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Andrea Sachs is finally sure that God hates her more than Satan. She had her suspicions before, but now it’s totally fucking clear.
Andy is late. She’s never been late since… well, since she made it part of her job to impress everybody. She likes to deny it but she finds herself thrifting designer a lot more often now, checking if it falls over her body like it does on the runway. She also finds herself frisking through busy roads in five-inch heels and letting scalding hot coffee burn her knuckles.
This is why she feels hotter in this Chanel coat than usual. She doesn’t remember the airconditioner in her silver car, a hand-me-down from her dad, working properly but she’s sure it worked at some point. Now there’s sweat blotting her foundation and the matter of these stilettos actually being difficult to drive a car with.
Much less a janky old car like this. Andy rarely drives herself to work. The indignant looks from the A class are more humiliating than admitting to Nigel that she took the train to work.
Her phone won’t stop ringing. First, it had been Miranda, who basically said if she planned to show up late she could plan living in the streets.
Next, Nate, who still isn’t over their breakup six months ago.
“Lord Almighty,” Andy says under her breath, fists tight around the wheel. Andy knows they wanted to be something in the long run but surely he had better things to do?
It’s ringing again. She’s sliding down the road feeling hot and warm and the sound honestly makes her contemplate suicide. If she hears it one more time, Andy’s going to drive off the highway. She’ll bring each one of those posh cars and that horrid looking Tesla down with her. All of them will be ultimately crushed when they hit the ground.
Andy slams her wrist into the horn. She looks in the rearview mirror before finally picking up the call.
“Hello?” Andy says, biting into her lip as she nearly collides with a bus. She promises she isn’t this aggressive normally. The venom in her voice sounds new even to her. “Nate, I swear to God, please stop getting your friend to call me I’m gonna explode-”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Andy, it’s just me!”
The clipped, annoyed accent brings Andy back to the ground. Her face goes red. She was not to speak to Emily Charlton like that - no matter how cruel she could be, talking down was Emily’s job, not hers.
“Emily! I didn’t know it was you!”
She hears a derisive laugh. “Clearly. Otherwise you’d have exploded by now.”
Andy swerves into a lay-by to catch her breath. She rests her forehead on the wheel, closing her eyes. She was so on edge. It felt as if something was trying to crawl out of her empty stomach and kill her. Maybe she should have had breakfast.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “Is there anything you need? I promise I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Deep breaths, Andy.
“No, you won’t be,” Emily spits. “And as it turns out, I won’t be either. I’m on a sidewalk in the middle of God knows where hoping Miranda won’t have me beheaded.”
“You’re not there yet?”
“Of course not. My bloody car broke down.”
Andy brings her fingers to her hair. Maybe she wasn’t a far cry from becoming Emily after all. “I’m sorry, Em.”
She pulls the phone a few inches away from her ear when Emily lets out a frustrated groan.
“You know what really gets me about this?” Emily sounds like she’s burning up. “It’s not that it’s brand new or anything. It’s that I’m in head to toe Valentino in a tiny convenience store.” Her voice narrows down to a furious whisper. “A convenience store, Andy.”
Emily told her she tried her best to get the engine working again - which meant that she had sighed, whined and thrown a tantrum. She can’t believe it either though. Andy saw that gorgeous Lexus for herself once and it ran smoothly up the building parking lot only yesterday.
“I just really need a ride,” says Emily. Andy thinks she hears a rare vulnerable groove in Emily’s voice, distorted by the signal of the call.
“I can call someone to keep the car safe for you. Then you can take the subway.”
“The subway?” Andy could see the scowl from miles away.
She bites back a laugh. “Fine, I’ll pick you up in forty.”
She’ll owe Lily a handbag again, two this time. It’s the only way to go. Miranda needs all hands on deck today. Everybody needs to be panicking, nauseous and suicidal. No exceptions - a big name accepted an interview with Runway and everything down to the detail of her dress needs to be perfect.
Emily scoffs. “La di da, Andy. Aren’t you just my Prince Charming.”
Andy rolls her eyes. “No ‘thank you’?”
Of course not. Emily Charlton hates her guts.
She starts the car again, placing her phone on the seat. She checks the time. It’s seven thirty sharp. If she broke the speed limit, she could get to Emily before lunch and make it back to the building just in time for Miranda’s grand arrival.
Her head throbs already - this was going to be difficult. She wasn’t good at managing her time. Her parents said so, her professors said so, and of course that clear observation didn’t breeze past Miranda. The woman already despises her presence.
“Turn left.”
Pedal to the fucking metal it is.
×
Andy didn’t care anymore.
Her hip thrashes one too many times against the buckle of the seatbelt. She blazes past busy streets and avenues as if she had a death wish. She does; her boss did say she was destined for a peddler’s life if she arrived late. She’d be more comfortable dying in a freak car accident than that.
The angry honks deafen her. She flinches each time, ducking as if the sound meant a slap to the face. She’d hope that the time she spent breaking every traffic law would make her used to them. Road rage is nothing against Emily Charlton, who would kill her if she left her out there.
Not that Andy would. That was never in the cards, but-
“Watch where you’re going, dumbass!”
Andy digs her feet into the brakes. Too late. The car comes to a sharp, deafening halt into a pedestrian lane. Her body’s already hurling forward. The seatbelt keeps most of her pinned to the seat, but her forehead ends up smacking hard into the windshield, then the solid curve of her own wheel. The pain jolts like an electric shock throughout her body.
The couple she nearly ran over doesn’t look happy at all. The woman, dressed in cashmere and disdain, fires her a glare.
“I’m sorry!” says Andy, giving her an awkward grin. The sweat on her temple feels thick. “Student driver!”
The fucking GPS app chose this moment to cheerfully announce: “Head west to Odysseus Avenue. You’ve arrived ten minutes early!”
Andy inhales sharply. The man beside the annoyingly posh lady flips her off. A chorus of groans erupt from behind her.
She keeps her eyes on the road this time.
She tries to think of the continued groans and beeps as something normal - like birds chirping, or maybe the click of heels across the office floor. Anything to keep herself from another disaster.
West.
She remembers last doing this during her first few months at Runway. Nigel called her Six so often it sounded more automatic than insulting. Serena liked to laugh in her face than do it behind her back. And Emily… she wasn't the nicest person in the world either.
East.
But that doesn’t mean Andy would leave her in an unknown city all by herself. Her shoulders finally drop upon seeing Emily. She’s waiting at the sidewalk, hands on her waist and looking very, very uncomfortable.
Emily’s brows lift, almost reaching her hairline. She still looks shaken as she climbs into the car. “Andy?”
She already knows how this conversation is going to play out. “Yeah,” Andy sighs. She reaches over to fix the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, Princess, but my dad’s car is the best carriage you’re gonna get.”
Silence.
Andy’s nose scrunches up. That’s odd. No rebuttal from Emily? Nothing about her cheap window tint and totally not sweatproof makeup? There’s something going on with her.
When Andy tilts her head to look at her, Emily looks horrified.
“Andrea,” she says. “You’re hurt.”
Andy has no idea what should confuse her more: Emily’s suddenly quiet voice or the hand on her cheek.
Emily’s hand is soft. The lines crossing her palms don’t even add to the nonexistent texture. It feels like a damn cloud. Emily’s short (always), black nails scratch gently up into her hair.
Okay, Emily’s acting super weird. She grabs onto her wrist.
“Emily-”
“Don’t move,” the redhead says before she could finish her sentence. Her fingers ride up to Andy’s hairline where she finally feels it.
Emily had dipped her fingers into a light trail of blood.
It isn’t deep enough for a concussion but it sure as hell feels like one. The pain dawns on her as soon as the realization sinks in.
Andy’s expression twists, but she tilts her head away. “It’s fine, I’m alive, aren’t I? We have to go now.”
Emily tugs on her hair irritatedly, and Andy hisses through clenched teeth. “You’re not going to work like this!”
“Of course I am.” Andy really wishes that didn’t feel good. “I didn’t drive all the way here to eat noodles.”
“Well, you’re certainly not getting in the building with a bloody gash on your forehead. You look a mess.”
Andy snorts in spite of the pain. “‘Bloody.’ This is the first time you used that properly.”
“You are unbelievable.”
Emily lets go of her hair. She’s wearing an expression that should only be suitable if she saw a doe getting hit by a car. Andy doesn’t understand why. She has no reason to look horrified when it’s a minor injury. At least she didn’t come out disfigured from driving into a tree.
Emily rolls her eyes and starts typing furiously into her phone. She could be so fussy sometimes. All over an injury that isn’t hers to begin with. Andy knows she can’t win against her. She’s tried multiple times and failed just as many.
Andy sighs. “Look, Emily, it’s not a big deal.”
“Too late,” says Emily. “I’ve told Serena to cover for us. You are to drive to my place and get that treated.”
She holds up her phone, showing Andy the texts. Serena doesn’t sound too happy about it looking at those emojis.
Andy shakes her head firmly. “No. Sasha Barnes is-”
“Andy.”
×
Emily’s house is actually really nice.
It’s not as grand as Miranda’s townhouse but it’s a cut above what Andy sees in her crummy little apartment building. It sort of motivates her to get out of that place as soon as she can. Emily’s place has dim, yellow lights and clean minimalist paintings adorning the walls, save for the paintings that are an occasional burst of color. Emily likes a lot of things muted - color schemes, her phone, Andy’s mouth. The same clearly goes for her place.
The tiles in the bathroom are cut cleanly and run up to the bathtub, where a table of expensive fragrances sit. Emily makes her get on the vanity so she could press the betadine to her skin. When Andy’s huge eyes blink in confusion, Emily lets out a loud sigh.
“Why must you grind my gears so much?” she asks. She sounds worn out and exhilarated and Andy would really love to put her out of that misery. But she’s still unsure about that cotton ball she’s holding.
She’s uneasy about it. The whole thing in general. The idea of Emily Charlton taking care of her… it’s strange. But she’s already in her house, so she might as well do as she says.
“Is this really necessary?” Andy hoists herself up.
Emily places a hand on Andy’s skirt, pressing her down the surface. “Those eyebrows are unnecessary, but you don’t hear me complaining about them.”
Andy pouts, batting her lashes. It annoys Emily to no end because it’s coquettish and stupid and Emily hates coquettish and stupid. She’s making a face at it now, like she had smelled something bad.
Andy bursts out laughing. Bingo.
The little snarky remarks don’t hurt anymore. Sometimes she misses them, especially when she got that flu and couldn’t speak without sneezing. Or right now - when Emily’s pressing the yellowed cotton ball to her forehead.
She gasps and curls up against the mirror in pain. The pain could blind her, Jesus. She can actually feel tears well up in her eyes. It was not supposed to hurt that much.
“Aw, did that hurt?” Emily asks. “Serves you right. Should’ve known better than to stop by death’s door.”
“I was trying to help you,” she says, annoyed.
“I wouldn’t have made you get all the way there if it meant you could die.”
Andy can’t stop the big, giddy smile from spreading on her face. It dulls the pain throbbing at her forehead. “Oh, Emily, you care about me.”
“You can’t die before the Book is finalized after all.” Emily looks dedicated to reading the ingredients listed on the bottle of betadine. “We’re quite short-staffed.”
Andy giggles. If she reads between the lines, she can say that was definitely a compliment. And Emily doesn’t just give out compliments to anybody.
Plus, it was nice to get to see where Emily does most of her brooding. It gives her some humanity. Andy sits on the sofa and wonders how many fits this house bore for her, which visitors it held. She has little idea of Emily’s background apart from the fact that she was originally from the UK, but she guesses her father had a hand in getting her this house. It’s awfully posh, the type that makes Andy wonder if her fake gold watch is obvious.
But it must be lonely to share a house this beautiful with… nobody.
Emily doesn’t look like a girl who’d be bothered by being alone though. Andy watches her move in quick strides across the living room. The tie swings from her neck and she’s wearing the permanent scowl to match its darkness. There are no board games, no collectables to speak of in Emily’s shelves. There’s only vintage little figurines and a walk-in closet. Andy has to tilt her head to see past Emily’s bedroom and really get an idea of how it’s bursting with designers.
White walls, clean speckless floors, and dim lights. Yeah, that’s Emily.
“It’s too late to go to work.” Andy lifts her watch to the glare of light. If they strode in those doors, they would look shameless.
“Really. I didn’t notice,” Emily sniffs. “I suppose you can make yourself comfortable. For now. There’s lunch in the cupboard.”
“I’m not hungry, thanks. But if I start starving, I can order takeout.”
Emily wrinkles her nose. “Suit yourself.”
Andy imagines she doesn’t like the sound of that very much. Emily eats clean - each calorie is accounted for and she absolutely hates carbs. She shrugs it off.
It’s so… new, a good kind of new to be exact, to be sitting here with Emily and just existing. Emily’s just sitting across her, in her little Valentino outfit, studying her fingernails. There aren’t any errands to run or frisky interns to manage. It’s only Emily in her big house and tiny space between them and the tiny crease between her brows. It makes Andy think they could almost be friends. Even if she eats carbs and Emily can be mean.
“I suppose you’re quite upset now, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“Driving miles, putting yourself in danger all for nothing. In Chanel, too.”
“It’s fine,” says Andy, having lost count of the number of times she said this. “Shit happens. I guess I don’t mind a day-off.”
Emily shrugs. She sinks into the sofa. She’s angled her body, denting into the soft recline, to look at Andy. Her dark blue eyeshadow is smudged. It looks good that way. Andy chooses not to tell her.
She and Andy make small talk. Andy is aware that she was supposed to leave a few hours ago but doesn’t. It’s comfortable here, hearing the soft buzz of Emily’s airconditioning. She feels obligated to keep her company for the trouble she put her through - for the trouble Andy herself was put through. The bandage on her forehead is a reminder. Emily owes her one, but she never bothered charging her anyway.
And a part of her wants to know more about Emily. She’s wondered sometimes, even in the comfort of her own apartment, what Emily did beyond being Miranda Priestly’s assistant. Turns out that Emily liked to learn languages in her little spare time.
Andy’s jaw drops. It sounds like an Emily thing to do, but she didn’t expect Italian. She grabs Emily’s hands and squeezes them as hard as she can. “Say something!” she says excitedly.
Emily scoffs. “You really aren’t any different from foreigners.” She slouches a little and speaks in what sounds like a forced American accent. “‘Oh, say something in Spanish, amigo!’ Hija de puta! So darn annoying.”
Andy cannot stop laughing. Now that she could understand. Her midriff could tone into a six pack if Emily spoke any longer. Her eyes crinkle up and she’s probably crushing Emily’s knuckles into dust right now. If she is, Emily doesn’t say anything.
When the laughter subsides (it takes approximately two minutes and forty-five seconds for her to get over it), she gets courage from Emily’s small, guarded smile to ask again.
“Come on,” she says. “Just once, please?”
Emily squints her eyes. “Fine.”
Andy waits. The girl’s mouth is curled to the side. It takes half a beat for Emily to lift her chin.
“Hai degli occhi bellissimi."
Emily’s Italian sounds thinner, more pronounced. Her face is working up to be as red as her hair. Andy would’ve loved to hear her speak like that 24/7 if she could understand a word.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not telling you.”
As expected, Andy starts to whine again. “Come on, you can’t just say that and not let me know! Tell me!”
“No. Shan’t.” Emily looks proud of herself. “You can look it up when your phone’s finished leeching off my adaptor and my electricity bill.”
Emily sounds fluent. Andy thinks about what else she didn’t know about her. The house piqued her curiosity even more. She can’t stop looking around. Andy asks what she does all alone here, and regrets it immediately. Emily looks like she asked her if she ever killed somebody.
“I do not spend my days here alone!” she declares loudly. Andy thought she was going to swing at her. “I have plenty of people over all the time!”
“Like…?” Andy prompts.
This is the first time she’s gotten Emily speechless. She’s not even meeting Andy’s gaze. She rests her head against her palm and diverts her focus to the clearly plastic house plant she has near the door.
When Emily speaks again, her voice is small. “Serena.”
Andy presses her finger to her temple. “And what did you and Serena do… if it’s true she went here? Psychoanalyze my outfits? Share martinis? Talk about your hookups?”
“I don’t hook up, Andy. That’s for little girls who think a man’s bed is some sort of comfort,” remarks Emily, making Andy cackle.
“Hey, some girls hook up with women, too!”
Emily shifts in her seat. “And?”
“So what would that make… let’s say Serena, if she hooked up with a woman? Still a little girl?”
Emily looks away. Andy stares for a moment, trying to wonder why she’s acting odd. Then her mouth falls open.
“No way!” Andy yells, bouncing the pillow in her lap. “Serena’s gay?”
“That’s right, let the whole neighborhood hear you.”
Andy pinches her fingers and zips it over her mouth. “No, I’m sorry, I was just…” She laughs again. “I didn’t expect her to be, y’know, into girls. I thought she had a boyfriend?”
Emily’s holding her forehead now, as if it’s bleeding like Andy’s, as if she had gotten into a car accident, too. “It’s for propriety. The guy’s too in love with her to notice.”
Andy remembers Serena leaving Runway a year back to get married. What was it like having to get married to someone you can’t love even if it meant your life? Serena’s boyfriend was loaded. Maybe that was some consolation.
Andy smiles teasingly. “So that’s why you and Serena are always together.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Just because she likes women and I’m a woman myself doesn’t mean we ever hooked up.”
Andy raises her brows, making the crease fold into the band-aid on her forehead. “Did you?” she asks.
Emily checks the time on the wall. It’s well past lunch but neither of them are hungry. Andy takes her coat off and ponders if Emily’s silence means what she thinks it means. She decides not to press further.
“You know, I called you.” Emily lets her red hair fall down her shoulders. Andy watches the hairtie slide down her wrist.
“You did. That’s why I went all the way here and got…” Andy points to her band-aid and offers her an awkward smile.
Emily shakes her head. “No, a second time. Right after you ended the last one.”
Andy must have dismissed it as she was driving. Her phone was old. It lagged if she had so much as two apps open at the same time.
“I…” Emily stops. She looks like she’s about to throw up. “I called again to say thank you.”
Andy didn’t mean to gasp, and now she definitely ruined the moment. Emily’s scowling again. She struggled so much through getting past the confession only to be greeted with Andy’s annoying… portrayal of happiness. All that laughing. That act of putting her hands curled under her chin and smiling so wide it could reach her ears.
Andy can’t help it if she tried. Emily cringes at how she places a hand over her heart and does that little pout again. “You wanted to say thank you?”
“I believe that’s what I just said, yes,” Emily replies shortly.
Andy knows the girl’s allergic to any kind of affection, but she pulls her in for a big hug anyway. She could smell the perfume in the bathroom on Emily’s neck. Was she squeezing her too hard? Emily’s gone stiff in her arms.
Right. They weren’t totally friends yet, although she wishes they were. Andy pulls away.
She smiles. It feels good to know that the girl who basically told her she was a lost cause on the first day is grateful.
Emily is staring at her oddly. Her lips are parted and her hands are in fists on her lap. Andy takes the hint then stops holding her completely.
“You’re always welcome,” says Andy cheerfully. “And I’m sorry for dropping the call on you. I was in traffic, so like it was really busy and everything.”
No words from Emily. She has the gaze of a killer. Her hazel eyes needle through her. Andy slink into the corner of the sofa.
“If you need anything, I can, um, try to give it to you. I know we’re not friends but I actually have a lot of respect for you and your work eth-”
Emily grabs Andy’s wrist and pulls her in. Her gasp is drowned out by Emily’s lips on hers.
Andy can’t even move because fuck, why did Emily have to be such a good kisser? Emily’s placed a hand on her neck while her fingers crept into her hair. She can taste the lipgloss she raved on about for weeks. Apparently, it tastes as good as it looks.
Andy closes her eyes and kisses back. Her body curves up into Emily, trading a kiss for a kiss, a touch for another one. Their bodies feel like live wire sparking into a housefire. Andy can’t put it out.
All of a sudden, it ends. Emily pulls away breathless. Andy has to stop herself from chasing the sensation. They’re both an embarrassing red in the face.
Not even Nate kissed her like that. It was a pretty low bar, but she didn’t know a kiss could feel that good. Emily stole her breath completely.
She also honestly made her pretty fucking wet. Andy blushes at the thought.
“I- Jesus Christ.” Emily is panting. She glares at Andy accusingly. Never could hide an emotion for once. “You need to stop looking at me like that.”
She’s one to talk. Her eyes are done with a striking dark color that makes them more intimidating than they already are. It’s the look of a feral animal who knows exactly what it’s going to eat.
She’s looking at Andy like that again, which dissolves all the words Andy planned to say. Maybe it’s because there was nothing to be said in the first place.
“Why’d you do it?” Andy asks weakly. She can’t recognize the sound of her own voice. She dumbly thinks about if it was just a nice gesture. Anybody would be nice to Andy after what she did.
If that’s Emily being nice, Andy would hate to see how she gets when she’s being mean.
Emily’s staring at her mouth again. There’s an invisible weight holding her back from pouncing on Andy. “I… I don’t know. I mean, you’re pretty, of course you are. And it came out of nowhere.”
Pretty, Emily said. And then of course you are, as if saying she was pretty was common sense. Andy shivers.
“Can you do it again?”
Andy can’t believe what she’s asking. She’s high off the taste of Emily’s lips. She can’t come down. She needs Emily to ground her or take her even higher, either works.
Luckily, she doesn’t have to wait. Emily’s mouth is on hers, then on her neck. She’s a lot sloppier this time. Andy holds her tight on her lap, trying to hold down this animalistic girl who’s determined to pull her apart.
Because that’s how Emily feels on top of Andy: she’s biting, sucking at her skin and grasping her hair. She’s clawing at Andy. Her nails are talons scratching deep into her skin.
Emily slots a knee between her legs. She presses it right up to where Andy’s all soaked and needy, seizing a moan from her hickeyed throat.
“I thought you said you don’t do hookups,” Andy mumbles, although she’s frantically helping Emily unzip her skirt. Emily’s rough laugh buzzes against her jaw.
“Not with men. And who said this was going to be a one-time thing?”
“Oh-” It’s humiliating to hear her own breath catch, even more to watch her body react so willingly to Emily’s fingers. They stroke over her lips a few times, measuring the wetness and how many of these gestures it would take to get Andy to come.
Andy prays Emily realizes it won’t take long. She whimpers into Emily’s mesh-draped chest when she feels the light graze of her nail on her clit. Maybe this is why Emily never bothered for press-ons, and not only because she thought they were tacky when worn too often.
“Does that feel good?” Her voice drops to a whisper. Andy was just beginning to think she couldn’t get more turned on.
“Yeah…” she says. She bites her lip and throws her head back into the sofa pillow. “Yeah…”
Andy is wrung out, shaking and tight under Emily’s dutiful fingers. She can’t stop whimpering. She tries to think of reasons why she shouldn’t do this, why she shouldn’t fuck Emily, but none of them can snap her out of this daze.
“God, you’re a bad influence on me.” Emily’s voice comes out gritty and pained. Andy’s cunt pulses hotly around her, the tremor of her body making Andy’s thigh bounce.
Andy has no idea what that means. She wishes she had the strength to perhaps touch Emily, do more than just hold her waist. But since Emily has to be good at everything she does, she’s lying back in the sofa living off the sensation of Emily’s fingers curling and uncurling inside her, the image of Emily on her lap and staring at her, studying her, wanting to see every detail of the blissful expressions on her face.
Maybe it’s not the fingers rapidly stroking her that’s throwing Andy over the edge. She thinks it’s how Emily’s looking down at her, sweating and panting, someone who accepted this day had only one way to end and it was to go rabid on a woman she’s found too attractive for too long. Someone who can’t hold back any longer.
Neither can she. Andy curls up, writhing, her moans cracking halfway. Emily keeps going until her cunt feels hot and oversensitive. She thinks she’s sobbing. Her muscles wound so tight she thinks they’re going to rip. The sounds purged by the thrusts show just how wet she is. She has to gently take Emily’s aching wrist away.
“I can’t feel my legs,” says Andy with a laugh. Emily smirks.
“You also ruined my sofa, but I think we can find a way for that to be forgiven.”
Andy bites her lip. “Are you going to let me return the favor?”
Her heart jumps as Emily, contemplative, draws in closer, her soaked fingers having just been in her mouth. She wants to touch Emily, to make her feel good as much as she did, let this strange brink in their relationship last before something goes wrong-
Emily pulls away with a wicked smile before primly sitting back down and smoothing her hair. Andy groans.
“You’re a tease,” she says.
“Never said I wasn’t. Maybe you could return the favor after you get yourself another injury.”
Meanie, Andy thinks. But she considers that, showing up to Emily’s house uninvited, the wound nowhere to be found. It doesn’t sound too bad. “Will you still take care of me if I do?”
It’s a shot in the dark. There’s no sure thing about what happens next. Andy can picture them awkwardly moving around each other in Runway and giving Nigel another headache.
But she also thinks that she can guess what Emily’s Italian meant from the way she’s looking at her now. She thinks about the bandage on her forehead and the food she made her. About the thank you lost to the traffic that earned her the said bandage.
And at the same time, Emily nods slowly. “I’m not totally against that.”