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Lonely wasn’t a word Emily Charlton often used to describe herself. She had friends, she had a decent relationship with her family, and she had an ever-rotating bed mate. By the classical definition, she was not lonely.
She was twenty-three and while most of her waking hours were spent being shackled to Miranda needs, she still had a life outside of work. Wednesday nights were spent out at cocktail bars with other assistants, as most Thursdays their bosses came in late. It was a silent truce between the luxury fashion assistants to not call before 10am on Thursdays.
Saturday nights rotated between dinners to catch up with university friends, or going out late to clubs to party and let lose. She met most of her late-night partners there, or Serena if they were both free.
Sunday afternoon she and her parents always called to catch up with each other. England seemed so far from her now, but her life in New York was what she had always dreamed of. Her parents had always been supportive of her dreams and understood the sacrifices Emily had to make in regard to seeing her family. Christmas was the single non-negotiable and Miranda had been kind enough to give her Christmas week off, so long as Emily was back by the 31st for New Years Eve galas.
So no, Emily Charlton would never describe herself as lonely.
And yet, it seemed like the only word that accurately depicted the oppressive feeling weighing her down after Andrea Sachs quit Runway.
She thought at first it might have been dread. She was the only assistant again and would have to find and train a new one to replace unnerving competence.
Fear was next. The fear that she would never find another assistant that would bend to her wishes.
Maybe anxiety? She was again the only assistant which meant double the responsibilities, double the chance of getting fired.
At first, she blamed the lonely feeling on that. She had too much on her plate which caused her to often miss the social events with her friends. Caused relationships to strain to a near breaking point before she finally found Mia, the new second assistant.
Mia was fine. Not bad but not great either. She got the job done with enough efficiency that Miranda didn’t fire her within forty-eight hours. But there were no quick jokes, no playing off of Emily’s snide remarks with one of her own. No extra support.
Emily thought that the lonely feeling would dissipate with Mia’s seemingly permanence at the second desk. It didn’t and suddenly Emily got scared at the feeling.
Unconsciously, Emily started to play into the feeling. Going home early, isolating herself from old friends, skipping calls with her parents with flippant excuses.
Emily started to drink then. Wine, gin, tequila. It didn’t matter, just anything to forget the feeling of loneliness that gripped her heart since Andy up and left without a goodbye.
When Emily looked back at the nine months the two of them sharing the pain of being Miranda Priestly's assistant, she didn’t think they were particularly close.
Her friends outside of Runway knew about her life back in England, about which boys and girls she found attractive, which ones ended up in her bed on Saturday nights. Things friends knew, things they talked and cared about.
Andrea Sachs didn’t know those things. They rarely talked about stuff like that. When Andy had first started, she talked about Nate often, but seeing Emily’s uninterested face made her shut up.
The only other time they talked about Nate was six months into Andy’s tenure when Andy broke up with the man.
Good riddance.
The only time Emily thought they actually talked about friend things was the weeks leading up to Paris when Emily couldn’t contain her excitement anymore.
There was also the time The Book was late, and Emily and Andrea ended up making out in a spare closet. But that didn’t matter. One snog in a closet never made Emily’s heart ache before.
Why would it be any different now?
Andy was beautiful. They wouldn’t have kissed if she wasn’t. She was smart too and annoyingly good at her job. Emily’s anxiety always calmed when she saw Andrea walking into work, but that was just because Emily was happy she had help. Obviously, nothing more. It didn’t matter that Emily felt elated when she introduced Andy to the other assistants one Wednesday night, a month before Andy quit. It didn’t matter she found herself laughing at work sometimes, a little joy in the depths of corporate fashion hell.
So why was it always after only one glass of wine that Andy was on her mind? The woman barely had enough time to make an impression on her, let alone carry that weight.
Why was it after a sip of gin Emily found herself right back in, replaying the memories of those nine months on loop?
After one shot of tequila, she wanted to feel Andy pressed up against her, the same way she had been in that stupid closet.
Emily knew one wrong sip of alcohol would cause her to slip. To give in to the temptation to call Andy and ask if they could be friends.
She stopped drinking then. Cut herself off.
It was starting to affect her performance at work, and not because drinking only made the lonely feeling crawl further up her throat. She started to drink to forget, only to remember more.
Sober Emily was the same though. Now she just didn’t have the excuse of alcohol to blame her thoughts on.
One Sunday she spent analyzing everything. Start to finish, top to bottom. Emily Charlton fell fast and was leaving slow. She fell for the single person she couldn’t have and was unable to get over it.
She should move on; knew she could leave with anybody she wanted.
She tried.
She only became lonelier.
Emily knew she should stay out late, try and unbreak her own heart. Wine, gin, tequila, repeat. She couldn’t.
Except she did. She went out with her friends again, had three types of alcohol and somehow found herself outside of an apartment door she had memorized long ago.
Emily lied to her friends, saying she was going home early, that after a few months sober the alcohol was hitting her faster than she thought. Just like Andy had.
God was she comparing Andy to alcohol, making a metaphor out the situation?
I’m farther gone than I thought.
She went to knock, hesitated, turned around, walked three steps and came back to the door.
Next thing she knew, she had knocked and Andy was standing in front of her, hair messy and a grey Northwestern hoodie on. She blamed the lack of memory on the alcohol, not the striking image of a relaxed and domestic Andrea Sachs.
“Emily?” Andy asked.
No answer from the dumbstruck redhead.
“Emily? Are you okay?” Andy stepped closer then, and the unmistakable smell of alcohol hit her, “You’re drunk.” Not a question, a fact.
Unfortunately, that fact only made Andy more worried, “Em, come on. Come inside. Are you okay, how’d you get here?”
The hand on her arm snapped Emily back to the present, “Andy.” She said plainly.
“Yes, Emily, that’s me. It doesn’t answer a single one of my questions though.”
Right. She should probably do that.
“I-, hi. Yes, I’m okay and I got here by cab. Don’t worry, I’m not stupid enough to wander through New York drunk and by myself.” Emily said.
She sat down on a chair by the dinner table, watching as Andy got her a glass of water.
“I’m glad to hear you’re okay,” Andy said, handing Emily the glass of water, “but what are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but it’s certainly a surprise.”
Emily pointed at Andrea, her wrist limp, “Did you know,” there was a slight slur to her words, “that drinking too much alcohol leads to bad decisions?”
“Yes Emily, it’s one of the first things you learn when drinking.” Andy said. She couldn’t tell if she should be concerned or amused.
Emily couldn’t defend herself for what happened next, but she did warn Andy, “You know, wine makes me think of you. Gin makes me replay the nine months we spent across from each other. And tequila, well tequila makes me want to feel you pressed against me again.”
Andy’s face got progressively flushed throughout Emily’s drunken confession.
“And if you hadn’t left me, I wouldn’t know any of this because I wouldn’t have felt the need drink anyway this feeling.” She stood up, pacing back and forth across the small kitchen.
Andy for her part was tracking every movement Emily made, trying to figure out why her old coworker was drunk in her kitchen, spilling her guts out.
“What, uh, what feeling?” Andy asked, hesitant.
“Lonely,” she laughed, “who would’ve thought you leaving would have made me lonely. Yet here I am now, drunk in your apartment confessing all of this because you’re the only one who can cure me of this loneliness”
“Em, slow down,” Andy got up then and lightly steered Emily back to the chair. She got her settled down before retaking her own seat.
“This is probably a conversation we should have when we’re both sober,” Andy started, watching as Emily’s shoulders dropped, “but I understand how you feel, Em.”
Emily’s head shot up, searching for Andy’s eyes, “You do?” It came out breathless.
“I do, I promise. However, this is a conversation we need to have sober. Not drunk on three different kinds of alcohol.” Damn Andy and her responsibleness.
“Right,” Emily cleared her throat and stood up, “Yes, you’re right. I’ll, uh, I’ll head back to my apartment, and we can discuss this clear headed.” She made her way to leave but was stopped short by Andy grabbing her arm. Not light like earlier, but not forcibly either.
“If you walk out of this apartment right now, are you going to be able to promise me you’ll come back?” Andy asked. There was something in eyes. Fear maybe? No that wasn’t right. It was more like…
Longing.
And she knows the answer. Emily knew if she left right then, she’ll find her way back into the bottom of a bottle. The lonely feeling threatening to take over. She might be brave enough to come back, but she wasn’t certain.
She shook her head, she couldn’t promise.
She watched as Andy’s face fell but the girl was strong and steeled herself, “Then stay.”
“What?” Emily breathed.
“Stay the night. That way you’ll still be here, we can still talk.” Andy sounded hopeful.
But Emily wasn’t as optimistic as Andy, “And if I wake up and leave?”
She had to ask. She needed to know the answer.
“Then I know you’re not serious about everything. About us.” Andy fired back.
Emily may have been drunk, her decisions not fueled by a clear mind, but she knew one thing. She was serious and she wanted to try with Andy. She wanted the oppressive loneliness to leave her, and she knew the only one who could cure it was the woman standing in front of her with her hand outstretched.
Drunk Emily stayed.
Sober Emily remained.