someone new.

“ He is sweet, ” She said, and that’s why the entire situation seemed a bit STRANGE to her. He always talked about love and romance as things to be lauded — not even far off fantasies, but things to attain. A one night stand was far off of the norm. “ He’s probably gonna ask you out, like ... as a heads up. ” Mimi seemed the type to be confident enough to have plenty of one night stands, clean and contactless — she wondered if the blonde had Jack’s number yet. Or if she would dart out the door, an enigma, never to be seen again ( only to be discussed after a bottle of wine on those infamous board game nights. ) “ No intrusion. Promise. Two’s company, ” Really, she thinks three is company and four and even MORE. But that’s not important. “ You can duck in and get them, if you want. Or you can borrow something of mine, avoid the awkwardness if he wakes up. ”

She clears her throat, collecting spit in her mouth. It feels gross as she’s doing it, and part of her feels GUILTY even before action is committed. But the logical part of her brain agrees with him: some people just have it coming. She’s tried to ignored that most of the time, tried to take the high road. Breaking the rules — at least her own personal ones, she was pretty sure there were no legal ramifications for dumping a drink on the lap of a bad date — seemed like a FUN alternative to moping at the bar. She spits into the glass, shaking her head as she does so, in automatic disapproval of her actions. “ You’re a bad influence, ” She tells him, but she’s smiling in anticipation. THEN — the march over to the booth there they sit, still kissing and whispering. A tap on the shoulder, they pull apart, and as the girl moves away out of the blast zone to shoot her a nasty look, former date’s head is covered in booze ( and of course, the addition of Felix & Emma’s own creations ) before a response can even be formed. “ You were a REALLY shitty date ... and you should change your tinder bio, because no one believes you’re six two. ” Glass is set down neatly on to the table with a thump, and she flounces back to her position on the barstool. Eyes gleaming and smile giddy, she stares up at Felix. Exhale. “ You see that? ”

She wants to believe in the goodness of people. In the inherent light of humanity, that there’s good, strong, BRAVE people in this world, with kind hearts and pure motives. And when she looks at Jack, there’s just a bit of that hope that increases. He’s good, and she knows it, and he’s good for her — the type of friendship where one understands the other, and back around the other way again. Where there’s nothing but kindness and support and all the good things that are supposed to be associated with love and kinship. And now, as she hears words of comfort — coming from him, it might be the first time she believes them. And that’s why arms are snaked around his neck best they can be on the floor, face buried in his chest, in the tightest embrace she can muster. It’s strange, slightly, to hear remnants of the past, like some alternate universe where they could have been. And it makes her want to cry, because worlds you haven’t stepped foot in seem so much more perfect and magical than the ones you know. “ You’re a really good friend, Jack. ” It’s then she realises she is crying, and she isn’t even halfway embarrassed that she’s getting tear stains on his shirt, or that he can most certainly hear her sniffling. Maybe that’s the good part of friendship to. “ What did I do to deserve all that? ” All that: she isn’t quite certain if it refers to his words, caring and gentle and exactly what she needed to hear, or the content of them: being loved or cared for at all. 

She’s ducked back into the house now, leaving it to Gideon to close the door behind them and follow her. The steps into Jack’s room are natural, whether she’s gone through the consistently open door shaking the cat’s dry food to lure Bacardi out from under bed before Jack gets home, or to just bother him on nights where she’s bored or lonely. Familiar spot on a familiar bookshelf is spotted, and a photo album is cradled in her arms when she returns to the living area, holding it out for the older to take. “ No yearbooks, but I’m betting you’re in this one. Or’ve at least seen half of them. ” Cue bright smile, and a gesture to the kitchen. “ Coffee or tea? ”

She’s back down on the floor now, the sudden movement and revelation was fleeting — as they always are. Still shoulder to shoulder with him, she ruminates in the sort of sad silence that so rarely gets to be this comfortable. There’s no tears and no comfort for them, only the particular flavor of loneliness they both share. Him less so now, she thinks, and as if a part of her has been ripped away by loss of solidarity: two lonely people is something to joke about, some sort of self-deprecation at the tips of tongues. But one is just sad, pathetic, the sort of person you feel sorry for. She thinks about that a lot — if people really like her, or if it’s all just sympathy. She wants  to tell him she doesn’t know the answer to his question, laugh it off and go back to cards, volunteer to pop open a bottle of wine because it’s a Friday and where do they have to be anyway? But instead, truth seems to rear its ugly head as she speaks. “ I guess, ” She doesn’t guess, she knows. But knowing your faults makes them seem much more permanent. “ I guess I just never know when things are over. ” The truth hurts, Emma knows this, but now it feels like the truth kills. “ I think that if I wait long enough ... people will take me back. Or ... come back. Or care. Or love me in the first place. ” She can feel her throat tighten, and it’s almost reflex when she reaches for his hand, the warmth of interlocked fingers bringing at least some comfort. “ And so I just wait, and wait, and wait ... ” Her whole life has just been waiting. And waiting, and waiting and — she falls back into silence, the moment of the final, grand release of feelings falling back to the ground, no longer suspended in air as the moment continues. She swears she can hear them fall as she prompts a FINISH to the sentence. Her hand squeezes his.  “ I’m ... ? ”

“ Am not trying to get you out of a job ! I just recognize someone less cowardly than me when I see him, ” She protests, and she’s not entirely wrong. Emma doesn’t have the bravery to kill an ant, let alone go opening of a romantic comedy, fuck you asshole! on someone she’d just met that night. Or ever. Now, however, at the not so subtle encouragement from a newfound ALLY in her war against shitty dates, she hops off the barstool, drink in hand. There’s a certain electricity she feels in her right before she does something she knows she probably shouldn’t, and she asks for one last boost of confidence before she lets herself succumb to it. “ Tell me I’m not a bad person if I do this. ”

She doesn’t even sit up to check the cards accusingly, or to nervously reach for another fistful of popcorn. She just stays flopped downwards, on her pile of pillows, sulking. There’s no revelation of how loved she’ll one day be, only the ill-fitting costume of impatience. It doesn’t suit her, not with bright smiles and the kind of joy that seems genuine to cynics that call sunshine itself fraudulent. There’s only loneliness, even in memories of love and in the direct face of friendship. And she only stares at the ceiling, blinded by light bulbs she’d insisted on making eco-friendly, and noticing the crack that always gives them trouble on the rare days it rains. She thinks that, in a way, she’s like that. Unnoticed, never causing problems, until some sort of storm happens: and then all she seems to do is wreck havoc, and ruin perfectly good things. “ You have to say that, ” She’s whining, but she believes it — that it’s all merely to make her feel better. “ But I mean, come on. Look at my track record, ” She sits up, abruptly, eyes meeting his, and she doesn’t look accusatory. She just looks sad. “ I mean — literally everything that happened with my family, with my parents. Everything that happened with Mickey, and how much of a disaster I was during all of it. With how Joel treated me, and that was one freaking night. ” Defeat and frustration edge any semblance of confidence out of her voice. “ I am a disaster, garbage fire of a person and, ” She tosses her cards down, suddenly becoming very interested in the floor. “ I can’t even play blackjack. ”

He is just saying that. She can FEEL it — even if it isn’t true. Inadequacy seemed to be a pattern, a rhythm she’d found herself stuck repeating again and again and again. At this point, she’d date a ROCK just to have the sense of security that comes with not being alone. The sense of ‘maybe there’s nothing wrong with me after all.’ But of course, her prospects always seem to be emptying themselves further. “ Just friends somehow is further than I’ve gotten since the calendar said twenty-seventeen. You know that saying, about how if something goes wrong in relationships or friendships or chatting politely with coworkers you have to look for the common thread in all of them? And it’s always WHOEVER you’re talking about. I’m that thread! ” Cards are flipped without warning, and when he follows suit and she counts a number higher than hers, she DEFLATES even further — electing to FLOP back onto the pillows behind her with a heavy sigh, curls flying everywhere and face buried in decorative cushions. “ Can I get a SYMPATHY recount? ” A mumble sounds out. 

Slowly, she sticks her hand out and places it in his, shaking it firmly. “ Emma! I’m one of Jack’s roommates if, ” She gestures to the interior of the home with a polite smile. He seems nice enough — attractive, well-groomed, friendly enough to shake hands and not barge in. And he has to be good if he’s a friend of a friend — perhaps that’s trusting naivete, but she believes it. “ That wasn’t obvious already. Uh, you can come back later if you want? Or ... ” The offer lurks on her lips for a second, wondering if it’s worth it. It’s an annoying amount of time to spend in a stranger’s home. But kindness trumps logic, and — “ You can come in and wait for him? I could make coffee or something. See if I can find any embarrassing high school yearbooks for you reminisce with? ”

“ Nah, he was one of the good ones. Things just ... never really seem to work out in my favor. ” The final bit of batter is poured out onto the pan, and she keeps her eyes glued to it as one arm stumbles outward to open the refrigerator and retrieve the maple syrup. “ Though I’m glad things are turning up in JACK’S favor. I wouldn’t exactly know if he was ... getting anything ... or not, he doesn’t SEEM like he’d kiss and tell. ” The pancake is flipped over, and she finally flicks the stovetop off to let it cook with the residual heat. Sliding across the kitchen, socks meeting linoleum, she opens up the cabinet for two plates. The last way she expected to spend her morning was chit-chatting with a one night stand that wasn’t even hers. Though, she supposed with her track record, someone else’s was more likely. Pancakes are scooped onto plates, utensils are retrieved, and she finally turns to the blonde and remembers to ask: “ How many d’ya want? ”

Another card is flipped down onto his stack, and as the number surely climbs higher, she regrets not hitting her own. Though knowing her luck, she’d BUST. “ I think you guys’d be cute together. You’re a catch! She seems like one too. BOOM! Match made in heaven. ” At the mention of her own love life, she wants to slam her head onto the floor, or maybe throw the hot coffee on her face. At least then she’d have an excuse to cry at the thought. “ NOT WELL, as usual. They might as well put a badge that says SINGLE DATE CHAMPION! On my profile, because no one ever wants to see me twice. The other night, someone hooked up with his ex while I was there. I’m a failure. ”

Nose scrunched together and eyebrows furrowed at the idea — not that she would ever tell Charlie, but she didn’t particularly care about what music was playing as background noise. Nor about who exactly was singing it. “ Okay, sure, I’ll come with you. But I’m more invested in the fact that this guy is named Kyle Marx? ” Mug of coffee is pressed to her lips, and she eyes the microphone in the corner suspiciously — it’s hardly big enough to be looked at by anyone as a stage, but the live music performances who dominated Sunday afternoons and evenings often seemed to consider the corner to be as such. “ Like, is he doing acoustic versions of the Communist Manifesto? I don’t think that’s going to go down all that well. ”