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She reacts just as I knew she would. Emmy loves surprises.
Me: I can’t tell you. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a surprise.
Emmy: Come on!!! Just a hint! Pleeeeease….
Me: You’ll see when it arrives, I promise.
When a nurse calls me to the emergency room again, I have to end the conversation, even though I don’t want to.
But I realize that I can’t stop smiling.
How she has this effect on me, I’ll never know.
Chapter Eight
Emmy
I’ll admit it.
I originally thought having two months off work would be a dream come true—but it’s only been two weeks since I broke my arm, and I’m already bored out of my mind.
And being alone in my apartment all day is kind of … depressing.
I hate being alone.
I stare blankly at my phone, mindlessly scrolling through social media, seeing the inevitable updates from people living their fabulous lives. Pregnancy announcements, engagement photos, exotic vacations—it’s all there, mocking my own uneventful existence.
Now, I understand better than anyone that social media is a highlight reel (I myself attempted to become an influencer … but unlike TikTok would lead you to believe, it’s not nearly as easy to go viral as it looks.) But … I still fall victim to the comparison game. And right now, my life is in shambles compared to the majority of the people on my feed.
I let out a heavy sigh, setting my phone down on the coffee table and leaning back into the cushions of my couch. The apartment feels too quiet. The solitude is beginning to feel suffocating. And while I’m grateful for my life, and everything I have … I can’t help but miss the simpler days—when Jo, Larisa, and I would get together every week and watch Gilmore Girls reruns with copious amounts of pizza and wine. So much has changed since then. My girlfriends are settling down, and I’ve somehow become the third wheel, the loner.
I’m just a pity party … with a broken arm.
I need to snap out of it!
I pick up my phone again, suddenly struck with an idea.
Me: Hey, wanna get together for lunch and catch up?
Carol: Sure! Let’s do it!
Carol and I rarely interact outside of work, but perhaps that should change. After all, she and I are both in the same life stage—single and trying to figure things out.
Ding dong.
I jump at the sound, wondering who could possibly be at my door at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday.
Ding dong. Ding dong.
“Woah! I’m coming, I’m coming, hold your horses!” I yell out before opening the door to reveal a guy holding a package.
“Delivery for you, Miss!” he says.
“I didn’t order anything … that I know of. Oh, no, was I shopping in my sleep again?”
He reads the label on the package. “Are you Emmy Williams?”
“Yes, I am.”
