Page 61 of The Backup Plan

We fall quiet when the quesadilla we ordered to split comes. There’s a bit of small talk in between bites, but when we don’t talk, the silence is comfortable.

I catch myself stealing glances at her though. This woman makes me want to know more about her.

And one of the most obvious things I want to know more about was the exchange with the woman from her past.

“So do we want to talk about earlier? The woman who stopped us?” I ask.

Emery keeps her eyes focused on her food for a beat, but I can see her shoulders stiffen. “Can’t a girl make a mistake in her past life and not have you notice it in her present one?” she jokes and laughs.

“King of many mistakes here. Don’t try and hog the spotlight.”

She looks up and meets my gaze. Relief floods her eyes just as easily as her smile. She exhales and leans back, copying my posture. “His name is Jared. We met in undergrad, fell in love when he knew what my career path was. We married when I was in med school, and after I graduated, it became painfully obvious to him that I’d become more successful than him, and to me, by the constant insults and criticism he lobbed my way, that he wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

I blow out a long, low whistle.

She simply nods. “A year ago, I went to a conference where I was the keynote speaker and when I came home, there was nothing left from the life I thought we were living, save for the shitty apartment, a torn couch, and some mismatched dishes.”

“Jesus, Em.”

“That about sums it up.” She laughs. “I threw myself into my job and, I’m ashamed to say it, have merely been existing outside of it. This job opportunity came up and when I got it, I decided it was time to pack up what I wanted and start over with everything else.”

I can hear the resolve in her voice and see the defiance in her eyes. It’s impressive. Admirable. But something tells me she doesn’t want to hear that.

No wonder she said this was her time to focus on her career when I asked her last week about a boyfriend. Shit. I had no idea.

“Only weak men don’t want their partner to be successful,” I say and exhale loudly. Fucking prick. “Definitely his loss.”

“Turns out if no one’s paying attention, you learn to push yourself,” she says, repeating my line back to me.

If I was enamored by who I thought Emery Porter was before, I’m even more impressed now by her. Smart, beautiful, and incredibly resilient.

We don’t stay much longer because music and loud voices float in the open windows, and curiosity pulls us outside to check it out.

“Perfect timing,” the hostess says as we approach the entrance. “The street party will pass by here in a few seconds.”

“Street party?” Emery asks.

The hostess smiles. “An evening event. A band leads the march and stops every block or so to play. You can either follow behind it when it moves or just get lost in the crowd and music while it’s here. It’s . . . our little nightly party around here.”

“How cool,” Emery says as she walks out into the street.

The music starts immediately. A new song. A different beat. People shout in appreciation of the selection. Most dance to it. The street becomes a living, moving dance club complete with lights strung overhead in the darkening night and the people clearly enjoying themselves.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

“This is . . . crazy,” she laughs out, hand against her chest, eyes alive, and mouth a mixture of open and smiling as she takes it in.

And I find myself looking at her instead of the chaos around us.

“We can head back if you want,” I say. Although, I’m loving her like this.

She considers it for a half second—lips twisted and head rocking from side to side—before smiling. “The old me would have said yes. The new me . . .” Her grin widens. “Let’s go.”

She’s off the curb and pushing through the crowd before I can think. I jog after her, but she’s already disappeared, so I follow suit, using the glimpses of her ponytail ahead as a guide.

The air is thicker, and the music feels louder, live and pulsing. There’s a sense that everything feels more insistent as more people push into the street.

A hand clamps over mine—Emery’s—and holds tight so I don’t lose her as she pushes her way through. I’m jostled from every direction. Someone steps aside and all of a sudden, I’m propelled forward so that I land solidly against Emery.