Chapter 3 - What We Almost Said
Emma stepped onto the porch and pulled the door closed behind her.
From inside came Daniel’s voice.
“If he needs a shovel, ask questions first.”
She ignored him.
I looked at the cup in my hand.
“I got scared,” I said.
“Of my employer?”
“Of losing the building. Of you thinking the whole thing was foolish.”
Her expression softened, but she didn’t rescue me.
“I took that out on you.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
She folded her arms against the evening chill.
“I haven’t accepted the assignment.”
“You don’t owe me a career sacrifice.”
“Good. Because that would be a terrible foundation for whatever this is.”
Whatever this is.
I forgot the rest of my apology.
Emma noticed.
Her cheeks changed color.
“I meant our friendship.”
“Right.”
“Obviously.”
“Extremely obvious.”
For a moment, neither of us looked at the other.
Then she laughed.
It wasn’t the polite laugh she gave strangers. It was the helpless one I remembered from summer dinners and terrible movies, the one that always made me feel I had won something important.
“Come on,” she said.
“Where?”
“Walk with me before my brother starts narrating.”
We followed the sidewalk toward the little park behind the elementary school.
Leaves scratched across the pavement. Somewhere, someone was grilling onions.
Emma told me about Chicago.
About an apartment she loved but couldn’t afford comfortably. About clients who wanted homes that looked untouched by human life. About a supervisor who praised her instincts in private and introduced her as “support staff” in meetings.
“I thought moving would make me brave,” she admitted.
“You moved alone to a city where you knew three people.”
“Two. One turned out to be a dentist’s office.”
“That sounds brave.”
She shoved my shoulder.
I wanted to take her hand.
Instead, I asked, “Why did you stay?”
“Because some days I’m good at it.”
“You’re good at it every day.”
“You haven’t seen my work.”
“I’ve seen how you look at rooms.”
Emma stopped beside a bench.
“What does that mean?”
“You notice what people need before they ask. Your dad’s reading lamp. The chair your grandmother could get out of without help. The kitchen stool my mom used when standing got hard.”
Her mouth parted slightly.
“I never knew you noticed that.”
“I notice you.”
There it was.
No joke.
No graceful way to pull it back.
A car rolled past the park. Emma watched its headlights move across the grass.
Then she said, “Five years ago, you kissed me in my parents’ kitchen.”
My pulse went hard.
“Almost.”
“You stopped.”
“Daniel came downstairs.”
“And afterward?”
Afterward, she had left for graduate school. I had convinced myself a three-year age difference mattered more at twenty and twenty-three. Then distance had become habit, and habit had become an excuse.
“I thought you regretted it.”
She stared at me.
“I thought you did.”
The park seemed to become very quiet.
“I asked Daniel,” I admitted.
“Asked him what?”
“Whether you’d mentioned me.”
Her expression changed.
“What did he say?”
“That you had bigger plans. That I shouldn’t make things complicated.”
Emma looked toward the houses.
“He told me you weren’t interested in anything serious.”
I felt something cold move through me.
For several seconds, we stood without speaking.
Then she took out her phone.
“Emma—”
“No.”
She called her brother.
He answered on speaker.
“If this is about the leftover pie, Dad already—”
“What did you tell Ryan about me five years ago?”
Silence.
“Emma.”
“What did you tell me about him?”
Another silence.
Then Daniel exhaled.
“Oh, hell.”
She ended the call.
I looked at her.
“We were adults. We could have asked each other.”
“We should have.”
Her eyes shone, angry and wounded.
“All that time.”
I reached for her hand.
May you like
She let me hold it.
But when we walked back, neither of us pretended the evening had remained simple.
