Hard Sell| ETHMA

30

EMMA
Monday Lunch, October 16

"So, are we going to talk about it, or are you going to keep pretending everything's cool?"

I look at Michael over my Diet Coke. "You mandated this meeting. You have something say, say it."

It's Monday afternoon, a little more than a week since Ethan basically proposed marriage.

Sans love.

I'm trying really hard not to think about it. Or him.
But Michael's making it difficult. Because as much as I know that he's my best friend and loves me like a sister, he also loves Ethan like a brother.

It's hard to share a meal with this man without thinking of the man.

Michael pushes aside his plate and, crossing both arms on the table, studies me with his piercing green eyes. I can't help but compare them to another pair of green almost hazel eyes. Michael's are pure green, slightly almond-shaped. Ethan's eyes are hazel green, amazing on a sunny day, wide and bright and . . .

I suck in a sharp intake of breath as the pain hits. Again. I know it'll pass. Eventually.

But damn, this sucks.

Damn, it had hurt to stand there and put my heart out there, knowing he didn't feel the same, and have him all but shake my hand and wish me well.

I take a bite of my tuna Nicoise salad and pretend not to notice Michael's scrutiny.

"He's irritable," Michael announces.

I nip a green bean cleanly with my front teeth.

"Who?" I ask.

My best friend's look is withering. "Really?"

Fine.

I sigh and set aside my fork. "I'm sorry Dolan's acting like a juvenile, but it's really not my problem. I sent him an email letting him know that I'd be happy to continue our working relationship through the end of the contract despite our personal entanglements. He's yet to take me up on the offer."

"An email," Michael repeats. "You two make love and war like both are going out of style for the better part of the past God knows how many years, and you sit there and tell me you sent him an email?"

"What do you want me to do here, Michael? What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to tell me what happened."

I sip my soda. "Ask him."

"I did ask him. Kennedy asked him. Amanda asked him. Half the office thinks he received a six-months-to-live sentence from his doctor, that's how unhappy he's been."

"And that's my fault because . . . ?"

Michael throws up his hands in frustration. "I swear, I don't know why I try to talk to either of you."

"Well, I just don't see why I'm supposed to shoulder the blame for Ethan's irritability. Maybe it's work related. Has he heard anything on the Jarod front?"

I keep my voice casual, careful not to betray the real reason I agreed to meet Michael for lunch. It's not that I don't enjoy my best friend, but as I said, seeing Michael makes me think of Ethan, and, well, lately . . . that's painful as all get out.

Michael's eyebrows lift at my question. "Jarod? You and the world's most famous billionaire are on a first-name basis?"

I fiddle with my fork, knowing that I'm going to have to rip this Band-Aid off sometime. Might as well be now.