Page 49 of It Couldn't Be You
“Let’s let those die.” I covered my face as visceral memories of Gabriel and I passing poems back and forth so dramatically, so seriously came back to me.
“Oh, speaking of the one. I have a boy I want to set you up with,” my dad patted the table excitedly.
“Dad! I just broke up with Jordan.”
“He’s a great guy, and you don’t want to miss your chance!” Dad urged.
“Who is this guy?” Mom asked from the kitchen sink, dishes clattering.
“He’s the son of one of my patients. He’s moving home. I think he’s a great kid.”
“Kid?” I asked.
“He’s a little younger by a few years, but a great catch. He’s a teacher,” Dad bragged on this guy.
“Dad, I’m not interested in dating anyone new right now.”
“Are you interested in dating someone old?” Mom asked over the sink water. I felt my face flush, instantly thinking of Gabriel.
“You guys,” I said, half laughing, half serious. “I am taking a romance hiatus.”
Mom turned off the water. “Isn’t that a line in one of those romantic comedies? Saying that usually means you’re about to fall in love.”
“And Valentine’s Day is around the corner, Emma,” Dad wiggled his eyebrows.
“Valentine’s Day hiatus,” I said seriously.
“What about from dear old dad?” Dad said with puppy dog eyes. “What if I want to pick you up some flowers?”
“Dad, you’re always an exception.” I walked over to his seat and gave him a hug. He patted my arms.
“I’ll let my patient down easy about the blind date we were planning,” my dad said wistfully. I buried my head in his shoulder, muffling my laughter.
Seventeen
One morning in early February, I was on my lunch break while scrolling through pictures Katie had posted online of her new little nephew. They were at the high school football field for some reason. I was squinting at the caption to see if she explained the location. It got me thinking about the article I wrote on small-town Texas football.
That particular piece was a point of pride for me. It had generated a lot of positive feedback. The founder of one of my favorite online travel magazines had even reached out to me. It was back when his magazine was just starting out. He praised the article and said they were looking for freelance writers if I was interested.
I stopped scrolling and thought about that. Terrence Pell withHere & ThereMagazine had reached out tome. It felt too good to be true, even at the time.
I had been followingHere & Theresince they published their very first pieces. They offered what were essentially intimate or thought-provoking takes on various places around the world. It wasn’t merely a rundown of the best places to see and the fun things to do, but it often felt like you were traveling with a friend who really wanted to get to know the heart of a place.
I would read the articles and wish I had written them. Why hadn’t I replied to him? Why hadn’t I thrown myself into that opportunity?I was scared. Scared Emma of the past couple of years at the wheel again.
“Can you believe he reached out to me?” I remember telling Katie about this miraculous email over a year ago as we walked around downtown.
“Of course, I can believe it, Emma. I can easily believe it because it was a beautiful article, and you’re a beautiful writer,” she’d replied, stopping to look in a store window. “Have you replied to him yet?”
“No, no. I don’t think I’m going to reply to him, at least not about the offer to freelance. I am not his kind of writer. And I’m busy anyway.” I had shut it down, peering in the window beside her.
“Come on. You should at least think about it. It’s right up your alley and could lead to something, you know.” She turned to look at me.
People walked by us, having their own conversations, their own feelings, their own fears and hopes, just brushing by ours for a second.
“Katie, that’s not my alley anymore,” I remember saying defensively. I tried to start walking on.
She touched my arm gently, stopping me from going, and said, “Will you just think about it?”
