Page 32 of That Friendzone Feeling
Connorasked if my brain had fallen out of my head, sunk to the bottom of a beer barrel, and got “fucking pickled.”
Possiblyit had.ButI’dpanicked, my only priority in the moment to stopChasedrooling overEmily.
Well, yeah, that was a resounding success.
IfonlyI’dgone with herIwouldn’t have spent the last hour twitching around the loft trying to stop myself from texting to check she’s okay.Aftershe told me that worrying about her being late is more annoying than adorable,IfiguredI’dbetter hold off on that one.
Butseriously, their meeting was at 7:30 p.m.It’snot unreasonable for me to be concerned by now.
Isnatch up my phone.Mylast message from her was from yesterday when she sent me a picture of the super tidy office beforeIgot there.
Ismile to myself asItap out:
ME (11:08)
Hey, how’s it going? I’m home if you
Istop typing at the sound of a key in the door.ThankGod.Itake a deep breath and blow it out asIdelete my half-written message.
“Hey,”Icall, turning toward the door and trying to calm my heart, which is still racing from the fear that something awful might have happened.OrthatChasewas trying to seduce her—which would also be something awful.
“Thatwas a long one.”Imake my way toward the jangle of keys being dropped into a bag, my smile and tone as laid-back asIcan make them. “Thoughtyou’d be back ages ago.”
WhenIarrive in her peripheral vision,Emily’seyes remain firmly fixed on her shoes as she kicks them off, reducing her height by about three inches.
“AndIthought you had aBronx-based brewing emergency.”Hervoice is full of suspicion.
No“hello,” no smile, no bouncing up and down likethis morning.Shit.Didit not go well?Isn’the interested?Isshe pissed offIwasn’t there to back her up?
Sheheads toward her room.
“Itdidn’t take as long to solve asIthought,”Itell her, perpetuating my story. “Beenhome a while.”Atleast that part’s true.
Shewalks silently into her room and closes the door.She’sliterally shutting me out.
Didthat asshole make a move on her?Andby asshole,Imean nicest man on the fucking planet.Anddid she like it?Isshe going to fall madly in love with a movie star and move toLAandI’lllose her in all the ways?
Jesus.WhyamIbeing so irrationally selfish?
Andwhy isn’t my first thought about the business, which was the entire point of her going to see him?
“Didit go well?”Thisis my second conversation through this door in a week. “Washe excited about the resort and had lots of questions?Isthat why you’re so late?Hekept you talking about the resort?”
Thedoor slides back to reveal a miraculously fast change of clothing.Shewalks by me, clutching her laptop to her baggy-sweatshirt-clad chest.Thepants that match it are almost as loose and are tucked into a pair of thick striped socks hand-knitted bySummer, my cousinOwen’sfiancée.Inclose to sixty seconds, she’s transformed from business goddess to lazySunday.
Itrail after her toward the kitchen where she sets down her computer on the island and finally looks at me.
“Iwasthisclose”—she pinches a thumb and forefinger almost together—“to fucking it up.”
Shelooks like she’s sitting at the intersection of the angry, upset, and frustrated circles of aVenndiagram.
“Idon’t believe that for a second.Howcould youpossibly fuck it up?You’reamazing at pitching and charming people.Andhe seemed into it this morning.”
Sheopens her laptop and points at the black screen. “Becauseof this.”
“Christ, did it crap out on you?”Nowonder she’s furious.Shewon’t be able to bear that it had gone anything but perfectly.
“Nope.”Sheslams her hands on her hips, nipping the sweatshirt in at the waist and revealing a hint of her shape under the shapeless clothes. “Icrapped out on me.Ithad barely any charge, andIdidn’t pack the power cord.”
