as I marvel to myself at her uncanny ability to always know to check up on me at my lowest point.
“A song I hope?” she says and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Yep,” I answer, smiling back.
When Emily and I grew apart, it was hard not being able to just say the name of a song to someone and know beyond the shadow of a doubt that they got me. Emily and I created our own language. The song lyrics would do the talking for us. We are so completely in sync with each other that we don’t have to elaborate on our feelings or experiences further than just mentioning the title of a song and who sang it and boom—the other person knows exactly what’s happening.
“Okay, now you can tell me instead of texting me. Is everything okay, are you still in bed? You sound a little off,” she questions as she senses my state of devastation over the phone. If she only knew how off I really was. I don’t think there’s a song out there that could depict how fucked up my life currently is.
“Here Comes The Rain Again” by Annie Lenox was the best I could give her.
“Are you drunk? Why did you just say that? Oh my God, Sara, did you just say that ‘Here Comes the Rain Again’ is by Annie Lenox? You know that the song is by The Eurythmics!” I could almost hear the alarm bells sounding off in her head. That’s how well I know my friend.
“Well, Annie Lenox sang it, so technically it’s by Annie Lenox.” Who was I kidding; my subconscious just sold me out.
“Where are you?” she asks in her no-nonsense voice.
Physically and emotionally I’m in Hell, but I tell her, “Pete’s Tavern…it’s this little—” she doesn’t let me finish.
“I know where it is, I’ll be right there.” And she hangs up.
Great! I should’ve told her I wouldn’t be staying here for long. This place is not Emily’s style. Okay, I guess we’ll need to address my problems first before I get to hear about hers. Here we go, when she sees me, she’ll go into her Dr. Oz, Dr. Phil, and Judge Judy mode on me. Fuck! She will zero in on all my issues and see right through me. My life just keeps getting worse.
Half an hour later, Emily Bruel walks into Pete’s as if she’s a regular. Even in leggings and a T-shirt, she’s stunning. I can see her eyes widen and her mouth form a “what the fuck” expression when she starts walking my way and spots my luggage scattered on the floor all around the O’ Henry Booth I’m occupying. I try to smile as brightly as I can so that maybe she won’t notice the bags, the weight loss, the red eyes, and my colored hair.
“Sara, did you forget to tell me something? Are you in the witness protection program, or are you bailing on me, again?” she asks with wide, worried eyes, staring at me in shock and awe.
“No, Gavin had me evicted this morning after I wouldn’t give him the keys to the apartment a few weeks back. He sold it, and well…legally it still has his name on it, and since we’re no longer married, I don’t have any rights to be there. And to answer your question, I never had that officially changed because he promised me I could stay in New York and live in his apartment as long as we get our divorce settled quickly.” I know what she’s thinking. I know I fucked up because I didn’t want to deal with reality. I trust people and believe their empty promises, letting them take advantage of me. While my job is to protect everybody else, I always somehow fail to protect myself.
“Okay, so what’s the plan? Where are you planning on staying? You know you can always stay with us if you’d like.” She finally slides inside the booth to sit down. She reaches out her hand and we lace our fingers together. It feels soothing to have another human comfort me, and yet an overwhelming amount of guilt blooms in my gut when I look at our joined hands.
“No, you and Louis are still working out your own shit, you don’t need me there. I was thinking I’d crash at the Pla—” Oh shit, I was about to say The Plaza. That’s the place where Emily caught Louis with some ho. That was