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"I was afraid you wouldn't come in. Would’ve sucked sitting here by myself until she showed up," I say, trying to let her know I’m just as uncomfortable.

I don’t think she’s listening to me, too busy messing with her napkin. And when the server comes over to get her drink order, I know she didn’t hear a single word. I bend my head down to meet her brown eyes. "Emma?"

"Huh?" She redirects her gaze as soon as she makes eye contact. She notices the server waiting on her, and her cheeks flush a bright cherry hue. "Sorry. What was that?"

"Do you want something to drink?"

"Um, water's fine."

The server responds politely, "I'll be back with your drink."

Emma eyes the blonde oddly as she walks across the room to the bar. "What's wrong?" I ask. The red has spread across her cheeks and down to her neck. And unlike Rachel’s quick flashes of color, Emma’s has lasting power. "Wow, I thought Rachel had all the hues of red down," I tease, hoping this will draw her out. "But you have a few shades I've never seen before." I laugh, but she doesn’t. She only shrinks further away.

I nod toward the server. "Did she do something wrong?"

"No." And then she’s gone, suddenly disappearing beneath the table. What just happened? She can’t even bring herself to look at me, forget about talk.

Where are you, Rachel?

"Everything okay?" I ask Emma when she finally finds her way back to sitting.

"Just my napkin." She holds up the white napkin and waves it like a flag of surrender. I give an exaggerated nod of acknowledgment.

My phone beeps. When I pull it from my pocket, there’s another text from Rachel. "Looks like she's running later than she thought. She wants us to order, and she'll be here for dessert."

"Great," Emma mutters, not masking the dread in her tone.

"Would you rather not do this?" I don’t want to force her to stay if this is torturing her.

"Sorry.” She frowns. "That sounded really bad. I'm just… nervous."

"Because of me?" That means she cares about what I think, which should be the last thing to worry about.

"I'm not very good at this." Emma’s cheeks must be giving off heat, they’re so red. "I guess you could say I'm not the most social person, so even if you looked like that guy"—she gives a head nod toward the heavyset, middle-aged man at the next table—“I would still be a fumbling idiot."

I think that was a compliment. Her unfiltered words and intense blush remind me so much of Rachel.

"You're just like her," I say out loud, taking her in, maybe for the first time since I walked into the house on Decatur Street. "I mean, you don't look like her at all, and she talks a lot more when she's nervous, but you're just like her. She spilled coffee on me the first time we met."

I’ve always been good at reading people ever since I was little. Not their thoughts exactly, but body language. Their temperament and emotions. It was necessary when navigating the minefield that was Hal Reeves. Not that it mattered if I could tell if my father was pissed or not. I could never prepare for what he threw at me.

Emma is here because her mother wanted her to meet me. I’m hoping Rachel didn’t make us sound even remotely serious. Regardless, Emma’s here, which tells me her mother matters to her, even if she did flinch when I compared the two of them. Won’t do that again.

This is a situation Emma would normally avoid at all costs, indicating the girl across from me is more complicated than she appears. Guilt, I suspect, is what brought her here.

Hard as I try, Emma’s impossible to read. There’s a barrier around her that I have no idea how to navigate. Now I understand why Rachel asked for my help and why she’s so nervous about saying the wrong thing. I feel like everything I’ve said tonight is wrong. And I’m not nearly as unfiltered as Rachel.

"So you met in a coffee shop?" Emma asks.

Progress.

"No," I say. Her question makes it obvious she doesn’t know much about me. "We met at work. I’m with an architectural firm who’s collaborating with her boss’s company on a project. We met about… six months ago.” And here comes Rachel’s version, slipping off my tongue so easily. “But we didn't go out until just recently. She refused to go out with me for the longest time.”

"Really?" She sounds shocked. Maybe she can see past the bullshit. Not many can. I’m well-versed in fictitious narratives. I’ve even convinced myself that my version was the truth a few times.

"The age thing," I explain with a shrug. "She kept saying I was too young." Well, it’s out there now. Hopefully, Rachel appreciates that I now sound like some desperate clinger. Whatever. If this helps in some way, then it’s all good.

"Right," she agrees simply.