The night before Emma left for Paris Fashion Week, I found myself in her bed. For good reasons, of course. Well, a reason.
She was freaking out. Like, freak freaking out. It was bad timing overall, really. She had known and was planning on New York Fashion Week, but also had Playlist Live Orlando on her ass about coming and being on a panel for just one day. Emma and I talked, and decided it was best for her to just stay home, instead of enduring a long flight, stressfully trying to be where she needed too, and of course the crowds. And we all know what the questions would be. It would just be miserable for her.
At first, Emma felt guilty, crying into my shoulder about how her roots were playlist live and how she'd miss Tana and all of her other YouTube friends. Then she got sentimental, insisting she just had to go, because last time she went Grayson discovered her on Twitter after that video with Tana went viral. Then, the worst phase, FOMO. She complained about how she was missing out on networking opportunities. I assured her there would be much more networking in Paris.
But then, it got much worse. Much much worse. Emma's apartment became a breeding ground for her anxiety. She was no longer able to stay there alone, and she hadn't done that much at all ever since she moved there. It was time to say goodbye. Her mother flew in, frantically attempting to terminate her lease and get her into a new apartment. They handled the business side of things, and I called in Bryant, Grayson, and a few other friends to help her move. Again. She threatened she was going to go insane from her initial 'traumatic' move in the summer, so I insisted that James come along to manage. He wouldn't be much help with big boxes, that was for sure.
So we moved Emma in a week before she left for Paris, into a brighter, more functional apartment that was much closer to my place, and James. She relaxed slightly, enough to fall asleep in my arms almost the second her head hit the pillow, which was a rarity. I couldn't believe the amount of energy she put forth on the video with Jojo Siwa because she had been trudging around her messy apartment for days. We watched it together, making fun of how overly enthusiastic she was being.
"It's what the viewers want!" Emma said through laughter. "That's what Jojo told me, anyway,"
"I can't believe she actually exists," I said in disbelief, shaking my head at the computer that was atop half of my leg and half of hers.
"She does resemble a hologram," Emma commented.
"Okay, Shane Dawson," I teased.
"Shut up," she said, lightly pushing against me.
"What time do you leave tomorrow?" I asked her.
"11, I think,"
"I'll take you to the airport. 9 am?" I offered.
"Thanks," she said, closing her eyes and leaning her head on my shoulder.
"Have you packed?" I inquired.
"You already know the answer to that," she said shyly.
"Come on, Em. One trip in your whole life that you should be well packed for is this one," I chastised.
"I know! I know!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "It's only ten, want to help me?"
"Sure," I said, getting up and tugging on her hands, "It'll be easier because everything is already sorted into boxes."
So we went through boxes and boxes, labeled anything from jackets to belts. Emma was packing a very pristine wardrobe, and I reminded her to roll so her clothes wouldn't crease. It was around midnight when Emma declared that we had packed most of what she wanted to bring. She described the hotel she was staying in, and it reminded me of the special private jet treatment Gray and I had received on our way to and from New York.
"Oh! Swimsuits!" she cried.
"In Paris?" I questioned.
"Paris has heated pools!" she defended, rummaging through a medium sized box. I heard her peeling off her sweats and snapping on a top.
"This one?" she asked. It was navy, with a flattering low cut top, and plain bottoms.
"I like it," I said simply, knowing she would make the executive decision no matter what I said.
"Or this?" she said a moment later, stepping out in a strappy black triangle bikini and hardly any bottoms.
"Hell no. You're not wearing that," I said stubbornly. She raised her eyebrows.
"I don't need any french boys making out with you," I explained, standing up and wrapping my arms around her. "Or grabbing your ass," I added, as I squeezed her lower half.
"Stop!" she cried. "Fine, I won't wear the sexy black bikini, I'll wear my turtleneck instead, so you don't need to worry about hot french boys."
"I didn't say 'hot'," I reminded her, "And what's wrong with turtlenecks?"
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