Chapter Text
Sometimes, and this is more usual than not — when one combines pride and preposterousness, they mistake it for dignity when it’s actually more akin to respect.
Dignity, unlike respect, is a value everyone’s born with and shall never be taken away from one. So what really Emily thought she was losing, was respect for her own self.
No, it’s not dignity, and it would be foolish to think so. She thought she was losing respect, by calling Andrea, reputation too, by showing up at her apartment, admitting to the reason she was there.
But now, as she lays splayed on Andrea’s bed — sticky with seat, sheets awkwardly clinging to her, muscles sore and spent, goosebumps rising as her body cools down; she thinks how this feels nothing like losing respect.
Beside her, Andy is in equal states of coming down to earth. Her hair is tangled across the pillow, strands sticking to her forehead, chest heaving as she catches her breath, thighs still occasionally twitching.
Emily will not close her eyes. Nope, because if she does, there’s no doubt she will fall asleep and the next thing she knows — she’ll be waking up when it’s already light outside and there will be no time to go home and shower and get ready, and she refuses to go to work in yesterday’s clothes.
So she stares at the ceiling — a creamy white paint with sporadic stains that landlords swear they are harmless. The sound of their deep breathing fills the space over the scent of sex.
Once she feels like her muscles might cooperate, she sits up and glances out the door, eyeing the heap of her clothes on the living room floor.
The bed dips beside her. She glances at Andy, who’s propping herself up on her elbow, head in her hand as she lays on her side. Emily’s only human, she reasons as her eyes rake over the dip of her waist, over the curve of her hip, and down toned legs, one draped over the other in that careless casual manner artists would paint their muses in.
“So what’s the narrative here, Em? What happens now?” Andy keeps her eyes on her as she speaks, “Was this a one-time thing? Are you gonna say you’re gonna call me and then you don’t? Let’s skip that part, and tell me is that all you wanted when you called me a week ago.”
The other option would be to tell Andy that it’s not a one-time thing. But the real answer is actually a secret third option, Emily thinks to herself, which is that she doesn’t know.
The trick is, that Andrea keeps bringing that call up, trying to get an answer as to why Emily called in the first place, but the truth is that even Emily herself is not sure of it.
Does she want to cut ties with Andrea right now, never to speak or see her again? No, that one she’s sure about. Not only was this one of her most passionate nights, probably for a whole lifetime.
But she also has to admit it to herself that she’s intrigued by Andy. Certainly after such a display of boldness. It makes Emily wonder what other things there are to Andrea that she knows nothing about.
She has to say something, that’s clear. Lying doesn’t sound so appealing anymore, but saying something along the lines of It’s more than that or I want to try this out is largely scary, so much it makes her want to bolt right out the door.
Emily works her jaw, willing at least some appropriate words to find her, “I don’t know.”
Andy watches her for another long moment. Emily feels acutely aware of her own naked form fully on display and tells herself Andy’s literally seen every inch of it already.
Andy’s eyes are steady when she speaks, “But you are leaving now,” A statement.
“I have work tomorrow,” Emily says, not missing a beat.
“Would you have stayed if it was Friday?” The raise of her eyebrow is the only movement she makes.
It’s too late to be having this conversation, in literal sense. It’s way past midnight now, probably is around one, and the day’s exhaustion starts settling in her body.
She doesn’t want to have this conversation because it doesn’t matter what she would do. It’s not like either of them can magically make it be Friday. She’s pragmatic like that — there’s no use in thinking about this when both of them know Emily needs to get up and go.
However, she sighs, thinks about it for a moment, “Maybe,” She shakes her head, “But I am still going home now-,” Andy finally moves, stands up off the bed, though Emily keeps talking, tracking her with her eyes, “-because I need to get some sleep before I have to get up and get ready for whatever hell Miranda’ll throw at me,” She watches Andy throw an oversized t-shirt over her frame.
Emily shifts to sit at the edge of the bed, head tilted up to look at Andy as she rounds in on her. She steps between her legs, hands cupping Emily’s jaw and cranes it even more up.
Then Andy’s leaning down, pressing her lips to Emily’s, and the tension in Emily’s shoulders melts away. Her hands grip Andy’s wrists and holds them in place, her lips pressing firm against Andy’s, still craving their softness.
It takes her a second longer to open her eyes when Andy pulls away from the kiss, still feeling her presence near.
Her face is still close when she speaks, “I was just trying to see where you’re standing,” She straightens, smile on her face, and slithers to the living room.
Emily follows with an inquisitive look. It’s her who’s trying to see where both of them are standing, and the tease of Andy’s ass peeking from the shirt, her long legs, are not helping.
Andy starts straightening out Emily’s discarded clothing, laying it out carefully on the couch as Emily shimmies her way back into her panties. She’s due for a shower anyway.
She putting her bra on when Andy speaks, “So, how about this — you go back to your life, I go back to mine, and if you wish to call me again, just call me and I’ll either answer or call back this time. Whatever it is that you want. Let’s take it from there?”
Emily stares at her with raised eyebrows, momentarily stunned. Just how much of Andy is there she didn’t know about?
She shakes herself back to reality, “Alright,” Clears her throat as if that might give her back some resemblance of composure.
Emily steps out of the building. Her shoes are still slowly killing her feet, shirt and corset and skirt feeling like she’s put them on wrongly. She thinks about hailing a cab, even though it’s not that big of a trek to her apartment. The whole night feels like a glimpse from an alternate universe, yet what shocks her the most are Andy’s words and their ‘plan’.
What lingers is the soreness between her legs and the tingle on her lips from when Andy kissed her goodbye at the front door, waiting until Emily disappeared down the flight of stairs.
What lingers is the unshakable feeling of something shifting in her life. Whether it’s to fit Andy in, or to give Emily closure — she’s still not certain.
——
Wednesday morning, Emily wakes up to the sound of her blaring alarm. Her muscles refuse to cooperate no matter how much she wants the offensive sound to cease. The duvet slips as she sits up and slams her hand against the clock.
She’s already cold and wants nothing more than to lay back down and get a few more hours of sleep. She can feel the toll last night left on her body and already despises the day ahead of her.
But Emily Charlton would be nothing if not dressed to the nines by the time her clicking heels echo in the lobby of Elias-Clarke. The five hours of sleep are buried beneath smoky makeup and chic clothes, just like every other day.
She hangs up Miranda’s coat and deciphers her requests and dials and executes like every other day.
But then Emily would be in the middle of scribbling down a frantic note and her mind would flash to Andy’s eyes, staring up at her from between her legs; or she would hear a high-pitched sigh over the clicking of her keyboard, or feel a phantom of Andy’s grip on her waist. Her breath would hitch and her fingers would twitch mid-air, halting whatever task they were doing, head hazy and lost in the recent memory.
Sometimes she could feel the new Andrea’s eyes staring at her, narrowed and confused, and it would draw her back to reality to throw a nasty look at her for even daring to look at her that way.
She would remember how Andrea’s eyes would stare at her from the same spot — wide and big, glazed over, having no business looking like that.
She decides to call the new girl Georgia, by her actual name. She doesn’t deserve Andrea’s name associated with her, Emily thinks with her chin held up high.
By Wednesday evening she admits that it really was hard to snap at Andrea whenever she would look at her with those eyes of hers. Even when she used to wear clothes Emily wouldn’t be found even in the privacy of her home. Especially after the first time Andrea waltzed in wearing those Chanel boots, new haircut and obviously dressed by someone with style.
She then realizes that the swoop in her belly was not intimidation, nor was the dryness of her mouth or the way she found herself at loss of words.
On Thursday, she sits at her desk and gets overflown, assaulted, really, by the memories made within these walls. They tilt around the edges until they morph into a completely different connotation.
She’s staring at the kitchenette behind Georgia’s desk and remembers the times she would drag Andrea there to berate her about something foul she nearly ended up doing. How good it felt to hold Andrea by the arm, even if it was harshly, to tug her back close to her when she tried to get away before Emily was done reprimanding her.
She thinks about how capable Andy’s gotten at her job after a few months. How efficiently she connected calls from Miranda to Patrick.
Emily would always pretend not to look, or listen, and would make sure to always treat it as the bare minimum Andrea could do, all the while Emily couldn’t help but feel something swell in her chest that she now knew was pride.
Andrea was Emily’s mentee. Emily taught her that. And now Andy was… good.
Thursday evening sees her replaying the gala as she stares at a similar dress in her closet. How incredibly joyful Andy instantly got when Emily told her she could leave, that Emily would take it from that point on. How hot Andy’s hands on her arm felt, searing, yet made her whole skin prickle with goosebumps. How Andy said thank you as if Emily had hung the moon for her, and Emily remembers the way her own cheeks hurt from trying not to smile too widely.
Emily thinks, with a chill down her spine, how she felt marginally better at that gala because she had someone to share her misery with. Because she had Andrea by her side, watching her back, saving her ass from getting fired when she forgot that one stupid name. How it felt less unbearable to be on her feet, surrounded by people who could end her career, just because Andy was there.
By Friday afternoon, she wants to bang her head against her desk for being so oblivious and ignorant. She could tell apart designers from a hundred meters, for crying out loud, but she failed to see the most obvious signs that she was… fond of Andy. And even now she knows she’s downplaying it with this choice of words, but she might throw up if she phrases it any differently.
Because Emily does not get to realize she’s been nurturing feelings for someone so kind and tooth-rottingly sweet as Andrea, after months of making her life hell. Not when Andy turned out to share a similar sentiment with her. Not after the night Andrea fucked the stupidity out of her and gave her a night both her mind and body will remember for ages.
By four o’clock that day, Emily keeps glancing at her phone every three minutes and debates with herself about calling Andy.
Every innate part of her tells her not to. Simply out of spite and preserving pride and whatever else there is to save to her image. She tells herself it’s desperate and needy, calling her. That she doesn’t need Andy.
Of course she doesn’t need her, another voice supplies. But it doesn’t mean she doesn’t want her. It doesn’t mean it’s wrong or weak to want her. Andy wants her, and she wants Andy; and it’s simple as that.
Emily likes that other voice, likes how soft and warm it is, a polar opposite to the first, biting and harsh one.
She stares at her phone as if it might decide which one to listen to. She shouldn’t be staring at her mobile, but finishing the report for Gucci on her computer. Her eyes reluctantly go back to the screen and she tries focusing on it when something clicks inside her, faintly and calmly.
There’s always some kind of a rush at Runway. Demands to listen to, errands to run, deadlines to meet, tyrannous boss to please… Emily needs that harsh voice here, at all times, lest she melts from the stress and spills over the desk like a puddle of ice cream.
When she doesn’t need it, is outside. Away from this chaos. In her home, on the street, in the restaurant, with Andy…
Her eyes drift to the phone again, and she realizes she shouldn’t listen to the harsh voice when it comes to her. The other one screams at her at the thought, loud and almost making her flinch, but she swallows and mentally chucks it away from her ear.
She waits until Georgia goes off somewhere, Emily doesn’t bother to remember where while Miranda’s out of the office. Her hand wraps around the phone and finds Andy’s contact, dials it again. A deja-vu has her fingers gripping it tighter, yet she tilts her chin up and listens to the tone.
A connecting click, “Emily, hi!” Andy’s soft voice has her releasing the breath she’s been holding, smooth and comforting even through the tinny speaker.
“Hello, Andy.”
“…You called.”
Emily’s heart clenches at the surprise in Andy’s voice. She tilts her chin up, “Don’t make such a big deal about it,” She clears her throat, “Do you want to come over later?” She cringes physically at her eagerness.
Bloody hell, this is not how she imagined this going.
“Oh- I” Well the stuttering certainly helps Emily’s embarrassment. At least her voice was firm, “Sure,” She can nearly hear her gulp.
Emily’s eyes roll back in her skull. Of course Andrea would make such a big deal out of this. It absolutely doesn’t matter that her own palms are sweating.
“Alright. I’m making pasta,” Pasta? Since when is she making people dinner? Where did that come from? “Be there at seven unless I get stuck here and phone to let you know. Try not to be late,” And she hangs up, tosses the phone on the table like it’s the source of her rash behavior.
Pasta — what was she thinking with pasta? She doesn’t have the ingredients for a pasta. It’s one of the few things she knows how to cook and yet it’s been weeks since she made it.
Probably not the time to think about her poor eating habits because apparently, she needs to go grocery shopping after work. Which means she needs everything polished by the time Miranda comes back so she doesn’t find a reason for Emily to stay any later.
By six-fifteen Emily’s heels click in a rush against the lobby’s floor. It’s going to be a tight fit to get across town and buy groceries in under forty-five minutes, but Emily would be damned if she let this be her demise while executing every one of Miranda’s whims.
——
There are very few times in which Emily regrets her naturally harsh tone. This is one of them.
A couch break, or better — a shower, would’ve served her perfectly once she’s inside her apartment. But no, Andrea takes her words seriously and is at the door at 6:58, barely three whole minutes after Emily’s put the bags on the counter.
Her feet still haven’t processed that she’s taken off her heels, the back of her shirt sticks to the sweaty skin of her back. She needs a glass of water, or of wine, or maybe of whiskey; and her updo has got to go and stop pulling at her face.
She flings the tie somewhere in the general direction of the couch, her fingers threading through her hear to get it down and loose.
Why did she have to say seven? Sure, Americans eat dinner at ungodly early hours, but she’s no American. Why didn’t she simply say eight like a normal person? Eight-thirty?
She whisks the door open, doesn’t even try to hide the exhaustion from her face.
She’ll never admit it, but the sight of Andrea, clad in a soft-looking brown sweater and simple blue jeans does take some weight off her shoulders. The tiredness on her face is so obvious too, but she looks entirely soft.
For a brief moment, Emily wishes to collapse forward and into her arms and get lost in her as if in a soft cloud.
“Hi,” Andrea breathes out.
God, does she ever sound anything less than a nervous wreck? Or is that reserved for mornings after fucking Emily’s brains out, she thinks grimly as she steps aside and lets Andy in.
“You look good,” Andy kicks off her shoes.
Huh, Emily didn’t even have to tell her. She’s learned Americans don’t bother to take their shoes off inside, so this is marginally surprising. It makes Emily wonder if it’s a habit, or just something Andy assumed about her.
Just thinking about that second option makes her feel a bit queasy, to be known on that level by someone.
“I’ve just arrived, so dinner will be a bit late,” Emily walks to the kitchen counter, glancing at the state of her apartment, glad she accidentally left it somewhat tidy.
It’s nothing much to be proud of. Her one-bedroom apartment is quite a catch for the low rent she’s paying for it, but it’s still small.
Too small.
The clothes and the shoes couldn’t fit into the wardrobe even if she stuffed them all in to the point of combusting. The bedroom takes most toll of it, as she’s learned not to walk around with the lights off, especially not barefoot. Not after stepping and tripping over so many shoes she wonders how she still has all her toes.
The living room is marginally better. There’s no dining table, just a coffee one in front of her two-seat couch, but it’s not like she needs it anyway. She’d eat on the sofa either way. And there’s only one small window per room, but that’s fine, because she’s barely here during daylight to begin with.
And well, the kitchen consists of only a counter with a stove, a fridge and a sink, connected to the living room.
It gets stuffy and messy really quickly, but it saves money for clothes and shoes, and she could never live without those. It’s not like she has guests often. Or at all. Andrea is probably the third person to step foot in here.
Andrea takes one look at it, doesn’t seem to hate it, and perches on the counter beside Emily, “I can help,” Looking sideways at Emily.
Emily raises a single eyebrow at her. Her first instinct is to question Andrea’s ability to cook anything, but figures she has to feed herself somehow, so she nods, “I don’t think bolognese is really a two-person job.”
Andy just hums, doesn’t move away. Instead, her eyes follow Emily as she fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove.
Somewhere around taking the pan out and heating it, Andy launches into a story from work, and just doesn’t stop after that.
She’s talking about Mellissa, this coworker of hers that sits right across from her in the newsroom and tells Emily how she’s quite kind and witty.
It’s somewhere around adding tomato sauce that Emily half-consciously directs Andy to stand to her right so the smoke doesn’t get into her hair, and Andy apparently takes that as free reign to hop onto the counter and continue yapping about other people from the Mirror, this time about incompetent men who dress like it physically pains them to do so.
“I mean, I don’t think I’m the biggest stylist or anything,” Andy rolls her eyes, “But that’s gotta be criminal. I mean — Emily, you’d faint, I just know it. They wear checkered shirts tucked into tight beige pants!”
Emily’s eyes widen so much it hurts, her hand freezes mid-stir and she has to blink away the obscenity from her eyes, “Do not repeat such sentence to me ever again,” She states calmly and resumes stirring.
Andy chuckles beside her, and Emily smiles, despite herself, looks up without much thought.
But Andy’s already staring down at her, grin slowly morphing into something softer. Emily’s vision draws in on her, and she doesn’t register the pan or the pot anymore, just Andy’s eyes and Andy’s mouth, and then Andy’s hand is holding her jaw and she’s leaning down.
Heat rushes to her cheeks as Andy’s lips find her own, kiss once, then again, softly. It feels… Warm and… safe. It feels domestic in a way she’s seen in movies and read in books and didn’t find it realistic.
On instinct, she braces for panic. Something along the lines of this moving too fast, or Andy infiltrating her life too fast and too expertly.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, her lips stretch into a small smile against Andy’s, warmth spreading from her cheeks and into her chest until it settles there — comfortable.
Then Andy’s pulling away, draws her hand back to rest on her thigh. She gives her this charming toothy smile that makes something in Emily’s stomach do a backflip, then nods at the stove, “You’re gonna burn the sauce,” She drawls.
Her eyes snap back to the sauce, indeed rising, trying to escape the pan and she stirs it aggressively, “Stop distracting me then!” She tries to snap, but it has no real bite and the smile stays stubbornly on her face.
The warmth doesn’t leave her chest after that, even as Andy behaves and launches into yet another story from work. Faintly, Emily thinks how this is quite a way to spend time after work.
They eat on the couch and Emily tries to snap at her to not stain it with sauce, even if she doesn’t care as much. She’s got a great stain removal, really had to get it after all the times she herself has spilled on it.
Emily tells her this week’s Runway drama report, the long and dramatic version, with all the whining about Miranda. It’s relieving, Emily suddenly notes — to have somebody to complain to about Miranda who understands.
If she did this with Serena, she could tell her off on the first chance she gets to get a benefit. Runway is an arena when it comes to it. And anybody else would just stare at her like she was crazy for enduring such tyranny and tell her to quit while her sanity was still intact.
But Andrea — Andrea’s been through it. She knows what it’s like but won’t put her job at risk like Serena could. While she did quit, she knows what if feels like to be in Emily’s shoes. She knows how gratifying it is, beneath the endless errands and toxic workplace.
Andrea just… understands.
Maybe that’s what slowly does it for Emily.
Andrea was in her shoes, and she quit, but she’s still here. Maybe Andy realized that kind of work wasn’t for her, but she’s still here, in Emily’s apartment, on her couch, eating the pasta Emily made her and she’s here with her.
It’s a simple thought when put on paper, but it runs through Emily’s mind like purifying water. Even after throwing away her job, she was still with Emily, and that must count for something. That must mean…
That means that Andy saw her beyond what she presents to everyone — the polished, pristine armor, the impeccable clothes and a sharp tongue, arrogant attitude that lets people know she does think she’s smarter and better than them.
And still… Andy must’ve seen beneath that. She wouldn’t be sitting here if she weren’t.
But how could’ve she?
“Em, you okay?”
She must’ve zoned out, in the middle of her own story no less, because Andy’s staring at her, a little concerned, a little confused.
God, maybe Emily is too down bad, because even Andy’s concern is endearing to her now. Or maybe she’s always found it endearing and she’s just now starting to actually realize it or…
Maybe it doesn’t matter. A question pops up in her mind. It’s been circling her mind, and she’s been at loss of an answer.
What’s the narrative here, Em? What happens now?
It made her spiral these past few days. She didn’t want to conform to anyone’s expectations, didn’t want to be shoved into a relationship before she was ready. She wasn’t sure if she would ever want to be in one to begin with. It was all so overwhelming.
Now there’s only hints of that, just a sprinkle of fear. But the blooming in her heart makes her brave, and she shoves those fears down. It feels like she’s actually pressing them down with her own two hands, pushing and pushing until they’re deep down and secured under a lock. At least until she finds a way to battle them.
Words tumble out of her before she has a chance to filter through them, yet they’re the rightest thing that’s ever come out of her mouth.
“You actually care about me.”
Andy blinks at her for the longest moment, startled. It’s so evident she still hasn't processed the words it would be comical if Emily wasn’t feeling emotionally stripped to the bone, with the biggest need to keep spilling it out, all for Andrea.
Then Andy shakes her head, once, visibly throwing herself back on track, “Of course I do.”
“Why?”
It sounds so blunt in itself, but her tone betrays how vulnerable she’s feeling. How small her voice is and how stunned her face is, frozen with quiet shock.
“Why?” Andy repeats, face contoured in disbelief.
Emily can only nod and watch as Andy takes her in. Really takes her in — every feature of her face, every detail of it, then goes past it and perhaps tries to reach into her soul.
Then her throat bobs as she swallows. Her jaw sets tightly for one second, perhaps gathering her strength.
Her gaze is steady on Emily when she speaks, softly and quietly enough to convey the sincerity of her words.
“I thought you were just one of the Runway girls, at first. I thought you chased the trends blindly, and gave yourself to people like Miranda so that you could feel important in that world,” The words would bite if spoken any differently.
They don’t. Emily can tell Andy doesn’t mean them anymore.
She goes on, “But then I would notice other parts of you, probably the parts you didn’t want people to see. But it would show in the way you would do this,” She waves her hands up an down in front of her, “When you wanted someone to speak quietly. Or something would slip into your routine, something uniquely yours and-”
“But I never let anything about me show,” Emily interrupts, mildly fazed, “I wasn’t-“ Closes her eyes briefly. No, “I am not like that. I don’t want anyone seeing anything about me, it’s none of their business.”
“That’s true,” Andy smiles. It falls somewhere between sadly and thinking, “I mean I thought the same. I was convincing myself I was imagining things, that I wasn’t seeing anything about you but really idealizing you. Yet still, I was so fascinated by you and I kept noticing like how you would always check twice if your shoes are on tightly before sprinting down the hall. Or how you would keep your eyes glued to the monitor as you took your coffee but still stick the tip of your tongue out to see if it was too hot.”
“And somewhere in the middle of that I realized you’re just like everyone, in some ways. How you are just like me on some points, how you are like those girls in other, but how remarkable you are in your own way too. And then I realized it wasn’t just simple admiration.”
Emily’s breath hitches at the implication. Her mouth falls open slightly as Andy completely drifts down the memory bliss.
“I would get these…” Andy wiggles her fingers, finding the word, “Urges… Like how I wanted to tuck a loose strand of your hair, when just a few would escape after a long day. How I wanted to ask you out to drinks, and I would fantasize about walking down the street with you during those late nights, and I would slow you down and cradle your head in my hands…” Andrea’s gaze gets so unmistakably dreamy, it renders Emily speechless, “After that, it was obvious.”
Emily just stares at her.
Andy’s eyes focus on her, so undeniably fond it cracks open something inside Emily.
God, she’s not a gooey person, not in the slightest. She would cringe were this anyone else, but Andy unravels something within her like a thread on a needle and it unwinds and drapes softly around Emily’s chest.
Faintly, she’s aware she must look ridiculous, mouth open and mute. But pieces slot together in her brain and it’s suddenly painfully clear to her.
Everything she’s been feeling, it suddenly has a name. While a part of her still can’t admit it out loud, the other’s set free, like a dog kept on a leash for too long.
“You felt like that… all this time? How long?” Her voice is breathy when she finally speaks, as if her mouth’s waking up from entropy.
The smile on Andy’s lips tugs wider, “I’m not sure. I’ve always admired you, and somewhere along the way it turned into something bigger. Long before Paris, if you need a time stamp. After the time I first walked in dressed in designer clothes.”
“And you’ve felt so… Sickeningly gooey… What in the bloody hell was that night then? Or that morning, where the fuck did that confidence come from?”
Andy chuckles a little, tilts her head down, as if shy, “Well, about that night…” She bites her lip, and oh, Emily shouldn’t find it as endearing as she does, “Is it that big of a shock that I acted the way I did? How after months of… definitely being attracted to you, you come to my place and I find out you feel the same, if only in the smallest part?” She shrugs, “I don’t know, something snapped. I realized I didn’t wanna be a coward anymore.”
“You didn’t wanna be…” Emily mumbles, drifts off.
That thought settles in her chest, and it strikes her then-
Am I being a coward? Is this what this is about?
Being scared to let loose a part of me that feels like the only picture I know of myself?
To change slightly and add a new part to myself?
Is it just cowardice that’s stopping me from-
Emily gulps.
And then… Clarity.
Is it cowardice that’s stopping me from loving her the way I already am.
“I don’t want to be scared anymore.”
It’s only after the words are out, floating between them, that Emily realizes how true they are.
“Is that why you called me?”
“No,” Emily shakes her head softly, “I called you because I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Her own words from a few nights ago play identically to this, “Again,” She adds.
The corners of Andy’s mouth tug upward in amusement. Her eyes are shining, just the tiniest bit, reflecting the overhead light.
Emily speaks again, “I’m still scared, but I don’t want to be,” She exhales shakily, “The way I feel about you… it scares me because to me it means change. A lot of change, and that part is…”
“Scary,” Andy finishes for her, nodding, “Uncertain. Unpredictable.”
“Yes,” Emily deflates, if only a little, “But I think I’m starting to realize that even if I run away from it, nothing will change. I will just be scared and unhappy.”
Andy nods only once, focused and solemn. Her eyes still shine with hope.
“Can you deal with that?” Emily inhales.
“Can I deal with what, Em?”
Andy stares at her, waiting. Then she slides closer to her. Not touching, not reaching out. Just waiting. Emily can feel the heat of her body cascade in waves towards her.
Another breath in, it almost hurts, “I know I’m not easy to love… Can you deal with being with someone as cold as me? Even if I can’t say a lot of things out loud? How can you trust me as much?”
In any other moment, Emily would cringe at the vulnerability in her own voice.
Now, she waits for Andy’s answer. Her heart’s thundering in her ears, the severity of the moment finally hitting her.
If Andy says no…
But Andy, well…
Andy smiles, eyes crinkling, “I can’t see myself any other way.”
Emily exhales shakily, tears running down her cheeks in relief.