EMMA
Monday Dinner, September 25
I blink in surprise. "Are you wearing an apron?"
Olivia points a wooden spoon at me in warning.
"Definitely. Wouldn't you if you were attempting to make dinner wearing a white shirt?"
"Well, see, that's the difference between us," I say, stepping into her apartment and shutting the door.
"I wouldn't be making dinner."
"Yeah, I'm not so good at it myself, but I'm trying. Ooh, but you made dessert!" Olivia says, looking down at the apple tart in my hand.
"Nope. Bought it. It's better this way, trust me." I say.
"Are you one of those women who keeps shoes in her oven?" Olivia asks as I follow her into the kitchen.
"Not anymore. But when I first moved to the city and was living in a four-hundred-square-foot shoebox while trying to get my business off the ground? Damn straight."
"Now that's something I'd kill to see," Olivia says, giving the sautéing mushrooms a quick shove with her spoon. "Baby Emma."
"I was nineteen."
Olivia shoots me a smile over her shoulder. "Like I said. Baby."
I smile back, though I don't know that I agree. I suppose for some people, nineteen is just another shade of youth. For people like Olivia, even Michael, whose paths had involved a four-year university, theirs had held youthful experiences like dorm rooms, study groups, frat parties.
At nineteen, I'd already been putting food on my own table for a decade. I'd learned way more than I should have about the masochistic nature of men, and I sure as hell knew that the only person you could count on—really count on—was yourself.
Even Michael, who'd been my friend and protector since we were kids, had left. I didn't resent him for following his dreams to Yale. I'd been his biggest cheerleader. But my happiness for him didn't take away the fact that I'd really, truly been on my own, all before my twentieth birthday.
Don't feel sorry for me. I don't feel sorry for me. The tough knocks early on gave me my independence, and I'm grateful. Really.
"Can I help?" I ask Olivia as she shoves back a strand of hair that's come loose from her pony and peers at an open recipe book.
Olivia's one of those women who looks as gorgeous polished and badass in her power suits as she does in jeans and a T-shirt.
She looks up and pushes her black-rim glasses higher on her nose. "Pour us some wine?"
"On it." I go to the fridge. "Ooh, champagne. Nice champagne. What are we celebrating?"
Olivia gives me an enigmatic smile. "You'll find out when Amanda gets here."
I give her a curious look. "Within the past year, you landed your dream job and your dream man. What else could possibly—" My eyes go wide. "Are you pregnant?"
"What?" she squeaks. "No! Would I have bought champagne if I were pregnant? God. Don't do that. Pour me a glass of the Sauvignon Blanc as punishment for giving me a heart attack."
I pour us each a glass of wine and continue to study her. "What, then?"
"Nope." She sips the wine. "I told you, we have to wait for Amanda."
I sigh. "I hate waiting." Still, I settle onto a barstool with my wine as Olivia begins chopping an onion.
I've been to this apartment dozens of times over the years, settled on this very barstool, but always as Michael's place.
Now it's Michael and Olivia's, and it's perfect.
I turn in my chair, scanning the room, smiling a little as I see that it's both the same as I've always remembered and yet . . . happier. The furniture's still classic dude, all black leather and practical coffee table.
But there are bits of Olivia here and there. A fuzzy blanket on the back of the couch I've never seen before. Cheerful yellow flowers on the bar cart. Black stilettos kicked into the corner.
"Soooooo, how was brunch yesterday?" Olivia asks me, setting her knife aside and taking another sip of wine.
I spread my arms to the side. "I'm alive, so . . . better than expected."
"Yes, but is Ethan?" Olivia asks.
"He's fine. I went easy on him."
Olivia's head tilts. "You're handling this whole thing better than I thought."
"I know, right?"
She gives me a look. "You think it means something?"
"Do I think what means something?"
"Don't play dumb," she says bluntly. "Is there something there?"
"It's not like we're holding hands and having a sing-along in the streets. We're merely tolerating each other."
"Oh, come on." She sulks. "Give me something."
I eye her suspiciously. "Are you going to take whatever I say right back to Michael?"
"Not if you don't want me to," Olivia says.
I look away so she doesn't see how much the simple statement means. I always knew the time would come when I'd lose my best friend to the love of his life. Well, not lose him . . . but you know how it is. It's always hard on friendships when both people are single and then one of them enters into a serious relationship. Schedules change, patterns shift. It's even trickier when it's best friends of the opposite sex.
And though technically things aren't exactly as they were—he tells Olivia things before he tells me—I've gained more than I've lost. Instead of losing a friend (Michael), I gained a new one (Olivia). And it's not just a token "play nice" sort of friendliness when the three of us are in the same room.
Case in point? Tonight's a girls-only night. Michael's been banished to who knows where . . . probably to Ethan's or Kennedy's. It's just Olivia, Amanda, and me.
And yup, that would be Amanda, Michael, Ethan, and Kennedy's assistant. Also known as one of my favorite people on the planet.
The doorbell rings, and Olivia holds up a finger.
"Don't think you're off the hook. You're not leaving tonight without giving us a full rundown on you and Ethan."
She goes to the door and opens it for Amanda , who's got a baguette balanced across the serving dish in her hands. "Ugh, so sorry. Of course it's the girl on appetizer duty who's late. Are you guys starving?"
I lift my glass. "Grapes."
"Perfect. I'll take a fruit serving as well," Amanda says, marching into Olivia and Michael's kitchen like she owns it. "You need the oven for a few?" she asks Olivia.
"Nope."
Amanda punches some buttons and sets the foil-covered baking dish inside the oven. "The artichoke dip needs fifteen minutes or so to heat. Sorry again about being late. I thought I had all the ingredients, but then I was out of salt of all things, so I had to make a last-minute store run—"
"Stop apologizing," I say, pouring a glass of wine for Amanda and setting it beside the cutting board she's pulled out to begin slicing bread. "Do you know what Olivia's news is? She wouldn't tell me until you got here."
Amanda practically drops the bread knife she's just picked up. "News? What news?"
I laugh at the surprised irritation on her face.
"Whaaaaat? Is it possible there is crucial information that Amanda wasn't the first to know?" I say in a surprised tone.
As assistant to not one but three top Wolfe guys, Amanda's one of those people who's always one step ahead of everyone.
Everyone except Olivia, apparently.
"It's my job to know stuff," Amanda says primly. "And you're no slouch in the reconnaissance department, either."
I clink my glass to hers. "Too true. Because knowing stuff is also my job."
Not in the same way, of course. The type of information Amanda gathers is information she'll need to keep Kennedy, Ethan, and Michael out of trouble and doing their job.
The information I deal in is the kind you lock in safety deposit boxes while making a half dozen thumb-drive backups.
"What are we having?" Amanda asks.
"Sautéed chicken breast with some sort of mushroom sauce," Olivia says, waving at a cookbook. "My mother swears it's foolproof, and since she's not exactly Martha Stewart, I trust her."
"Lucky," Amanda says, shoving a piece of bread in her mouth. "My mom makes Julia Child look like a slacker. Homemade everything. I thought she was going to disown me when she learned I didn't make my own chicken stock."
Olivia glances at me over the top of her wineglass and opens her mouth, then shuts it again and looks away.
I swallow, because I know she was about to include me in the mom conversation but thought better of it. I'm not sure what Michael's told her about my history, but none of it would be good. And though my first instinct is to stay silent, to keep that shit locked in the vault, I find a rare urge to share.
To let someone in just a tiny bit.
I take a sip of my wine for courage. "My mom once handed me a ten-dollar bill and told me it was food money for my two half brothers and me. I thought she meant while she went out that night. She came back four days later."
Amanda and Olivia both stare at me for a moment, then Amanda shakes her head. "Damn. You win."
I let out a relieved laugh that I don't have to deflect any pity, just good old-fashioned that-sucks sentiment. Because it had sucked. "I totally win."
"Did she ever get her act together?" Olivia asks, leaning on the counter as Amanda checks her dip in the oven.
I shrug as a way of evading. "I left when I was nineteen, as soon as my half brothers were under custody of relatives on their father's side. The few times that we talk on the phone, she invariably hangs up on me."
Olivia's blue eyes flash in anger. "Her loss."
I look down at my wine, then back at Amanda. "Is it hot yet?"
"Nearly," Amanda says, shoving the rack back in the oven. "How about we go to the living room and hear Olivia's news?"
I know what she's doing, and I give her a grateful look. It was hard enough to even mention my mom. I definitely don't want to get into a big old thing about it.
Amanda gives a quick nod in acknowledgment, her dark-brown eyes conveying understanding.
"Emma, can you grab some champagne flutes?" Olivia says, gesturing toward a cabinet. "I know we still have some white, but we'll just have to double-fist for a while."
"Don't have to twist my arm," Amanda says, going into the living room and flopping onto the couch. "Man, I love this view."
"Isn't it about the same as your view from the office?" Olivia asks, pulling the champagne from the fridge and joining Amanda in the living room.
Amanda snorts. "Yeah. Because my seven a.m. to seven p.m. nonstop schedule really allows for admiring the office view."
"Well, you're welcome here anytime," Olivia says.
"You hear that, Emma?" Amanda says with a playful grin at me as I walk toward them. "We can come watch Olivia and Michael be disgustingly in love anytime!"
"Hey!" Olivia exclaims.
"Oh, come on, honey," I say gently, setting the glasses on the table in front of us. "It is a little like every day is Valentine's Day around here."
"I know," Olivia says with a happy sigh. "Maybe after the wedding it'll stop feeling like a fairy tale."
"I doubt it," Amanda says. "I've seen the way Michael looks at you. I've never seen anything quite like it."
Hmm. Was that the tiniest trace of longing I heard in Amanda's voice?
Or worse . . . was it my own heart giving a quick squeeze at the thought of having someone care about me—for me—the way that Michael loves Olivia?
"Okay, so what's your news? I want that champagne already!" I say, beyond ready to be done with the sentimental part of our girls' night.
"Well, we can't open it yet," Olivia says, taking a breath. "See, I hope my news is good, but I won't really know until I hear your responses."
"Get to it already," Amanda demands.
Olivia balances the Dom Pérignon bottle on her knees, rolling it slightly between her palms, and I realize she's nervous.
"Okay, so you guys know Sixtine," she says on a rush.
"Sixtine. Your sister, former roomie. Model. Lives in Paris with her boyfriend," Amanda recites automatically.
"Yes, thank you," Olivia says in an amused voice.
"Anyway, Sixtine's agreed to be my maid of honor, and I'm thrilled. But I'm also a little bummed, because other than the bachelorette party, my bridal shower, and the actual wedding, I know it'll be hard for her to make it back here for stuff. I know I haven't known you two long, but . . ." Olivia takes a deep breath. "You're some of Michael's closest friends, you've become my closest friends in the city, and I'd love it, really love it, if you'd be bridesmaids."
There's a long moment of silence as Amanda and I sit there slightly stunned.
Amanda recovers faster than I do. "Hell yes," she says, her face breaking out into a huge grin. "I'd be honored. I'll even wear an ugly bridesmaid dress, because that's what friends do. Now open that champagne and let's talk venue, because I've got a whole list of reception locations. Have you considered a boat? Because a chartered yacht could really—"
"Whoa, hold up," Olivia says with a laugh. "We've barely decided on the date!"
I notice she doesn't look at me, and I appreciate it. Somehow, she knows that I need a minute, because . . .
Damn it. Damn it.
It takes me a second to even register what's happening, because I'm so not a crier, but . . . yup. There are definitely tears stinging the corners of my eyes.
"Yes," I blurt out. "Absolutely."
Olivia's expression erupts into a happy smile, but Amanda's look is downright puzzled. "Emma, are you—"
"Shut up," I say with a laugh, dabbing at my eyes.
"And Olivia, you're lucky you've become one of my closest friends, too, otherwise I'd never forgive you for ruining my makeup."
Olivia's response is the pop of the champagne cork. "Now we can enjoy this."
"So where do we start with the planning?" I say, accepting the flute she hands me.
"Oh, who cares about that right now?" Olivia says, lifting her glass in a toast. "I'm the bride-to-be; I get to decide what we talk about. And right now, I want to toast to the possibility that Ethan and Emma are finally on the verge of coming to grips with their thing."
My head snaps up in surprise. Whoa, hey. How the heck did this become about me?
"I'll drink to that. The sexual tension between those two has been suffocating me for years," Amanda says, lifting her glass. "Emma? Ready to spill your guts?"
"No," I grumble. But then I stand and lift my glass to theirs anyway.
I don't believe in love—but I do believe in friendship.
And these girls right here are as good as it gets.