Chapter Text
As a writer, Andy hates cliches. Hates slowly, and then all at once. Finds the very concept of a feeling, the most important feeling, the most important thing creeping up on you and taking you by surprise, to be overused. As a person, a romantic, she kind of loves it. To be such a contradiction, she thinks, is another frustrating cliche.
Being friends with Emily feels like that at times. Like all of the cliches. She wouldn't say they were ever enemies, per se, but she flicks through the tropes in her head anyway. Here is a woman she hasn't seen for twenty years, who she thought hated her, and they're drawn back together and boom, suddenly she's a person Andy never goes more than two weeks without seeing, rarely two days without speaking to.
She wonders, sometimes, if it would always have been like this. If she'd answered that call 20 years ago, if she'd called her back, would they have become friends like this. Real friends. Would she know Emily's go-to coffee order, which pastry in the case will be enough to convince her to share (or take a bite, at least), would her text thread with Emily still be at the top of her phone no matter what. It takes four months of dinners, drinks, coffees, before she finally actually asks the question.
“What do you think would’ve happened if I’d answered? Or called you back?”
She thinks about it a lot, but she still gets nervous asking. Brings the subject up in tiny little pieces, like she’s sneaking deep conversation into Emily’s pasta sauce. Emily answers regardless.
“Nothing. We would’ve had coffee three times before deciding we were too busy and then spent a few months saying “we should catch up soon!” and never doing it." There's a beat before she quietly adds, "It’s probably better this way.”
“You don’t think our lives would be any different at all? If you and I had been friends these last 20 years?”
Emily’s refusing eye contact. She’s not looking at Andy at all, she's like a dog in trouble.
“If we were actually friends?”
“Actual friends, me and you. BFF necklaces and all. Tiffany, of course.”
“I wouldn’t be divorced. Probably. I mean, I wouldn’t have gotten married.”
It’s quiet, but Andy knows she’s meant to hear it. So deep under her breath it’s practically silent, but Emily doesn’t say things by accident. It doesn’t leave her mouth unless it’s meant for your ears.
“You wouldn’t…”
“You would’ve seen he was all wrong for me. Helped me dodge a very costly bullet.”
“You didn’t have anyone who told you he was wrong?”
“Not really, no.”
Huh.
“Well, then you wouldn’t have your kids.”
“True.”
“So maybe it’s for the best, that we weren’t friends.”
“Maybe it is.”
And it's back to normal, as if it were never spoken aloud at all. Emily orders a second coffee for them both, no need to check in with Andy, and changes the topic to her current assistant Aldrigde and his refusal to schedule meetings at conventional times.
"Andy, are you even listening to me?"
"Absolutely. Do I need to reschedule lunch Thursday for 1:17pm?"
"Don't you dare encourage him."
She keeps thinking about it, about Emily getting married and having nobody to tell her not to. She thinks about it so much that it bursts out of her the next day, standing in line for coffee with Nigel.
“Did you go to Emily’s wedding?”
“I did, actually. Why?”
“Just wondering. What was that even like?” Nigel opens his mouth to answer, but truthfully that’s not what she’s asking. She doesn’t give him the chance to talk about flowers or colour schemes. Doesn’t care about the dress. Well, maybe she cares about the dress a little. “What was he even like?” What kind of man does Emily Charlton marry?
“Frank? Bland, mostly.”
“Bland? Like, looking or?”
“No. Yes. Almost exceptionally nondescript. Not at all who I imagined Emily would end up with.”
“No?”
He just glances at her over the tops of his glasses, and it’s funny how different it is to the way Miranda does it. It’s meant to convey the same thing, probably. Disbelief, disgust, driving home that whatever you’re doing or saying is the stupidest thing they’ve heard since whatever the last stupid thing you said was. It feels fond, though, with Nigel.
“No. Not at all who I imagine.”
If Andy was a little smarter, a little more aware of what Nigel sees when he looks, she’d ponder it for longer than she does.
“How is she?”
Shit. She’s not hiding Emily, not at all. She’s an adult woman who has an equally adult woman friend. She’s not hiding that, she’s not. She will not make Emily feel like even more of an outcast by squirreling their friendship away. But she hasn’t exactly broadcast it.
“She’s great. She’s blonde, now.” She shouldn’t have mentioned that. God, why can’t she be normal. Will that sound like bleach is the only thing Emily has right now? “It looks kind of phenomenal, actually.”
“Good. And in her… job?”
“She’s doing so much better than she thinks she is. You know how much it suits her to be the most brilliant person in the room.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard at Coach.”
“Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not. I’m sure she’s brilliant. I could be meaner. She could be at Nordstrom. I could’ve said she’d thrive at Hot Topic.”
Does Hot Topic still exist?
“Emily would kill at Hot Topic.”
He smiles at her, like she’s an idiot.
“Darling, Emily would kill anywhere. We both know that.” Then he smirks, this time to himself. “She’d be a god there. Nobody looks better in leather and a smoky eye.”
Andy feels herself smile. “No, they don’t.”
---
It's becoming the norm, coffee on weekends, lunch in the week sometimes. Always out. She still doesn't even know where Emily lives. It's been close to six months, and she'd never say it out loud but if she was pressed, gun to her head or whatever, Emily is practically her best friend. There's Lily, of course there's Lily. Always has been and always will be, but if she were to really take a second to analyse it, well. There's Emily, too.
But there's something, a distance. Like Emily is keeping her at arm's length. That despite the hours they spend together, the times they text late at night, the way Emily feels like she's slotting into Andy's life in an unexpectedly seamless way, Emily's still not letting her in. She can't decide on the appropriate level of spiral for this situation, but once she starts thinking about it, she can't stop. She does the only thing she knows how. She turns up at Doug's apartment with a bottle of wine and a crisis she's hoping he'll talk her down from.
"Didn't this girl used to hate you? I mean, isn't the fact that you're friends a minor miracle in itself?"
"No. I mean, well yes. But I don't think she ever hated me. Or maybe she did. But she doesn't anymore."
"Right."
"I just. She said she wanted to be friends. She called me! And we spend so much time together, but do you think it's weird?"
"Do I think what is weird? That you've never been to her house?"
It's not just that, she thinks. It's that she talks to Andy, about her kids. Sometimes about her useless ex-husband. Andy talks back, told her all about the break-up with Peter and they do share personal things. That's the problem, maybe. She can't say that, she'll sound insane. They're close. They talk. So why does she sometimes feel like Emily wouldn't say hello if they passed each other in the street? Why do lunch invites occasionally come from Emily's assistant, Destiny, rather than Emily herself?
"Yes. It's been half a year."
"Has she been to your house?"
"Well, no."
"Right. Have you ever invited her over?"
"No."
"Have you ever asked her where she lives? Asked to go over? Said 'hey, we could grab coffee somewhere near you if that's easier?' - anything like that?"
"No."
"Right."
"Right."
"You're an idiot."
She's an idiot.
How do you ask someone where they live after six months? Twenty years and six months.
Andrea Sachs: Hey! I need to say something stupid.
Emily C: How unlike you.
Andrea Sachs: Whereabouts do you live?
Emily C: Oh that really was stupid.
A forty minute walk, entirely through the park, sits between them. A fifteen minute drive. Andy feels ridiculous. The next time they meet for coffee, she suggests a place almost exactly halfway between them. The way it makes Emily laugh tells Andy that somehow, Emily knows exactly where she lives. Has Emily always paid more attention than she has? Is Emily Charlton a much, much better friend than Andy?
"I don't think I pictured you in the Upper West Side."
"I assumed we wouldn't talk about your ridiculous sudden desire to know my address."
"Well, we are."
"Where did you picture me?"
"I don't know. Somewhere cooler."
"What a delightful backhanded compliment." Andy glares over the foam of her cappuccino, finds Emily already smirking at her. "I like it. Good food, nice coffee, plenty of green spaces. I'm a Lincoln Center member, The National History Museum is practically on our doorstep. I'm sure that all sounds very boring, but it's perfect for me at the moment. I’m trying to figure out what I enjoy."
"That doesn't sound boring at all, Em. That sounds really nice, actually." Emily feels uncomfortable, though, Andy can tell. She wonders if she's always been able to tell when Emily is uncomfortable. Maybe she's only recently started to truly care. She wants to fix it. "I haven't been to the National History Museum for years. I used to go there a lot when I first moved to New York."
"You, uh. You could tag along, if you'd like." Just as she opens her mouth to accept, the thought is finished, "might make you look less pathetic than a grown woman looking at dinosaurs on her own."
"I've never minded looking pathetic."
"Clearly."
"I'd love to. Tag along. If you really mean it."
"Of course. Roark would love a new captive audience for his guided tour."
"Sounds perfect."
"You haven't been on the tour yet."
She can't believe all she had to was ask. Just ask Emily where she lives, Andy. Ask Emily where she lives and the invitation to meet her kids will instantly follow. Ask her where she lives and you can open it all up. She owes Doug something better than a mid-range bottle of wine.
"If you're not busy next weekend, they'll be with me. Saturday's a busy day but Sunday."
Andy can't remember if she's busy on Sunday or not.
"Sunday it is."
---
It's still another three months before she actually steps foot inside Emily's apartment. It doesn't bother her anymore, she's happy to be out with Emily. Happy to have utilised that Lincoln Center membership a few times, to listen to Roark talk about space or sharks or fossils, to let Bronwyn try and teach her how to do a handstand in the park. She enjoys dinners, coffees, drinks with Emily. She's trying not to overthink as much these days. She's trying to enjoy her life. She has a great job, a nice apartment, good friends. No useless boyfriends. She wouldn't have time for one, anyway.
Her phone rings, on a Saturday afternoon where she has no plans until the evening. She's contemplating a yoga class, pretending even to herself to hover over the 'book' button on the studio website, when the option is ripped away from her.
"Hey."
Emily is positively pathetic on the other end, coughing for a few seconds before she hangs up. The phone rings again thirty seconds later.
"Sorry. That was vile."
Andy's mind flashes back to a sniveling Emily with red rimmed eyes all those years ago, and a fondness warms her chest.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm-" a sneeze, "one of those little creatures" this is spoken loud enough that she knows the kids are there to hear it, but she can hear their laughs and the smile in Emily's voice, "has brought home a plague. They're both absolutely fine of course, but I'm suffering."
"Do you need anything? What can I do?"
"What? No, nothing. I'm fine. He's about to pick them up for the night anyway, so I'll just go to bed. I'm just letting you know I'll have to cancel tonight. I can send you the tickets, if you want. You can go with someone else."
"Well, do you think they're exchangeable? I'd rather go with you."
"I'm. I'm sure they are. If you're sure."
"I'm sure. Going with you is kind of the point."
"Right. Well, I'll reschedule it then. Sorry."
"Not your fault. You sure you don't need anything?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I'll talk to you when I'm better."
"Sure. Rest up. Call me if you change your mind."
Everything she tries to do feels pointless after that. She showers, she tries to start a movie, she considers seeing if anybody else is free for dinner or a drink or just to hang out. Suddenly nobody in her contacts list is even remotely interesting to her.
She does what any sensible, logical person does when their friend is sick. She goes to Trader Joe's and spends an obscene amount of money, she orders a soup from Emily's favourite restaurant and she turns up at her door, with four bags and absolutely zero plan.
"Didn't I tell you I didn't need anything?"
"Yeah."
Emily steps aside to let her in.
"Ridiculous."
"Kitchen?"
"Completely ridiculous."
"Yeah."
Emily's sick, but she still insists on pretending to play host for while. Andy packs away her groceries, with guidance, while Emily rolls her eyes and complains about the headache doing so gives her. She's ushered into the living room while Emily makes them coffee.
She’s surprised when Emily’s home turns out to be just that, a home. It’s sleek and stylish, of course, but it feels like Emily. And it feels like home. Maybe those two things are starting to become more and more linked.
It’s warm in tone, comfortable but with Emily’s stylistic edge. The bookshelves are full, well worn novels as well as fashion and photography books, and kids books starting to take over small sections of a shelf near the window. Not separated, not hidden away in their rooms, but out and intermingled with Emily’s own.
There are photographs on the walls, the surfaces. The children’s faces beaming at her through the frames, smiling with each other and with their mother. She sees a picture of a small brunette girl, pouting with a cat on her lap. It’s not Bronwyn, but it could be at first glance. She picks it up just as Emily walks in with their coffees.
“Is this you?”
“Yes.”
“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Shut up.”
“It is. Look at you! Who’s your friend?”
“Bob.”
“Your cat was called Bob?”
“Yes. Well, Robert.”
She’s known for a long time that people are wrong about Emily. She’s known that since the first time they knew each other. She’s still learning all the ways in which she herself is wrong about Emily, though. All the ways Emily can still surprise her.
“You’re both adorable.”
"You really didn't have to come over. I don't want to get you sick."
"I didn't have to. I wanted to, though. Promise I don't expect you to return the favour if I catch your plague."
"Good."
"Anyway, you have food options. There's soup, there's snacks if you're not up to real food. Good mix of Emily snacks and Andy snacks."
"What on Earth are Emily snacks?"
"You know, stuff that pretends to be a snack. Whole grain and vegetable based."
"And Andy snacks are what, processed and sweet?"
"Exactly."
"I'm not hungry."
"That's exactly why you need to eat, doll. Starve a fever, feed a cold. Right? That's the right way around. I did also get stuff for grilled cheese." Emily starts to protest, but Andy cuts her off. "Do you remember Nate?"
"No."
"Yes you do."
"I may remember that there was a man. A boy."
"Well, I didn't get much from Nate. But his grilled cheese? That, I've carried with me with for two decades. I know you wouldn't usually but…"
"Fine. Grill a cheese."
The Jarlsberg is a hit. It always is. Twenty years and that's all she really thinks about when she thinks of Nate. Nothing particularly good or bad, just the world’s best grilled cheese. A grilled cheese that she thinks might be about to become linked with Emily in her mind.
"Do you want to stay for a bit?"
"You sure? Thought you were going to bed."
"I was, but seeing as you dragged me up in the first place."
"Sure. Wanna watch a movie?"
"Mm." She'll be lucky if Emily lasts fifteen minutes. "You choose something."
"Sure. I'll be back in a minute."
Emily's miraculously still awake by the time she returns with a decidedly Andy selection of snacks and drinks. It doesn't last long, though. The opening credits have barely started before Emily's eyes start to close. The first act hardly over before she feels the weight of Emily leaning against her. Andy repositions them both for comfort, doesn't shift even when she needs to pee or her drink is out of reach. Only when the end credits roll does she touch the top of Emily's head gently, trying to stir her.
"Hey, you should probably get to bed."
"God, sorry. Sorry did I fall asleep on you?"
"You did. I'm just glad you got some sleep. But it's late, we should probably get you to bed."
She's shaky, not unsteady on her feet, but bleary enough that Andy walks all the way her bedroom door with her.
"Hey. I think I'm gonna crash on your couch, if that's okay?" She doesn't want to leave her alone, but she can't say that. "I can go home if you want."
"No, that's fine. Do you need anything?"
"I'll be fine. I'll see you in the morning."
She lets her sleep. The hours pass by and she starts to wonder if she's overstepping, still being here. If Emily would expect her to let herself out. She doesn't know if she should knock on the door, try to wake Emily up and get her to take some medicine or eat something. She's deliberating all of this, drinking coffee and eating the raspberries she bought as an Emily snack, when the door buzzes. Answering the door is definitely overstepping, right? But then not answering the door, that doesn't feel right either. Fuck. She steps over to the intercom and sees Roark’s face looking back at her. Okay, good. She can do that.
They burst through the door, neither seeming overly surprised to see her.
"Hi Andy."
"Hey. How was your night?"
"Good. Where's mom?"
"She's asleep. She's still feeling pretty rough."
"Oh."
"I'm gonna go wake her up soon with some tylenol, though. I'll fix you guys something to eat, if you want?" She's out of her depth. Andy likes kids, she's good with them even, but these are Emily's kids. Emily's kids in Emily's house and Andy has somehow given herself the responsibility of looking after them.
"Sure."
"Thanks, Andy!"
It's only then that she notices their father, hovering near the door looking at her curiously. That's fair, she thinks. They've never met.
"Hi." She puts her hand out to him, he doesn't shake it. "You must be Frank?"
"Who are you?"
"I'm Andy. Andrea. I'm, uh, I'm a friend of Emily's."
"A friend?"
"Yep."
"Of Emily's."
"A friend of Emily's."
"My Emily?" She wants to object. Emily's not his, Emily's not anybody's. Definitely not his. "Emily doesn't have any friends."
"Huh. Well, I guess she does."
"Right."
He turns to leave, looks back at her one more time shaking his head. His Emily. Asshole.
---
They've been friends for nearly a year, now. Andy remembers the exact day that Emily called her, could probably remember the time too if she stopped to think about it. She mentions it, faux casually, a few days beforehand.
"Are you still on for Friday night?"
"What's Friday night?"
"Em."
"Yes, of course. You've asked me twice a week for a month. I am still coming."
"Okay, good. Just checking." She pauses. "Lily's looking forward to finally meeting you."
"Finally?"
"I mean, yeah. It's been a year, Charlton. We've been friends for a year and the two of you still haven't met."
"It's not a year yet."
"It's a year on Thursday."
There's a silence on the other end. Oh god, why does she always do this? She keeps finding new ways to make people think she's weird.
"Huh. You count that phone call as day one?" Fine, maybe Emily’s weird too.
"I do."
"Very optimistic of you."
"I'm an optimist."
"I'll see you on Friday." Just before she hangs up, "I'm looking forward to meeting her, too."
Andy tries her hardest to be an extremely on time person. She always has. But Friday arrives and she leaves the office late, which means she's in the shower late, is thirty minutes behind by the time she's standing in front of her closet staring at her large collection of absolutely nothing. She's been to a hundred of these, gallery openings ranging from grungy to fancy. She can do gallery openings in her sleep. This one's different. This one's with Emily.
Her phone pings, and she doesn't need to look at it to know Emily is leaving in ten minutes. She has twenty five to get ready. This is fine, she can do this. She goes to galleries all the time. She hangs out with Emily all the time. This is not at all about wanting to be someone Emily is proud to be friends with. This isn't about the evening running seamlessly. She wonders if Emily is nervous. Probably not.
Emily (19:00): There by 7:30! Earlier than planned, sorry.
Andy (19:13): Buzz when you're here! I'll let you up while I finish getting ready.
"How are you not ready yet?"
"You're early!" She hears Emily scoff behind her. "I know, I know. I left late. Almost done, I promise! Do I look okay?"
Emily looks at her then. Appraising her. Andy knows it's what she asked for, but it makes her feel itchy. Like her skin is on fire.
"You look good."
"Yeah? Thanks. You look gorgeous, obviously." Emily laughs. God, Andy loves making Emily laugh.
"Obviously." She moves to Andy's kitchen, getting herself some water from the fridge like she belongs there. "Go and get ready."
It's another five minutes or so, but when she comes out, the air is still. Wrong. Emily's standing by her desk, flicking through the stack of papers there, face unreadable.
"What the hell is this?"