thing."
She shrugs. "I don't, not really. Not in the sense that I think there's one person who completes each of us or that romantic love is reliable."
"Right," I say with a nod. "Marriage is crap."
"No, I don't think so," she says.
"Right, and—Wait. What?"
"I don't think marriage is crap," she repeats.
"You just said—"
"I said I think fairy-tale versions of marriage are crap," she clarifies. "But with the right mind-set, I think marriage can be . . . nice. In its way."
"You want to get married?" I say, jarred to my core.
"I don't know. Maybe. Someday. Yeah, I think so," she says, seeming to warm to the idea. "With someone who was on the same page as me about it."
"What page is that?"
She bites her lip and thinks it over. "Well, I don't want a big white wedding, with the whole to love and to cherish bit. But I don't necessarily want to spend the rest of my life alone, either. It'd be nice to have someone to share my life with. A companion."
"You have Juno."
The soft expression on Emma's face fades at my glib tone. "Never mind."
"Sorry," I say, meaning it. "That was a dick thing to say. I'm just surprised. I thought . . ."
"Thought you and I were both cynics?" she says with a small smile. "We are. I'm just saying, in theory, I could see the appeal of having a partner. Someone to come home to, someone to talk to about my day. Someone to have dinner with."
"Someone to go to brunch with," I supply.
"Right. Exactly."
Our gazes lock and hold, and something strange passes between us.
"But you don't like brunch," she says on a rush.
"Right. No. Definitely not."
"Good," she says.
"Great."
We resume our meal in silence, and though she turns the conversation back to my "reputation rehab" and her suggested plan for the upcoming week, I have a hard time keeping my attention on the topic at hand.
All I can think about is Emma and her idea of marriage as a partnership of sorts. And how if and when she finds that partner, it'll mean the end of meals like this one.
The end of us. Whatever we are.