Hard Sell| ETHMA

12

EMMA
Monday Dinner, September 25

I blink in surprise. "Are you wearing an apron?"
Olivia points a wooden spoon at me in warning.

"Definitely. Wouldn't you if you were attempting to make dinner wearing a white shirt?"

"Well, see, that's the difference between us," I say, stepping into her apartment and shutting the door.

"I wouldn't be making dinner."

"Yeah, I'm not so good at it myself, but I'm trying. Ooh, but you made dessert!" Olivia says, looking down at the apple tart in my hand.

"Nope. Bought it. It's better this way, trust me." I say.

"Are you one of those women who keeps shoes in her oven?" Olivia asks as I follow her into the kitchen.

"Not anymore. But when I first moved to the city and was living in a four-hundred-square-foot shoebox while trying to get my business off the ground? Damn straight."

"Now that's something I'd kill to see," Olivia says, giving the sautéing mushrooms a quick shove with her spoon. "Baby Emma."

"I was nineteen."

Olivia shoots me a smile over her shoulder. "Like I said. Baby."

I smile back, though I don't know that I agree. I suppose for some people, nineteen is just another shade of youth. For people like Olivia, even Michael, whose paths had involved a four-year university, theirs had held youthful experiences like dorm rooms, study groups, frat parties.

At nineteen, I'd already been putting food on my own table for a decade. I'd learned way more than I should have about the masochistic nature of men, and I sure as hell knew that the only person you could count on—really count on—was yourself.

Even Michael, who'd been my friend and protector since we were kids, had left. I didn't resent him for following his dreams to Yale. I'd been his biggest cheerleader. But my happiness for him didn't take away the fact that I'd really, truly been on my own, all before my twentieth birthday.

Don't feel sorry for me. I don't feel sorry for me. The tough knocks early on gave me my independence, and I'm grateful. Really.

"Can I help?" I ask Olivia as she shoves back a strand of hair that's come loose from her pony and peers at an open recipe book.

Olivia's one of those women who looks as gorgeous polished and badass in her power suits as she does in jeans and a T-shirt.

She looks up and pushes her black-rim glasses higher on her nose. "Pour us some wine?"

"On it." I go to the fridge. "Ooh, champagne. Nice champagne. What are we celebrating?"

Olivia gives me an enigmatic smile. "You'll find out when Amanda gets here."

I give her a curious look. "Within the past year, you landed your dream job and your dream man. What else could possibly—" My eyes go wide. "Are you pregnant?"

"What?" she squeaks. "No! Would I have bought champagne if I were pregnant? God. Don't do that. Pour me a glass of the Sauvignon Blanc as punishment for giving me a heart attack."

I pour us each a glass of wine and continue to study her. "What, then?"

"Nope." She sips the wine. "I told you, we have to wait for Amanda."

I sigh. "I hate waiting." Still, I settle onto a barstool with my wine as Olivia begins chopping an onion.
I've been to this apartment dozens of times over the years, settled on this very barstool, but always as Michael's place.