FOR FUTURE REFERENCE, HITTING THE REFRESH BUTTON OVER and over doesn’t actually change the files in your history folder. Neither does shutting down your computer and restarting it. Or crying onto your keyboard.
I don’t actually cry, but I know all about the stages of grief thanks to my psychology class and I process through them in a hurry.
Denial: The files are not gone. They’re here somewhere. I know it.
Anger: How could this possibly have happened?
Bargaining: If I just unplug you, will you bring my files back?
Depression: Noooooooooo!
Acceptance: Okay, the files are gone. What do I do about it?
I fix the problem, that’s what.
At twelve thirty, after most of the floor has cleared out for the weekend, I peek into Emma’s office. The space is a glass cube filled with white-and-silver furniture in sleek, futuristic lines. Like her apartment, it’s a reflection of another side of her personality—efficient and functional while maintaining an air of quality and class. I tap on the all-glass door, totally different from the wood doors that front the junior executives’ offices, and she waves me in without looking up from whatever she’s working on.
Watford lifts his head, sees that it’s me, and rolls onto his side.
Emma greets me with more enthusiasm than the dog. “Yesterday was so crazy that I forgot to ask how your meeting with Gabe went.”
I lay it out for her, ending with getting my questions answered at Moretti’s.
“Maddie! This is fabulous.” She slaps her desk with excitement. “I had no idea he was multitalented.”
“Yeah.” I have to swallow before I lie. My mom has a magical sense about when I’m not being one hundred percent honest, but I’m hoping it’s another thing that doesn’t extend to Emma. “I thought I’d get some video of him playing the piano and doing a few other things.” Like everything I lost, which is sad because the fast footwork video was so good.
“Great. Go ahead and set it up with him.”
Do not collapse. Do not show relief. “Okay, sure. Do you think I need to get William to go with me or—”
“No, he’s buried in survey analysis. Can you handle Gabe by yourself?”
“I totally can!” Chill a bit, Mads. Don’t give it away now. “I mean, I just think this is a great opportunity to show William that I’m really good at this job.”
“Agreed.”
I’m texting Gabe before I’m all the way down the hall.
Me: Hi. I’d like to iron out a time to meet and get some other clips filmed for your social media accounts. Specifically, you playing the piano. Please let me know what times will be suitable. But as soon as possible. Please.
Instantly, my phone buzzes.
Gabe: You said please twice.
I can totally imagine the snotty tone of his voice. I manage not to respond with an eyeroll emoji, even though that’s exactly what I do physically.
Me: Sorry.
Gabe: Now you have a 1-word response?
My expression morphs into an unwilling smirk.
Me: Maybe.
Gabe: Yes.
Fine. I can play this game with you.
Me: ???
Gabe: Sunday.
I send him a pin emoji because that requires no words but conveys my need for a location perfectly. Top that, sucker. He responds with a pinned address, which, depending on the rules of this particular game, is on par with my text. Then I realize that I’m playing with freaking Gabriel Fortunato instead of simply getting the job done.
Me: What time?
Gabe: 7 p.m.
Me: It might take a while.
He sends an “okay” emoji. I hate him because he’s winning.
I walk back to Aunt Em’s office to let her know my plan, but she’s on the phone. Her elbow is on her desk, forehead in her palm, crumpled tissue on the calendar in front of her. It’s shocking to see her so upset. Even when my grandpa died, she managed to laugh and tell jokes and reminisce about the good times with her father. She spoke so eloquently at his funeral that I wished I would have known Papa better, and Em didn’t shed a single tear. What could shake her so badly now?
Watford rises from his spot beneath her desk and puts his paw on her arm; he senses something is wrong.
I want to do the same, but when she pushes him away, I know she’s not in the mood to be bothered. Instead of waiting for her call to end, hovering outside the glass office like a creeper, I borrow a ring-light tripod from the storage room, put my company-issued laptop into my bag since I’m going to need it over the weekend, and clean off Patty’s desk.
When I check back in, Emma’s typing on her computer with her back to her office door.
“I’m ready to head out,” I whisper, opening the door just wide enough to stick my head through. “Are you going to be leaving soon?”
She turns around to face me, and it’s as if nothing happened. No puffy eyes or streaked makeup. No remnant of her breakdown a few minutes before.
“Not yet. I’ve got a couple things to do, but do you mind taking Watford?”
“Sure.”
He’s curled around her feet, and when she pulls out his harness, he refuses to stand up. “Come on, Watty.” He usually lifts one paw to make it easier to slip his leg through the hole, but he grunts and curls up tighter.
Emma shakes her head, amused. “Doesn’t my big baby want to go on a walk?” she says in her stupid dog-voice. He licks her hand, then puts his nose against her ankle. “I have no idea why he’s being so clingy.”
I do. Watford might be big and drooly, but he’s also smart. She scrubs his ears tenderly. “I guess I’ll bring him when I come home.”
“Sounds good. Do you need anything?” Like someone to talk to. I don’t say that, but I wonder if she might need someone to listen.
“Are we still on for steak frites?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“Then we don’t need anything else.”
I stop at the convenience store anyway and pick up a half gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream—Em’s favorite.
I have a feeling we’ll both need it before this weekend is over.
I’M CURLED UP ON THE COUCH EDITING WILLIAM’S FOOTAGE BY THE time Emma gets home at a little after five.
“Hi,” she says on an exhale, kicks off her nude sling-backs by the door, and sweeps my feet off the couch.
“You okay?” I ask, as she plops down beside me.
Watford tries to climb into the space between us, but there really isn’t enough room. His head is on Emma’s leg; his butt is on me. Neither of us move to push him away even though he’s smelly from his walk home.
“Do you care if we order up?” she asks. “We can still have steak frites, but wouldn’t it be better to eat in our pajamas?”
Nice deflection, Em. “Sounds great to me.” Especially since I’m already in my jams.
She makes the call, and I go back to editing. William’s footage is not as good as mine, so making it look decent isn’t nearly as easy as it was when I was working on my own. He filmed everything at eye level, which is fine for candid things but means I can’t replicate anything I’d already done.
Emma comes out of her bedroom, face scrubbed, hair tied on top of her head. With her sloppy clothes on, she looks younger. Not that thirty-eight is ancient, but without her fancy wardrobe and perfect appearance, she seems more than six years younger than my mom.
She turns on a recorded episode of The Bachelorette, and we eat in front of the TV in near silence. This is not normal.
“Em, did something happen today? You seem off.”
She takes a long time chewing and swallowing one of her blue cheese—sprinkled fries. “Geoff called.”
It takes me a moment to process the name. He stopped being Uncle Geoff before the divorce was even final; I haven’t thought about him with that moniker since the last Christmas they spent with my family. They could have stayed in any hotel, but they always wanted to be part of the Christmas morning experience. Cube was so infatuated with the magic of Santa Claus, and watching him open presents was adorable. Every year Mom bought Em and Geoff plaid pajama pants to match ours, and they sat in the recliner together, whispering about when they’d have kids of their own and the traditions they’d carry on. That last Christmas wasn’t any different than any of the five previous years—except we had more snow than usual, and Geoff helped us build a tunnel the entire length of our backyard.
None of us knew at the time that he was already hooking up with the Olympian. None of us knew that he was the biggest fake that ever existed.
“You mean The Cheating Bastard?”
She cringes like she’d just bit her tongue. “You’ve really got to stop calling him that.”
“Doesn’t make it untrue.” Doesn’t change the sour taste I get in my mouth every time I think about him. Doesn’t change that he hurt my aunt. Doesn’t change the fact that so many of my Christmas memories, my first trip to New York, and my only trip to the ocean are tainted by his presence.
“I don’t want to say ‘You’ll understand when you get older’ because I hope you never do.” She closes her eyes and rests her head against the back of the couch. “Relationships are complicated. Even when someone breaks your heart, even after they hurt you, it’s hard to stop loving them.”
I don’t want to say that I understand because, even though Geoff betrayed our family, his actions absolutely gutted Emma. Today might have been the first time I’d seen Emma cry, but it wasn’t the first time I’d heard her. She came to live with us for a few months while the divorce was being finalized and their home was being sold. In front of us, she was fine, Super-Fun Aunt Em, but at night, I could hear her sob-filled conversations with my mom. She blamed herself for his affair, saying that she hadn’t spent enough time being present, being there when he needed her. She said she was too wrapped up in the business of being his wife, instead of loving him like she should have.
To me, it was all just a weird sort of justification. Geoff made a bad decision, and no matter what Emma did or did not do, she couldn’t control his actions. He was a big boy, and he’d made the decision to cheat.
The thing is, I know Geoff loved Emma. I know it like I know my parents love each other. What I can’t understand is choosing, over and over, to put yourself in a position to hurt someone you love.
Before I can talk again, I have to do some chewing of my own. “What did Geoff have to say?”
She sighs and nibbles the end of a fry. “He’ll be in town next week, and he wants to see Watford.”
“Which means he’ll have to see you.”
Nodding, miserable, Emma picks through her frites until she finds another piece of blue cheese.
“And you still love him.”
She shrugs. “I shouldn’t.”
But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t. I’m not really sure what to do with that revelation. There’s a part of me that wants to offer to take Watford to wherever they’re meeting and give Geoff a piece of my mind. And there’s a part of me—the little girl part who remembers riding on his shoulders and wearing his jersey—who wishes things could go back to the way they were before.
Except I know there’s never any going back.
My voice is small. “I got ice cream even though you told me not to.”
Emma’s face breaks into its widest smile. “Let’s bust that out.”
There’s no resolution to our conversation, no clear decision made or plans laid, but we sit close to each other, eating ice cream out of the same container, and we’re okay.