The Gloaming Girls

EPISODE THREE (Part 1/7)

The thing about living with Emory Ghosh is that I'm not really living with her at all.

She's hardly at the dorms—between classes and her work, nearly all of her daylight hours keep her out and about—and when she is home, she's working on homework or on whatever new aspect of The Gloaming Project that she's been assigned. She doesn't talk about her work, and I don't ask.

We don't get any new cases for several weeks, which turns out to be a very good thing, because I don't think either of us would have time for anything outside of the necessary combination. We fall into a rhythm that's both pleasant and reassuring as the October days slide by and midterms approach, though, all things considered, after working her way through an impossible case, Emory handles approaching midterms like a champ. She's picked up running semi regularly, even dragging me along once—though that was extremely embarrassing and unlikely to happen again—and she comes back calmer after she's put all of her energy somewhere and blown it off. Besides, school stress seems almost inconsequential to her, and I think that out of the two of us, I might be the one devoting more brain space to the academics.

One night, Emory says, "That party. Are you going?"

I blink up at her from where I'm lying on the ground propped up on my elbows, reading glasses slipping down my nose. "What party?"

Emory has a habit of starting conversations halfway through, like I've been listening into her head for the last several minutes and will understand what she's talking about. "Marlee's party."

I think back over the last week and come up with nothing. "Marlee's having a party?"

"Yes," Emory says. "Marlee's having a party. I told you about it yesterday. She asked me to invite you."

"You didn't tell me about that."

"Yes, I did," she says. "Before I went to class."

"I went to class way before you did," I point out. "Were you talking to an empty room?"

It's a joke, but Emory tilts her head. "It's possible."

"Oh, come on," I protest. "You don't even check with me to see if I'm there before you start talking?"

She shrugs. "Sometimes I don't need you to be there to talk to you."

I sit up, fully. "Okay. That doesn't make any sense."

She shrugs again. "Rubber duck."

I take my glasses off and rub at my eyes. "Okay, but if it's important information like a party, then you can't tell an empty room, because that means I don't know about it."

"I'd hardly classify a party as important information," she says.

"I would!" I protest. "When's the party?"

"Tomorrow night," she says, turning back to her computer and typing something rapidly.

"Emory!" I object. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes," she says, clearly unaware that she's annoyed me, "are you going to go?"

"I don't—I only found out about it thirty seconds ago."

"Twenty-three," Emory says.

I pause, mouth hanging open, but then she turns and offers a shit-eating grin, and I realize she's joking.

"I can come late," I say, to which Emory nods.

"Brilliant. I always am anyway."

-

I almost forget about the party, despite this conversation, and it's not until I'm on my way home from work and I get a text from Marlee that I remember it.