Page 76 of Things I Overshared
Me: Gala, here I come!
Me: [Photo]
Susan: WOWZA
Sally: Yas sister werk it
Skye: The girls look fantastic.
Sadie: A weaponized hourglass figure! Watch out, men!
Skye: Thomas Gage won’t be able to form complete sentences.
[Star eyes emoji]
Susan: Sadie, your turn!
Sadie: [Photo]
HAWT!
Sadie: Sam, quit texting and get down here. We’re all in the lobby.
On my way!
I give myself another once-over. Skye’s right—my chest is poppin’. I wonder if Emerson is a boob man, then grunt at myself. Who cares about him! Did I go get a new dress a couple nights ago? Yes. Did I pick the plunging, cool-blue mermaid-style gown with him in mind? Yes, I did. But he’s put me firmly in the friend category—or maybe even the coworkers-only category—so I have got to stop thinking about him.Yeah, right, suuuuuuure.
Well, okay, I may be thinking about him, but he doesn’t need to know it. Tonight, I will not look at him or talk to him. Probably.Gah, such a weakling.
The elevator doors open, and I swish out into the lobby. The breeze feels good against my neck since my mass of blond hair is tucked back in a tight, low bun. I see our group by the couch, and a stab of regret hits me when I think back to last night. But a whole long, work-filled, Emerson-free (and mostly Thomas-free) day has gone by since that incident. I see Emerson out of the corner of my eye, off to the side of the group looking at his phone. I command my eyes to avoid his area, and they obey.
That plan works for the rest of the evening. I float around the room, exactly like I did all day today and yesterday, just with a little more poise and a few new names and faces. From time to time, I think I feel Emerson’s eyes on me, but I don’t follow the heat I feel to confirm. If he wants to stare, so be it. I’m too busy having fun anyway.
After the mingling and the eating, where I had to look at Emerson once or twice in group conversation, only so as to not be obvious with my avoidance, the dancing starts.
I don’t hold back on the dance floor, because why would I? There’s a live band and a million fun British men here. My dance partners are mostly old men and married men who’ve become friends, like Tim, Paul, and Bernie. And yes, I dance a couple dances with Thomas. I am friendly and fun, but I don’t lean into him or make a show of it.
As much as I want to make Emerson jealous, I feel icky about possibly leading Thomas on. After our second dance, I make my way to the bar for a water.
“Okay, what the hell is going on with you and Emerson?” my sister whisper-yells as she appears at my side out of thin air.
“W-What?” I say, shocked.
“He hasn’t stopped looking at you all night. Just now when you danced with Thomas, I thought the vein in his forehead was going to explode Tarantino style, splattering on all of us at the table.”
“Really?” My heart jumps up into my throat, making the word come out all garbled.
“Yes, really. What’s going on?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“How many times do I have to tell you idiots—and by that, I mean my beautiful, stupid sisters—not to lie to me? I can see it all over his face, and you’ve avoided him all night. What. Is. Going. On?”
I sigh, slumping under the weight of my reality. She’s going to get the truth out of me.
“What’s going on is he’s freaking amazing and wonderful and perfect, and I’m . . .” I shrug and gesture at myself.
“You’re what?”
