“Two weeks,” I echo slowly. It’s crept up on me so gradually, I’ve hardly seen it coming.
“And? Ryan? I need details to distract me from my misery, remember.”
I snuggle deeper under the cover, happy to change the subject. “There’s nothing much to tell,” I begin, a little coy. I’m not used to girl confessionals. Or, in fact, having anything to confess. “We were kissing — finally — and then I realized that Morgan could walk in at any moment. I haven’t heard from him yet, but we’re supposed to be working on the edits all day.”
“He’ll call,” Natasha says with a confidence I wish I shared.
“You don’t know that.” Part of me hopes he will, but the other side knows it’ll just make things more complicated.
“Sure I do. I’m surprised he took so long to make a move, but now that he has, he’ll totally follow through. He’s one of the good ones.”
“Wait, you saw this coming?”
“Well, duh!” She laughs. “Honestly, Em, I could tell from the way you got so mad at him that something was going to happen.”
I blink, wondering how it could be so obvious to her when it caught me utterly by surprise. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“You guys had to do your own thing.”
“You mean like you and Will?” I draw out his name. She sighs.
“I haven’t heard from him tonight. I saw him at the meeting, but by the time the group was done yelling at me, he was gone.” Her voice gets quieter. “Do you think he’ll hate me too?”
I let out a long breath. “I hope not.”
There’s silence.
“You know the funny thing?” I muse, leaning my head back against the wall. “I thought I’d feel worse than this. I know she’s supposed to be my friend, and I do feel guilty about everything, but, well . . . I sort of think it was worth it.”
“I can tell from your voice. Don’t I get any details?”
I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face just thinking about Ryan and his arms and his mouth . . .
“No.” I pull myself together. “Sorry, but I don’t kiss and tell.”
“That means it was hot. You would have so told me details if it wasn’t hot.”
“Maybe . . .” I feel myself blush.
“Ha, that’s awesome, Em.” Natasha sounds genuinely pleased for me.
“It’s not! I stole Morgan’s boy.”
“You didn’t steal him,” Natasha reminds me. “And Morgan is . . . Well, if she didn’t care enough to keep him, you shouldn’t beat yourself up, OK?”
I pause. “I thought she was your friend.”
Natasha sighs. “She was, back then, but . . . I don’t know. I feel like I don’t know her at all. Or she doesn’t know me, or something. Anyway, you have nothing to be sorry about.”
“And you need to take your own advice,” I add. “They’re not right, Tash. You don’t deserve any of what they’re saying.”
There’s another pause. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, “for dumping all this on you. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“It’s fine, honest. You know you can call anytime.”
She sniffs. “You’re the only one who understands what I’m going through, trying to be somebody else.”
“Trying to be a different part of yourself,” I correct, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.
“I have to go now. I have work I’ve got to do for tomorrow’s class. Oh god,” she says. “Professor Elliot. She was there; you should have seen the way she looked at me!”
“Shhh, it’ll be OK.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Natasha swallows. “I guess it’s only two more weeks, right?”
“Right.” I bite my lip. “Two more weeks and then we’re home.”
I let myself back into the room with that thought still heavy in my mind. Just two more weeks, and then it’s back to reality — to study schedules and dense philosophical arguments, to my parents, to the old Emily Lewis. Only two more weeks. It should be a comfort, but now I’m really not so sure.
I arrive late after selecting the perfect outfit of effortless chic, and by the time I reach the editing suite, my stomach is fluttering with nerves. All morning I’ve been running through scenarios in my mind: what if he regrets it or never wants to speak to me again . . . ?
I gather my strength and finally edge into the room. Ryan leaps up, his polo shirt a flash of maroon against dark baggy cords.
“Em, hi.” There’s an awkward pause, and I attempt to smile.
“Ryan. Hey.” I swallow. The room suddenly feels far smaller than it was yesterday. Barely six feet across and stacked with audiovisual equipment, there’s absolutely no possibility of avoiding his cloudy eyes. Or not touching.
“Hi,” he says again, and when I turn back from closing the door, he’s only inches away. Softly, he reaches out and cups my cheek. I don’t move, my heart suddenly racing. And then he leans in and kisses me, slow and gentle and everything I’d spent the night reliving.
I relax a little into his arms, and we stay that way for a glorious moment: close but barely moving, his lips light on mine.
“So we’re OK?” he asks, breath warm in my ear. I shiver slightly.
“We’re OK,” I echo, practically glowing. So much more than OK.
“’Cause we’ve got a ton of work to do.” Drawing away with a grin, Ryan scoots a chair in close to the screen and moves a pile books off the other for me. “This has to be perfect for Friday.”
“How about we just settle for brilliant?” I perch next to him, close enough for our thighs to touch. I can’t believe it, but I’m hyperaware of his body, even through layers of cords and my skirt.
“I could live with that.” He reaches for a laminated sheet. “Now, according to your schedule, we need to finish act two today.”
“You’re using that?” I ask, surprised. I haven’t seen my planner in weeks — since I decided it was far more stress to try to keep to the plan than just give up and let him work at his own pace.
“Of course.” He grins. “It’s got everything worked out. And color coded. And spill resistant.” I blush. “No, it’s great! I’m usually a mess by now, but you’ve really kept me on track.”