Page 36 of Crushes to WHAT

I don’t wear it often. I’m not much of a lounge-around-the-house sort of person. If I’m not working, I’m going somewhere, and if I’m not going somewhere, I’m doing something, and I like to look my best for anything the day might hold.

Before Emerson texted, I was blasting K-Pop and meticulously gluing tiny diamond-shaped faux jewels to a sticky canvas. The diamond painting kit shows Felix, a member of the group Stray Kids and my ultimate, ultimate bias, as the final product. Today, I gave him eyes to see my shoulders and my skirt and my light, no-makeup makeup.

I suppose I could wear the skirt out, just this once, since Emerson will be around to fight off the masses.

All I need are shoes, jewelry, and a touch-up on my makeup.

Almond: I need at least thirty minutes.

A girl must allow for time to call her bestie and freak out pre-date, after all.

Emerson confirms he’ll see me in half an hour, and I waste no time. I dial up Poem.

“Almond!” she greets after half a ring. “Perfect. I was looking for a reason to slack off.”

I glance at the time blinking on my resting TV screen. “You’ve been at work for thirty minutes.”

“Exactly,” she says. “And I haven’t caused a single shenanigan yet. Fox is going to be bored.”

We absolutely cannot have that. “Maybe you could start an unapproved happy hour,” I suggest.

Poem adopts her evil-villain voice, my favorite of all her voices. “I think I’ll offer a free drink to anyone willing to try my chips and dip.”

Apparently it’s not just Fox we’re torturing today. “Let me know the results?”

“You could always come down here and see them for yourself,” she replies. “I miss you. It’s been thirty-thousand years since we saw each other. I’m in withdrawal. I turned on my Sad Kids playlist last night and cried, remembering the good old days when you loved me.”

“I think it’s actually illegal to weaponize Stray Kids' emotional songs against your best friend. Like, federal prison kind of illegal.”

She huffs. “Cuff me, then. At least I’ll get to see your face up close before you throw me in jail.”

I sigh, forlorn. “You know I would love to come see you, but unfortunately I can’t.”

“You… can’t? As in you are physically unable? Like, you lost all your limbs, and I should quit my job to become your full-time carer because a tragic accident has befallen you?”

“As in, Emerson texted me to ask me on a date, and he’s picking me up in thirty minutes, and I’m already ready so I have exactly that long to have my freak out before he shows up. I don’t even actually know if thirty minutes is long enough to freak out or not. It seemed long enough when I requested it, but now that I’m speaking out loud about the situation, I think maybe I should’ve asked for four hours. Or five. Or maybe even six.” I laugh nervously. “By the way, Emerson and I are dating. Or fake dating. I haven’t told you yet because I wanted to tell you in person, but then we didn’t see each other last weekend, and he’s been at my house every night working on the studio, and I’ve been feeding him dessert—and dinner, too, but the desserts are pretty notable. I miss you a lot, actually, and I think maybe we need to schedule a hang out because I’m realizing right now that I became one of those girlies who gets a boyfriend—a fake boyfriend—and then revolves her whole life around him and forgets about her friends, and goodness I think you should probably lynch me. This is so not girlie pop behavior of me.”

“Almond,” Poem says sternly when I pause to take a much-needed breath. “Stop.”

My mouth clicks shut.

“You are not a bad friend because you got a boyfriend and ‘ignored’ me. Do I miss you? Yes, terribly. But the reality is that it’s been a week and a half since we last spoke, not a decade, and in that time, I’ve known that you’ve been busy and distracted. Heck, I probably know more about what’s going on in your life than you do at this point. You and Emerson are all anyone in town is talking about. I think the only thing I haven’t been aware of is that the dating is fake, but I have my doubts about the veracity of ‘fake’ as a descriptor. You haven’t forgotten about me. You haven’t done anything wrong at all, and I’ll not have you beating yourself up over perceived slights that I couldn’t care less about. I know you love me. I know that if I need you, all I have to do is text or call. Which, you’ll notice, I didn’t do, because I’ve been letting you enjoy your time with Emerson. I figured you’d reach out when you were ready. And look! You did just that! So we’re good. Completely good. Forever. Always. Stop stressing about me when you have a date to stress about instead.”

My eyes water, and I sniffle. “I love you a whole lot,” I tell her, just in case she doesn’t know. “The most anyone has ever loved anyone ever before.”

“You’re lying,” she says plainly. “Because I love you that much, which means you only love me the second most anyone has ever loved anyone ever before.”

Offense rips through my mushy, gushy feelings. “Excuse you!” I object.

“You’re excused. And you only have twenty minutes to freak out about Emerson now.” Her smug voice taunts me. “Better get to it. First explain the ‘fake’ dating aspect, though, so I can refute it with logic and reason.”

I’m torn. Do I fight to prove my love, or do I spend my precious few minutes doing what I called her to do in the first place—girl talk about Emerson.

“Tick, tock,” she sing-songs.

I groan. “Fine! But expect a strongly-worded letter in regards to your claims of higher quantities of love.”

“I look forward to it,” she deadpans. “Now spill.”