what's the greatest lesson a woman should learn?

that since day one, she's already had everything
she needs within herself. it's the world that
convinced her she did not.

-rupi kaur

Despite the fact that it's 10:30 at night when I get back to my apartment, the air is still sticky and the humidity almost palpable. Pennsylvania in the early summer is like a sauna. I grab the half gallon of Breyers chocolate chip cookie dough that I bought at the grocery store from my passenger's seat and jump out of the car.

Our apartment is a small two-bedroom in a quiet apartment complex that's basically a retirement community plus the two of us. Emmalee and I are both quiet and we didn't want to live near all the partying college students, so we chose Mayapple Apartments. I was worried it was a bad idea until Mrs. Fernandez showed up on our front door with churros and her tabby cat. Ron Weasley and I are now best friends, and I watch him every time Mrs. Fernandez goes to Philadelphia to visit her daughter.

I head up the stairs of our building, my briefcase in one hand and the ice cream carton in the other, and kick the door so I don't have to dig for my keys. "Em, open up!" I hear her lift the latch to check the peephole and resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Em, unless you want melted ice cream, open the door."

Emmalee swings the door open and takes the ice cream from my hands. Her long box braids are held back by a red bandana and I immediately spy the bucket of ammonia water and rubber gloves in the corner of our galley kitchen.

"You're still cleaning?" I ask.

She shrugs, going into the kitchen to grab bowls and spoons. I'd personally be more inclined to eat out of the carton, but that's not really her style. I debate turning down the ice cream since summer's on it's way, but I know better. I'd rather eat ice cream and wear a poncho than go without it in a bikini.

"So," I say as I accept the heaping bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough from Emmalee and plop on our fraying polyester couch.

"So," she says, sitting cross-legged next to me. "How was your date with Aaron?"

Emmalee says his voice in a sing-song as if we're still in that cute just-met honeymoon phase. Sometimes I wonder if she's jealous, but really I think she just doesn't understand. Her life consists of work, me, and more work. She hasn't dated in a few years and is perfectly content, so I don't think she really understands Aaron's role in my life. I've tried finding commonalities between them or explaining how much he means to me, but my explanations seem to fall on deaf ears.

"It was great. We went to Demetri's."

For a moment, I debate spilling my guts and telling her about Aaron's job offer and what it could mean for our relationship. There was a time when I told her everything and we had a reciprocal relationship, but that's deteriorated since long before her diagnosis. About the time that I started dating Aaron, I realized that Emmalee didn't really have any friends besides me, and while I always try to be there for her, I've become her crutch. It's embittered me, if I'm honest, but I don't know what to do about it. So I don't tell her about my life; I just focus on hers.

"You weren't mad about coming home early?" she asks.

"I didn't come back early," I answer, reassuring her.

"But you weren't upset, right? I mean, I wasn't trying to pressure you or anything," Emmalee says, twirling a braid around a finger with the nail bitten to the bed.

I sigh. "No, it's fine. I said it's fine, so it's fine." For a moment, she looks stricken, and when she opens her mouth to apologize, I stop her with a hand and soften my voice. "Don't worry about it, seriously, okay?"

"Okay," she answers though her eyes still skitter over me and settle on the melting ice cream at the bottom of her bowl.

"So what happened at school?" I ask.

Emmalee reaches a hand to rub her shoulder beneath the strap of her tank top. "You know Jamie? The kid I told you about?"
I scan the names of the students and try to remember. "Yeah, I think so. Behavioral problems, right?" If I remember correctly, he's the reason that I had to buy peroxide at CVS to clean some nasty bite marks.

"Yeah, that's the one. Well, Principal Becker reviewed his BIP, behavioral intervention plan, and recommended he get help from an aide. His mom was upset and stormed into my classroom to yell at me about it." Emmalee looks down at her hands that fidget in her lap. "She blamed me for him acting up. It's not my fault, right? That he misbehaves so much?"

Emmalee raises her earthy brown eyes to me, begging for reassurance. The girl sitting in front of me is so disparate from the one I met five years ago at summer, all brazen confidence and certainty. Life has stolen so much from the both of us: from me, my idealism, innocence, and naive trust. From Emmalee, her confidence, drive, and gumption. We're not who we were when we became friends and the differences threaten to pull us asunder.

"Of course it's not your fault. You know what you're doing and you're one of the best Special Ed teachers in the school," I say, talking her hand and squeezing it. "Don't let a crappy mother trying to pass off blame get to you."

Emmalee musters a smile. "Thanks. I just...I felt so guilty, when she yelled at me. Like I could have done more to get him to listen in class."

"Oh, I get it. The first time Tina yelled at me, I cried in the bathroom for an hour," I say with a rueful grin.

"Oh yeah, I remember that," Emmalee says. "I'm pretty sure we had ice cream then too."

"That probably explains why my jeans have been getting tighter for the past two years. I blame you and your addiction to ice cream." I grin at her and remember why we moved in together in the first place.

We laugh and finish our ice cream while watching a rerun of New Girl before I finally go to bed. I get to sleep around midnight, one hour past my normal bedtime. Tomorrow's going to suck.

When I get to my room, filled wall to wall with bookshelves, a desk, and my single bed, I sigh. Emmalee cleaned in here too. Even though I tell her that she can just close my door and she doesn't have to clean for me, she does. I don't have anything to hide, but it feels invasive that she's in here rooting through my stuff.

I pull on a pair of matching grandma PJs and grab The Nightingale, my current read, and head for the bed when I notice a framed photograph has been knocked over. I set it back up and smile wistfully.

It's a picture from my college days that always elicits bittersweet nostalgia. The photo is from a spontaneous picnic my friends and I had one day on the ski hill at our campus: me, my friend Chloe, my roommate Jordan, her boyfriend Luis, and...Josh. I know I probably shouldn't keep a picture of Josh displayed in my room, but he's so much more than my ex-boyfriend, than the guy who broke my heart. He was my closest friend for two years and I can't just eradicate all of those memories. I can't throw out the good with the bad.

In the picture, Josh's hand is around my waist. I touch my side and try to remember the feel, electricity sparking across my skin. Heat flaming in my bones. I remember that intoxicating touch, but I've never felt it since Josh. Not with Aaron, not with anyone.

I trace the edge of the frame as I look at them--at me, at who we were. In the picture, we all smile from ear to ear like we don't have a care in the world. I miss those days when I dreamed about the future and all it held in store; now I'm here, and I just want the past back.

~~~~~

"Morning, Nisha," I call to the secretary, tossing my stuff in the corner of my cubicle and trading my walking sneakers for a pair of black wedge sandals.

The Morning Call is dead this morning as always. There aren't too many newsworthy events that happen in Allentown, Pennsylvania on a Friday morning--or any other morning, for that matter. Today I need to review my piece on rising gas prices and pray that I stumble on something interesting to spice up the article. With our declining staff, I've had to pick up articles that really aren't in my wheelhouse--politics, the economy, even sports. I'm just a Reporter, not a Section Editor, but I try to help out however I can. At least I still have a job.

"Miss Evans?" Nisha's soft voice startles me from my e-mail and I turn to smile at the paper's administrative assistant.

It still freaks me out that she calls me 'Miss Evans.' I can't be more than two or three years older than her, but I guess the fact that I'm a full-time reporter makes it seem like I'm a world above her.

"What's up, Nisha?"

"Tina wants to see you. In her office." Nisha's voice warbles and I suck in a breath.

Her shoulders are squeezed tight and she twiddles a ballpoint pen between her fingers. Am I in trouble? I swear to myself I won't cry in the bathroom again if I am. I'm an adult, I remind myself. Right, an adult who stays up until midnight eating cookie dough ice cream.

"Okay."

I stand up and glance towards Tina, our editor in chief. She's holed up in her office, a frown screwing her face into a thousand wrinkles. I stand up and grab my chai tea, legal pad, and pen before heading over to her office. Outside the door I square my shoulders and try to remember my confidence from after college when I thought the world was my oyster.

"Good morning, Tina. You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, Rachel, come in and have a seat."

Tina motions to the chair in front of her desk which is piled high with folders and scattered papers. I obey and watch as she reaches up to adjust the black framed glasses on her nose, brushing a strand of graying hair behind her ear.

"Is everything alright?" I ask, the wrinkle between her eyes deepening.

The truth is, we both know things aren't alright. With the rise of online news and the deterioration of paper sales, The Morning Call has been losing readers like crazy, and we haven't adjusted well. Most of the people in charge of the paper are older and don't have any vision for the future of online journalism. Between layoffs and cut-backs, we've lost a good portion of our staff and now we're struggling just to publish each issue.

"Of course not," Tina snaps at me. "I had to lay off five more people today."

I feel a shiver go down my backbone. "Uh, me?"

"Not yet," she answers with a raise of her overplucked, pencil-thin eyebrows.

Good to know my job's secure. I try to resist the squirming in my stomach at the thought of losing my job. Of course that would happen to me; then I'd probably end up living in parents' basement again or sharing a room with Tommy. Oh please, no.

"I just need you to pick up a little more slack around here," she says, eying me above the rims of her glasses.

"I...I've been trying to," I answer.

The truth is, I do a lot more than report. I often find my own articles and fill in for other reporters in subjects I have no interest or experience in just to get the paper published on time. I try to be a team player; if there weren't a newspaper published every day, I wouldn't have a job, so I figure it's in my best interest.

"Well, keep it up. Your willingness to work and dedication to the newspaper are what make you such a valuable employee," Tina says, her sharp hazel gaze on me. A valuable employee whose neck might still be on the chopping block.

I guess my ten to twelve hour days have paid off; at least I have a job if not a life. If I start working the hours I'm actually paid to work, eight to five, I'll be on the next rail out of town. Tina's words are nothing short of a threat.

"Thank you," I answer, squirming in my chair.

Did you just thank her for threatening to fire you? Of course I did. Because I'm a yellow-bellied pushover who doesn't want to move back in with her parents.

"Then you don't mind picking up Dave's piece on the tension between Wall Street and small businesses? He's not here anymore."

I grimace. Poor Dave. He has a pregnant wife and three kids to care for; no wonder he hasn't been putting in the ridiculous hours Tina expects. It's not like Tina would care; we're just tools to be used, not people to consider.

"Of course. I'll make sure to finish it before I leave today." If I get out of here before midnight.

"Great," she nods approvingly. "See that you do."

Awesome. Guess I need to learn more about Wall Street now. Thanks a lot, Dave.

~~~~~

I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story so far! Be sure to vote and comment to let me know what you think :)