A Hope for Emily

rows her hands up in the air. “So be it. I don’t know why you bothered to ask me, since it sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”

“I haven’t.” But it’s not true. I just hadn’t realized I’d made up my mind, not until now.

“I think you have.” Naomi recrosses her legs. “And if that’s the case, I won’t bother trying to convince you otherwise. You have to do what you believe is right.” She sighs heavily. “Even if it isn’t. Another drink?”

“I can’t. I’m driving.” And I haven’t finished my first one. “Sorry to lay this all on you.”

Naomi waves my apology aside. “What are friends for, except to give you advice you don’t want?” I smile, and then I ask her about work, because that’s only fair. It’s her turn to talk, and she regales me with a story about some hapless intern, and I do my best to listen and laugh.

An hour later, I’m back home, and the house is still empty. It’s Thursday, another Emily day. I’ve never resented them before, far from it, but I feel them more now for some reason.

I change from my work clothes and drift through the house, at a loss. I end up on the sofa, with James’ and my wedding album on my lap.

It’s only a couple of pages, a complimentary book of artfully montaged snaps provided by the hotel that managed our wedding—the vows on the beach, the champagne in the honeymoon suite, the joint massages and scuba diving lessons. It was a wonderful, whirlwind of a week, and I smooth my fingers over the photos now—the two of us holding hands during the ceremony, the wind blowing my hair into an artful tangle. I’m wearing a maxi dress in cream linen that I bought off Nordstrom’s rack—there was no time for a proper wedding dress. I didn’t mind.

At least, I told myself I didn’t mind. Our wedding, the whole idea of our wedding, happened so quickly, an idea that took hold of us and never let go. We’d been dating for just four months, a couple of dinners a week, the occasional Sunday afternoon brunch, inching towards something more serious, both of us cautious, because we knew it was serious.

Then, over a Chinese takeout in this very room, James looked up at me and said, “What if we got married?” There was a light in his eyes, a smile quirking his lips, a recklessness in him that he so very rarely had. I smiled back, even as my breath hitched and my mind cartwheeled.

“What if we did?” I answered, teasingly, afraid to take him too seriously, to hope to much.

James grabbed hold of my hands. “I mean it. Let’s get married. Life is short and when you find what you were looking for, you’ve got to hold onto it.”

My heart lurched as the lightness dropped. “Am I what you were looking for?” I whispered.

“Yes, you absolutely are. I know it’s soon, but I want to do this.”

I knew I did, too. Forget being careful; we were both such careful people, plotting our courses, now determined to be wonderfully reckless because we loved each other so much. “Yes,” I heard myself say. “Let’s do it.”

James grabbed his laptop and we started looking at destination weddings; it wasn’t even a discussion, that was just where both our minds leapfrogged to. We shared a sense of urgency, that we had to do this now, before we turned sensible and cautious again. We giggled incredulously as we booked it right then, a week in St Lucia, a wedding on the beach. It was crazy and wonderful, and as quickly as it all happened, it felt so right.

It still feels right. I’m not going to let this whole issue of Emily derail us, turn us into strangers. I won’t say anything. Naomi is right. It’s not my business. I don’t want to make it my business.

I’ll stop interfering, stop asking, even. If James doesn’t want to tell me about Emily, that’s fine. I understand his reticence; if I were in his position I would share it. It hurts to talk about painful pasts, to keep dredging up the details. It doesn’t have to be this big thing between us.

Yet as I make this resolve, remembering how we held hands on the flight to St Lucia, sliding sideways, incredulous smiles at each other, clinking champagne flutes, I already can feel it wither.

I can’t let this go. Not for Rachel’s sake, and not for mine. I close the photo album slowly and put it away, in the cupboard where it’s lain unopened and unlooked at since we came back from St Lucia, tanned and tired.

I think of pouring myself a glass of wine—there’s an open bottle of red on the kitchen counter—but I drank most of that revolting cocktail and I’ve told myself I’m going to cut back.

But it leaves me restless, drifting around the apartment once more, until I finally turn on the TV and stare unseeingly at some mindless, obnoxious reality TV show—there’s a lot of fake tan and bleached blonde hair.

James comes in just as the credits start to roll. It’s nearly nine, later than he usually gets home.

“Hey.” He sounds tired, and he gives me a weary smile.

“Hey.” I reach for the remote and click mute. “How are you?”

“Okay.” James sheds his jacket, loosen his tie, something I’ve always found sexy. He’s such an understated man, some people might skip right over him, but he’s always made my heart race, especially when I see those masculine fingers tugging at a knot, flicking open that top button…

I’m not going to say anything.

“What did you get up to tonight?” he asks.

“I had a drink with Naomi. I’ve just been watching TV since then.” He nods, only half-listening, and sits on the sofa with a sigh of weary relief.

“How is Emily?” I can’t not ask. It would be heartless.