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“What if … you get married and … you know…”
“Tell you what. I have an idea. How about, if neither of us is married by the time we turn thirty, we marry each other?” I ask her.
My heart is pounding like thunder now as I realize that I’m asking the girl I love, my best friend, to marry me.
“To each other?” she says, and I start to laugh.
“Of course, to each other!”
She thinks for a moment, and then her face lights up. “Yes! Yes, I’m in. Let’s get married! I mean … when we’re thirty!”
Emmy extends her hand to shake mine as if we’ve just completed a business transaction. I take her tiny hand in mine and shake it a little.
“Wait. One more thing,” she says, still gripping my hand.
“What is it?”
“If we do go through with the marriage pact, we’ve got to get married in Paris. At the top of the Eiffel Tower.”
“Deal,” I say, and she shakes my hand once more. “There we go. Now we’re linked for life by this pact—this marriage pact,” I tell her.
“So, we are. And I’ll keep you to this promise,” Emmy says.
Back in my bedroom, the memory from long ago fades away from the surface of my mind. Her words still echo in my head, though, like a line from a movie.
I’ll keep you to this promise.
“No, you won’t.”
Chapter Fourteen
Emmy
I’m back at the beauty shop for the first time in a month and a half, and nothing about it has changed. As soon as I walk in, the fluorescent lights make my eyes water. Their incessant buzzing sounds like electrical insects that want to attack your sanity. And it smells like cheap perfume, reminding me of the horrific moment I broke my arm.
“Hey, Emmy! Are you back already?” Carol greets me as if I haven’t been gone for almost two months.
“Hi, Carol! No, I’m just here to see Mr. Doyle. I have some papers for him to sign from the hospital. Is he in the back?”
“He’s gone across the street to buy himself a sandwich. He’ll be back in a few minutes. But I’ve gotta warn you, he’s in a grumpy mood today.”
“When isn’t he in a grumpy mood? I swear, I don’t think that man has ever smiled.”
“If he did smile, his face would probably crack and break.” She laughs and leans in over the counter, a clear sign that she’s in the mood to chat, or worse, to gossip.
Since I have to wait for Mr. Doyle to come back with his sandwich, there’s nothing for me to do but humor her.
“So … I saw your latest posts on Instagram,” she begins and my heart sinks.
I know exactly where she’s going with this.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. You went to that Harry Styles concert with Evan. Wow, that must’ve been so amazing! I actually wanted to go myself but it was sold out!”
“Yes, it was pretty fun. Maybe you can catch him next time.”
“Was it fun because of the concert or because you went with Evan?” She grins.
