Work Text:
Emily wasn’t even sure why she was breathing anymore. She believed it was Runway, that she kept pushing for Miranda, that she lived for fashion. And while the statement still held some truth to it, after Andrea’s departure, Emily began to question everything.
For five weeks after she left, Emily would bring in Andrea’s coffee order. She wasn’t sure why. She told herself it was habit, that doing something for a whole year would make her forget when it changed. A small part of Emily wished that when she set down the coffee on the desk opposite of hers, Andrea would come out of the bathroom with that stupid smile she always gave her, sit down, and thank her for the coffee. That Andrea would continue to press Emily on how much it was so she could pay her back, and that Emily would fall back into the routine of grumbling, “I put it on the company card”, knowing fully well she paid out of pocket for it. So for five weeks, Emily continued going to the little cafe Andrea loved, paying an absurd amount for a macchiato that would cool and go untouched on the empty desk.
For four weeks after she left, Emily would force herself to eat a little more than she usually did. When Nigel would cock an eyebrow at her actually taking more than just a leaf of lettuce in the cafeteria, she had explained that now that Paris was over and she didn’t go, that she had no reason to diet quite as harshly as she did. Nigel knew it was a lie before Emily did. And every time Emily ate more than just a cube of cheese, she could hear Andrea telling her, “I’m proud of you”. She could see the smile of faded concern mixed with hope, the smile Andrea gave her after she felt she had made some progress in cracking Emily’s tough exterior. In finding the vulnerable, hurt girl desperate to please those around her piece by piece. “Why mourn a shadow of someone you never cared about anyways?” Emily would think, but she still put that extra piece of fruit on her plate, hoping that the day Andrea came back, she would look at her with a bit of pride.
For three weeks after she left, Emily wrote letters to her. “I hate you”, she would write, “I hate that everyone after you is somehow more incompetent. I hate that everyone after you is not you.” Emily would erase it and crush the paper. But even as she shoved the paper into her desk drawer, the imprint of the pressure from the pencil scribbling “you” stayed. She would go through her day, waiting upon Miranda like her servant. Sometimes, as Miranda would lash out on a new intern, she would feel a pit in her stomach. She would hear Andrea’s voice saying quietly to no one aloud, “that’s not fair”. She would hear her midwestern twang in her head and not once did she think about how annoying it was. So for three weeks, Emily wrote letters to her that she wouldn’t send.
For two weeks after she left, Emily would wear cerulean to work. Whether it was in her jewelry, the stripes in her plaid, her makeup, or her shoes, the bright blue would appear in some way. She told herself that it was because cerulean was in this season, and that it complimented her hair and skin tone. That it wasn’t because Andrea’s hideous outfit made an impression on her. That she wasn’t sending a slight signal to the universe that she was ready for Andrea to rush into the office again because she still believed that on time was on time. That she was ready to not be alone anymore. Every day she wore the pop of blue, she would get compliments. She looked good with cerulean, and as she realized with continuous clarity, that meant more than just a complementary color to her.
For one week after she left, Emily would go to the bar Andrea tried to take her to in Brooklyn, “Skinny Dennis”. Every time she went, she would scoff at the pure inelegance of the place, the sticky bar stools, the shitty fries, and the loud, obnoxious girls her age that would come in drunk and singing some karaoke. Every time she went, she was hit by how Andy the place was. Not the Andrea in Runway, but the Andy to everyone else. The Andy who would get drunk and sing karaoke, karaoke that she probably swore was shitty, despite Emily hearing her sing to herself softly and realizing that Andrea was unfairly talented in everything she put her stupid mind to. Emily would slide a ten dollar bill to the bartender and down another shot of God knows what. Emily wishes she let Andrea Andy take her here. Emily wishes she had a friend.
After one month and two weeks, Emily knew this cover up she had told to herself was just that—a cover up. She knew she shouldn’t be laying in bed at two in the morning cursing Andrea’s name, running her hands through her hair manically. She knew she shouldn’t be able to memorize every single one of Andrea’s features and see them when she closed her eyes. Emily practically had everything on Andrea. So why the hell did Andrea have such a hold on Emily? Why did the mere mention of replacing some shitty intern make her heart clench with a pathetic, childish hope that she would see a brunette with big brown eyes meet her cold blue ones once more?
Emily was not unattractive, she knew that for sure. She tried to have a boyfriend. A model, Jason. He had treated her well enough, picked her up flowers, paid for her drinks, gave her compliments. He was a good guy, really, and Emily knew she should be happy. She knew she should be feeling something. She saw the way other girls eyed him, and how his eyes were only reserved for her. Maybe this underwhelming feeling was love. Maybe she was hoping for more, maybe that was the one part of her foolishly not corrupted by her intense nihilism. Maybe this was enough for her, maybe she could make it be enough.
It wasn’t until the night of June 1st that everything broke wide open. It was pouring, and Emily was in Manhattan with Jason for a movie night. She was piled up on his couch, her makeup immaculate, her clothes slightly uncomfortable with the pull of the dress on her thighs. She felt his hand resting on her knee, his eyes watching the screen with moderate interest, unaware that Emily was no longer present. His hand was rough, too large for her knee, his breath heavy and hot. She snuck a glance at him, and took a strong sip of wine. His jaw was too angled, his eyebrows too thick. She took another gulp of wine. His hand slowly left her knee and rather braced his shoulder, the atmosphere becoming more and more intimate. She tried to ignore the sounds of the documentary she chose, a documentary on The New York Times. Begged her mind to let her find comfort in Jason’s touch.
Emily knew Jason was a good man because they had been going out for weeks and he never once asked to kiss her. She was glad, as she wasn’t particularly excited to kiss him, and opted to get to know the man instead. But tonight, that shifted. It was painfully obvious, her heart rate rose as he touched her, her composure slipping. And this sweet guy is sitting her with his hand along her thigh thinking she’s flushed because she’s falling in love, when in reality, Emily’s heart rate spiked because her mind is betraying her and doing the one thing she pleaded for it not to do. Why was she sitting on his couch, all dolled up, while watching a movie on some newspaper with its journalists when she never has ever had an interest in it? Why was everything he did too much? Too rough? Too strong?
Before she knew it, her eyes pricked with tears and she stood up. It was wrong, it was all wrong. It wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t enough because it wasn’t Andy. She never missed Andrea, not once. She missed Andy, the girl who tried so hard to be her friend. It hit her with intense clarity: Emily never wanted Andy to be her friend. Suddenly, the room began to spin, and five minutes later, she was running through the pouring rain barefoot, leaving her heels at Jason’s apartment. She knew she looked like a mess, her red hair drenched with her clothing, covering her face.
Her legs carried her through the rain slicked, dark streets of Manhattan, the only lights the neon flickering signs of 24/7 bodegas. She figured she could probably buy a pack of cigarettes and a lighter with the ten dollars in her bra, but before she could pull open the door to an Italian cornerstore, she heard that voice that haunted her. Andy’s. Her voice as sweet as silk, telling her not to harm herself. Not to do something stupid. For the first time in her life, Emily listened. Not to the cruel voice in her head, but the kind one that made her chest squeeze and eyes water. Before her mind caught up with her feet, she was pounding against a townhouse door, the rain soaking her thoroughly. Her body was shivering, but it continued to make itself clear that it wasn’t because of the rain.
When Nigel opened the door with a faint look of annoyance at a disturbance, his expression dropped, studying Emily. Emily Charlton looked so small, so lost, and he didn’t need her to say anything for him to know. One look was enough for him to step outside under the awning, closing the door behind him gently.
“Does it ever get better..?”, her words were quiet and small, like it had ripped its way up her throat, nestling into her larynx. His eyes softened further. “Yes,” he sighed, softly unzipping his coat, setting it on the soaked railing. He watched her sit down on the stoop before continuing, “but not in the way you want.” As much as Emily wanted to, she knew what he was referring to. Nigel saw everything, he never failed to look out for her. Before she could stop it, her voice let out a cracked sob and watery laugh, “What does that mean?”. Nigel frowned and let out a deep breath, “Kiddo, listen to me.” Emily stopped laughing and her eyes met his. His gaze softened as he saw the confusion, hurt, fear, and hope painted in a swirl of blue.
“It doesn’t go away,” he said, continuing before she could interject and play a fool, “This feeling”. Emily opened her mouth to retort, to claim he knew nothing about how she felt, but no words left. Her hands shook on her lap as she let the rain wash over her. He crouched down, tilting her chin up gently, making her meet his gaze. That was all it took. Nigel watched as her composure cracked, her nose pinkening as she began to sob, heavy, quiet sobs. The kind of cries that escaped you at your most vulnerable, the cries that came with years of denial. He brought her into his arms, sitting fully on the stoop, bringing her onto his lap like a father would.
“It never goes away, Emily.” He stroked her sopping hair, squeezing her tighter, “But it’s not bad. And it’s not wrong.” She continued to shake, his touch ever so gentle as he soothed her like she was a wild deer. “You can try to hide it, but it will always be there, waiting for you. And the more you push it away and act like you can wish it out of existence, the worse it becomes.”
Emily lifted her face from the crook of his neck, her face wet and makeup smudged, “What do I do, Nigel? I’m not… I’m not like you. I can’t be like this. I don’t want to be like this.” Nigel shook his head and held onto her shoulders, “Life, no, love doesn’t care about what you want. It cares about what you need. And you need her, Emily. I’ve known it, you know it.” She swallowed thickly, pushing the bile down.
“I love her.” she whispered, “I’m in love with Andy Sachs.” Nigel helped her stand up, handing her his coat as he unlocked the door, gently leading her inside. She sniffled as she sat on a stool, Nigel’s husband getting her a towel and blanket as he made her hot chocolate. She scrolled through Facebook, looking at her feed of friends from London with their boyfriends and their kids. She nearly laughed. Nigel leaned over and hugged her once more, ruffling her hair, “If it wasn’t in New York, it would have been London. You cannot run from this,” he said as he put down a coaster for her mug.
She slowly nodded, feeling a small weight off of her chest. The feeling of relief lasted momentarily, until she came across a smile she knew and dreamed about too well. Her fingers moved before she thought, her heart stopping as she scanned her information.
Andy Sachs
@andreasachs
24 year old bisexual journalist at Vanguard.
A little notification appeared in her message box.
“I think I just saw you in Manhattan running.” quickly followed by,
“I have a spare room and clean clothes if you need it.” and,
“I’ve missed you, Em”
All from one Andy Sachs.