Three
Corey
“Get your shit, you’re coming with me.”
I look over my shoulder at Emma as she barrels into the studio where I’m just finishing up mopping. Before I even realise she’s there, she’s already walked several metres on the clean, wet floor. I raise my eyebrow at her as if to say ‘really?’ and she smiles sheepishly at me as she beats a hasty retreat to the doorway.
“Sorry, babe. I didn’t see you were mopping. See, if you’d ever let me help you, I mighta been able to keep better track of what ye were doin’, so technically, I think this little incident was actually all your fault.”
“Oh really?” My voice is dripping with disdain as I side-eye her good-naturedly before quickly mopping over the footprints she left behind. Luckily, she hasn’t been outside, so she hasn’t traipsed in mud or anything else too dirty on her shoes. Those fucking ugly shoes.
I’ve been working here for a week or so at this point, and Emma and I have quickly become good friends. We’ve talked a lot, although I’ve been careful about what I’ve shared. I don’t want her to judge me for how things have ended up for me. Not the way I judge myself, anyway. She has no idea, for example, that I’m homeless. I’ve managed to get into a shelter a few nights, but for the most part, I’ve been in my tent in my little makeshift campsite. I’ll be honest, it’s scary how quickly my living setup has begun to feel like home. I do not want that to feel like home.
It’s not a home. It’s a tragedy.
One thing I love about Emma is that she’s the coolest person I know, and quite aside from her being the first friend I’ve made since Rain, she’s also one of the nicest people you could ever wish to meet. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a stone-cold bitch, but like, in a nice way? She’s sarcastic and biting in her humour, and she loves any chance to spill the tea about the comings andgoings of people in the gym, yet she’s also a huge marshmallow at heart who genuinely wants the best for everyone. At the very least, she is completely on my level, and she doesn’t let anyone give her trouble.
One thing, however, on which we absolutely do not agree is her favourite footwear. She wore those cool as hell chunky Docs on the day we met, and while she still wears them often, she tends to mix them up… with Crocs. Not just any old Crocs, which would be bad enough. No. These are black, platform Crocs. She says she loves the style, but I swear to God she just wants the added height. Ugh, I can’t even bear to look at her feet when she wears them. They’re a crime against my eyes.
I shouldn’t complain too much about her impulsive footwear choices, though. She bought another pair of Dr. Martens at the weekend that were too big for her, and she said she felt like she was wearing clown shoes, so she gave them to me, and despite my protests, refused to let me pay for them. I have to admit to being thankful, because in reality, I could not afford them, no matter how much my pride stung at the admission. And despite the blisters and sore spots I’ve gained from breaking the damn things in, they are the best pair of shoes I’ve had in years. Well, boots. Whatever.
I finish mopping and usher her out of the way as I back out of the studio, allowing me to clean every inch of the floor as I go. When the door closes behind me, and I turn to her, she’s leaning on the wall outside of the studio, arms crossed over her chest like she’s ready to throw down.
“What?”
“Get. Your. Shit,” she repeats.
“Where are we going?” I ask, hoping against hope I’m not going to have to, yet again, wriggle out of a night at the pub. I make my way to the fire exit at the back and push the bar to open it so I can pour the dirty water from my mop bucket down the drain.
“To mine. I’ve got a hankering for a curry, and I won’t eat it all, so ye’re coming to help me.” She loops her arm through mine once I’ve closed the door again and stowed the mop and bucket back in the storecupboard.
Before I can protest, I’m swept up in Hurricane Emma, and we’ve closed the gym, locked up, and are making our way through the city centre to her small flat above a florist’s shop. When we get inside, Emma practically strips my jacket from my shoulders and looks meaningfully at my boots. With a huff, I get tountying them, roughly tugging them off my feet. They’re still not quite worn in, so my feet breathe a sigh of relief at their freedom.
I follow her to the living room, but hover uncertainly by the hallway, and my exit route.
“I-I can’t really afford a takeaway, babe,” I say quietly, desperate tears of humiliation burning the back of my eyes. She must think I’m such a loser. A grown man who works every day but can’t afford a takeaway.
“She cares about you.” I hear Gran’s voice in my head, but I shake it off. I know Emma cares about me, but she doesn’t even really know me. If she did, I’m sure she wouldn’t have me here in her home.
“Sit,” she says, sharply. “I want a takeaway, and I want all the dishes I’ve been fantasising about all day. But I can’t eat it all by myself, so I’m buying, and I can either chuck the rest of it away because curry leftovers are gross, oooor...” she sing-songs, and I realise she has me beat. I’ll never knowingly waste food.
I sigh in resignation and sit next to her. I hate feeling like a charity case despite knowing that’s exactly what I am, but my prideful side has a hard time accepting help. She places a hand softly on my knee before squeezing itgently.
“Ye’re not getting out of it, babe. We’re going to get to know each other tonight. Even if I have to pry it out of you with peshwari naan and pinot noir.” She draws her feet up underneath her on the couch and pulls up a delivery app on her phone. I relent, and we order an obscene amount of food. Emma then disappears into her kitchen while I sit cross-legged at one end of the couch, facing where she was sitting. No doubt the interrogation is about to begin.
Something inside me is weirdly fine with it. I’ve held both her and John at arm’s length since I started working at the gym, but the longer I spend with them, the more I feel as though I can trust them. And the glimmer of mischief and her friendly bossiness make it clear tonight is the night we are going to bond.
I smile as Emma returns to the living room, two bottles of red wine, two large glasses, and a corkscrew all perfectly balanced in her hands. I raise an eyebrow at her in question, and she smiles at me wickedly.
“Not my first rodeo, my friend. So…” She flops back into her seat and begins uncorking and pouring the wine. “Spill.”
I take the proffered glass and take a sip,some Dutch courage to get through this conversation.
“Where do you want me to start?” I ask, in a shameless attempt to delay the inevitable.
“In the immortal words of Julie Andrews, let’s start at the very beginning.”
So, I do. I take a deep breath and start talking.
