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“You could’ve moved away. You could’ve—”
“Emmy,” I interject. “She was clearly there to see me. She was talking my ear off, and most likely would’ve followed me wherever I went. At one point, while we were working out, she literally said we looked like a couple running together in the park.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize it was entirely the wrong thing to say.
“She said … what? She thinks you’re a couple now?!”
“Emmy … no … it was a silly thing she said, and I shut it down immediately.”
There’s another pause at the other end of the line.
“Wait, why are you getting so upset over this?” I ask.
“I’m not … I’m just … okay. Look. Carol is … she’s a nice girl. But she’s not someone that I’d like to see you date,” she explains.
“Well, good. Because I don’t intend to date her. So…”
“Yeah, she’s just … not good enough for you,” Emmy says.
“Hmm … and who is good enough for me, Emmy?”
Suddenly the memory of Emmy running her fingers across my bare skin in her kitchen flood through my mind—her wiping the sauce off my chest and licking it off her fingers. Shivers run through me at the memory. I shake my head, trying to focus on the conversation as well as my driving.
“Not Carol,” Emmy answers my question … but not clearly enough for my liking.
“I see.”
“Anyway, hey, listen. I got a couple tickets to the Harry Styles concert next week. Do you want to go?” she asks me.
“Sure. I’m in! But who else is going? The girls? Clem? Clem has to be a fan of Harry Styles.” I chuckle.
“Ummm … no. Just us. The girls are … busy.” Emmy clears her throat.
“Oh, okay then. Just us. At a Harry Styles concert,” I repeat, trying to make sure I heard her correctly.
“Yeah. I mean, what’s the big deal? We’ve been to about a million concerts together since we’ve known each other.”
But never like this.
We’ve never been to a romantic concert together—one in which couples usually go. We usually go to festivals with big groups of friends or watch live music at the local coffee spots.
I don’t tell her that, however.
“Absolutely,” I reply, keeping up her game.
“Great! I’ll see you in about a week, then. Can’t wait!”
The phone call ends, leaving me alone again, with only the Boston traffic noises as my soundtrack. And I am left wondering, did Emmy just ask me out on a date? Or could it be that I’m reading too much into this?
I wish I could just ask her, but I’m afraid she’ll deny it or simply not answer. Perhaps I should just leave it alone and wait and see what happens. I just wish I had a sign or something…
“Siri, play a Harry Styles song.”
“Playing Harry Styles music off YouTube.”
“Now playing, ‘18,’ by Harry Styles and One Direction.”
I settle in, prepared to listen to the lyrics. They come blasting through the speakers as if speaking directly to me.
