EMMA
I tell Tim's driver to take me to Nicole's office, where I collapse on her couch in a heap of tears. Nicole shouts for an intern to bring me soup from their kitchen and I marvel through my sobs at how different life is inside a tech startup.
"I blurted his secret," I moan to Nicole. "And now he's so angry at me!"
She furrows her brow. "Weren't you scheduled to break up with him in a week anyway? Sounds like fate took that out of your hands…"
My eyebrows rise. "But…it wasn't supposed to be this way."
"What way, Em? Did you think you'd become fuck buddies and then make your silent exit and never see each other again with no hard feelings from either side?"
"Yes!" I shout, burying my head in my hands. My nose is running but I'm too upset to wipe it up. "No! I don't know."
Nicole slides onto the couch next to me and puts her arm around my shoulders. "Honey," she says. "It's ok to have feelings for him."
I shake my head. "He doesn't do feelings," I insist. "Have you seen him on the Internet? He's a cold-hearted snake."
She pets my hair, speaking softly and comforting me. "It sounds like he's just defensive because the people he cares about keep dying or walking out on him."
Nicole urges me to go home and take an extra puff on my vape pen before climbing into bed. I notice she's got a copy of the Post on her desk and I sob again when I see that my story on Juniper is on the front page of the Sunday edition.
Over the next few days, I leave Thatcher five texts and two voicemails, trying to apologize for blurting his secret to his family. I've stopped crying as hard about it and start remembering how he was such a dick from the moment he picked me up that day. In fact, he had been rude to me since the morning after we last slept together, so maybe it's not me who needs to be in apology mode. Well. Anyway we both messed up sort of equally.
What would a relationship with him be like? Constant fighting probably, his moody outbursts. Me always worried about blurting the wrong thing to his family members…Or maybe he'd always bring you just the right food and make you come until your eardrums burst, I think.
I spend the week trying as hard as I can to get over Thatcher Stag and our fake, amazing-sex "relationship." I'm on the verge of getting there when my mother shows up at my apartment Wednesday evening. After I let her in, she stands in the doorway, sniffing uncomfortably as she looks around my home. She's only been here once before and it's better for both of us if she doesn't stay long. "Emma," she says, lifting one eyebrow at me while I microwave the dinner she interrupted. "You know your sister has such a lovely little home in the southern suburbs. There's a direct train line to downtown…"
"My office is on the North Side, mom," I say, trying to keep emotion out of my voice and focus on the facts. "I'd have to transfer."
She sighs. "Well, anyway, I've come to make sure you have an appropriate dress to wear tomorrow evening." When I look at her, confused, she points to a stack of mail on the coffee table. "Your father's fundraising event is tomorrow. I made certain to inform you via email and by post, as this one takes place in your…neck of the woods." Because of the weird way that voting districts are mapped out, my father's constituents mostly live in the wealthy suburbs south of the city, but there's one small panhandle that reaches the north side of the city. I'm actually surprised he hasn't hit me up to do more campaign propaganda for him before this.
"I've been busy with work, since the hospital and all…" I wave a hand at the stack of mail. It's a total lie. Work has been amazing. At home I'm just wallowing in sadness that I messed things up with Thatcher.
My mother frowns. "I hope you haven't been giving too much of your time to that man you're calling a fiancé."
I sniff. Then I sigh and roll my eyes. "Give me the breakdown about dad's thing."
She smiles. "It's in an art gallery! Andy something."
"Dad's having a fundraiser at the Andy Warhol museum? I'm impressed. He must really be courting edgy voters." I start to slurp at the frozen soup I nuked for dinner. I don't invite my mother to sit, and she doesn't.
"Yes! Well, voters are voters, dear. There are a number of artists whose work is being displayed, and they'll be present, mingling with donors. It's going to be a very impressive evening."
I make a face at my mother. "You know artists do things like pierce their noses and grow long hair, right?"
She clucks her tongue. "I'm certain that's only the low level artists who aren't used to the notoriety that can come with pricing their work at this level." She sniffs and her nostrils flare. "This will be a sophisticated event. I'll expect you there at 6pm. Dress is cocktail attire, Emma."
She swirls out the door just as my phone vibrates with an incoming message. I snatch it up eagerly, hoping it's Thatcher, but my heart sinks when I see it's from Juniper. The programs turned out just perfect! Can't wait to show you Friday night at rehearsal!
I feel like I shouldn't even respond until I hear back from Thatcher. I don't even know if I'm still supposed to be going to the wedding with him. Maybe the explosive Sunday dinner was the ending to this whole charade after all.