"Y-yeah, six wo-wor-works fo-for m-me. D-do you wa-want m-me to br-bring any-any-anything?"
"Nope, just yourself. We have everything else covered." Her voice wavers over the phone, slightly muffled as I can hear her moving around her bedroom.
It brings a smile to my face, imagining her puttering about the room in her fluffy slippers and a big comfy sweater. It's so imprinted in my brain, so common from when she was living with us.
I can call to mind a number of relaxed evenings spent watching movies, Emma moving back and forth between the kitchen and the couch in her pajamas to refill her mug with tea or hot chocolate, returning to my side just as the commercial break ends so she doesn't miss the movie.
"Ok-okay, I'll s-see y-yo-you so-soon th-then?"
"Yep, see you soon!"
The second she hangs up I'm flying out of the kitchen, homework long forgotten on the dining room table as I round the hallway into our room, quickly closing the door behind me.
Oh my god, what should I wear? Is this a causal dinner? Should I bring something, even though she said not to? She brought cookies when she came to our house for dinner, should I make cookies? Or maybe bring flowers? Does Emma even like flowers? What if she's allergic?
My hands automatically go to the hem of my shirt, pulling it up over my head to dig through the closet in search of something slightly more sophisticated than my old gym t-shirt.
Is a button-down shirt too fancy? But a sweater is too casual, same with a t-shirt. Where is the in between? Not that what I wear will really matter, still won't look handsome enough-
Clutching several shirt clad hangers in my hands, I drop them on my bed, eager to try them on, to have my thoughts consumed with something else, to keep myself distracted.
Regardless what I put on, nothing looks good enough; that button down is too tight, makes me look too skinny. That long sleeve is too big, hangs off my frame. Those jeans have a hole in them, these khakis don't go with that shirt, that shirt has too big of a v-neck.
I've gone through my entire section of the closet, and nothing seems to be good enough. Nothing seems to look good enough.
To be fair, it's hard for something to fit good on you, I mean look at yourself; shoulders too slim, arms too lean, ribs to prominent, waist too narrow, scar too-
I examine myself in the mirror hanging on the back of the closet door, trying to find something I like about my stature, something even remotely attractive.
What does Emma like about me? What does Emma find attractive?
All I can think about is the guys she hangs out with; Luke, a football star with a perfect, muscular physique, or even Parker, who, despite being slimmer, has a stereotypical runner's build. Even her brothers- AJ, built like a brick house as a cop, and Beau, both a football and basketball player?
What on God's Earth does she see in me?
She must have a sixth sense, knowing what I need to hear, when I need to hear it. Her text comes in minutes later, as I'm tugging on a sweater for the third time to see if it looks any better.
Emma: I'm really looking forward to this, can't wait to see you Nathan. Hope you like Indian food ;)
I can feel the strain leaving my body in my exhale, the tense unease in my muscles slowly unwinding, giving me a sense of peace.
YOU ARE READING
Love, Emma
Teen Fiction"E-Emma? It's okay y-you know. I-I'm used to i-i-it." "You shouldn't have to be, some people disgust me, the nerve of them." "I can't blame t-t-th-them, I m-mean l-l-l-look at m-me." He sounds so defeated, even though I can tell he's trying to hide...
