I AM ALSO IN NEW YORK RIGHT NOW.
Sarah
Shut up. You are? Why?
Emerson
Does anyone truly need a reason to be in New York?
Sarah
In February? Yes. Yes, they do.
Emerson
Fine. True. Do you remember me mentioning Jeremy?
Sarah
The violinist?
Emerson
That’s him. He’s from Long Island. We’re here for the weekend to meet his family.
Instead of responding to Emerson’s message, I immediately call him.
He answers on the first ring.
“Um, we’re just working that into a random text message like it’s no big deal? You’re meeting his family?”
“Do you like how I did that?” Emerson says.
“So this is pretty serious between you two,” I say, sitting up and tugging my comforter around my shoulders. My temporary apartment is nice, but I’ve had the toughest time keeping it warm. Which is odd because it shouldn’t be difficult to heat two hundred square feet.
“Yeah, it really is,” he says. “Not that I have any desire to talk about me. I told you I’ve seen your Instagram, woman. You havea lotto tell me.”
I’ve been posting pictures of my residency all week, so I’mnot surprised Emerson wants all the details, and he’s exactly the friend I would love to share them with.
“Where are you?” I say. “Want to meet for coffee?”
“I was hoping you’d ask that,” Emerson says. “Because I’m actually outside the Bainbridge and I alreadyhavecoffee.”
I practically squeal as I jump out of my bed. “Shut up! Are you serious? I’m coming down right now.” I toss on a hoodie and fly down the stairway that leads into the studio. There’s a side door into a narrow alley, and I prop it open with a loose brick that’s left on the stoop for precisely this purpose and run up to the sidewalk to look for Emerson. It’s absolutely frigid outside, so I’d better not have to look long. Thankfully, he’s only a few yards away.
“Emerson!” I call, and he spins around. I haven’t seen him in almost a month, and the sight of his lanky frame makes me so incredibly happy. He has a little more facial hair than he did the last time I saw him, but everything else is just the same.
“Have you lost your mind?” he asks as he walks toward me, two coffee cups in his hands. “Your feet are bare.”
I reach up to give him a hug which he only partially returns because of his full hands.
“Please don’t make me spill,” he says as I squeeze his neck. “These lattes were ten dollars apiece.”
“Are they dusted with gold?” I ask, dancing back and forth to keep my toes from freezing to the sidewalk. “Come on. Let’s get back inside.”
Once we’re back in my tiny accommodations, I grab a pair of socks from my suitcase and a blanket from the bed. Emerson unwinds his scarf from around his neck, but I stop him.
“You should probably keep it on,” I say. “I think my heat is broken.”
