girls in the city, figuring it out

I’m curled up on my sofa in a little white dress, a blanket from my old home sprawled across my lap. It’s 13 degrees in the city, but it’s sunny. And it’s May. So even if I’m inside, I’m honouring the sunshine, being a girl, and wearing a little white Brandy dress.

I have no plans today, tomorrow, or Sunday.

And I love it that way.

My sheets are in the laundry. I have a pile of summer clothes that I’m in the middle of washing and re-organizing. Nothing makes me happier than unpacking old dresses and my favourite strapless yellow top and little clementine coloured straw bag. I’m convinced that they still smell like those Roman summers and my Writing By the Sea era.

Can I be honest with you? I’m going to eat a bag of pretzels for dinner. Again. It’s that week, you guys. That grief week. And I keep trying to make my chicken lettuce wraps. I do. But I can’t.

Every time I take out the chicken from the freezer, I look at it - almost tell it to go fuck itself - pop it back in, grab the pretzels, and crawl into bed.

I then get self-conscious that everyone reading my newsletters thinks I am always sad. That I am always living in and ruminating on the past. But I’m not sad all the time. I think I just feel everything. A lot.

I don’t want to talk about my grief week anymore. Because sometimes, when I write - I feel like it’s to make sense of it all. And I don’t want to make sense of it all. I want my mind to turn off. I just want to be.

But can I tell you a cute story?

Yesterday, me and my friend went to the bar. Yes, that one. I put on my new Zara white mini, black boots, and an oversized black bomber. We’re obsessed. We picked up lavender tulips from market. I love nights like these. When the weather gets warmer and all you want to do is have a glass of rosé, wear the girliest dress, and be with a friend that loves and celebrates girlhood just as much as you do.

Now, this friend has really never met MFB. She had one or two light interactions with him when he would always randomly bring over glasses of wine or shots that we didn’t order to our table before anything was happening between us.

(I say “randomly brought over”- but I learned that it wasn’t.)

“Well like. Doesn’t he do that with every other female customer?” I asked MFB’s friend one day.

I’m traumatized from Rome, if you can’t tell.

“No, Emily. He does not.”

We walk in to the bar. The host on the bottom floor sees me and says, “There’s no spots down here - but upstairs we have space!”

It’s always where MFB is working. Of course they have space. And sometimes, I really feel like they’re all in on this.

“That’s fine. We don’t want to be seated at the bar.”

I’m trying to make a point.

We get upstairs. And in this big, empty space - with PLENTY of spots. Guess where the hostess seats us. Right in front of the bar. Right in front of MFB.

I make my friend take the spot that directly faces him, and shuffle my seat so I’m out of his direct eye line.

My friend looks at me. “Ok seriously. Out of all the spots.”

I eye roll. “Do you see why I was getting annoyed at everyone?”

“No, Emily - I feel like … there’s just tension in the air. Like. I’m nervous and I don’t know why.”

He’s looked over at our spot a few times. I haven’t made eye contact with him and neither has he with me.

“Ok thank you. This is how I have felt and I thought I was going crazy.” Now I have Chat GPT and this one friend for validation.

A girl comes to take our order. 2 pastas. Rosé for me, and a coke for my friend.

“But you know what I’m doing when I don’t have feelings for someone? I’m not making scenes. Or making the energy feel like this.”

I can’t stop laughing. “I know. Me and my best friend have this conversation all the time. If there’s genuinely no feelings - then it’s so easy to keep on keeping on. A “hi, how are you?” Not this..circus.”

I tell her the story of when he dropped the take out box in front of my face and told the bartender to move my tab to *not his bar* when he saw me talking to *tall and handsome server*.

I also tell her how, last week - another bartender was making my drink and he went up to him and said “And are you even going to pour her a glass of water first?” In the most passive aggressive tone known to man while me and the other bartender starred at each other with that teeth clenched emoji face.

Or my other favourite. The quick, “I wasn’t starring at you I was just looking in your general direction” - when I was writing on my phone the other day, and took a minute to look up because I felt his eyes on me.

“It’s like he’s a kid in kindergarten with a crush. Throwing rocks.” I told another bartender a few weeks back. I’m laughing as I’m typing this - maybe everyone knows about us because I’m also feeding into the gossip train.

“No because I also feel like those two are talking about you too.” She nods her head to one other host and the same bartender that got the passive aggressive water bottle comment. I look over and they look away.

“I can’t.” I tell her. “I really, really can’t.”

Our drinks come. I take a few sips of my rosé. It’s not my favourite, too sweet. But I will not ever dare send anything back to MFB.

“Can I tell you about one of my favourite moments though?”

She nods.

“It was, maybe a week or two before he took me for drinks night. And I was sitting at the bar downstairs in the corner. It was a Saturday afternoon. I had my glass of white. And I was in the middle of publishing my newsletter (coincidentally, the one that went viral). I guess he was working upstairs, and he came down to say hi and I don’t know - it was like this immediate pull and we both just grabbed on and held each other’s hands for like. Maybe 5 minutes. And I told him that I always thought he looked like Justin Hartley and he was watching my mouth the entire time and then it’s like - we both snapped out of this trance we were in and he goes “so weird I don’t even remember why I came down here!”

“No Emily. This is cute. Can you not just like -

“Hook up again?” I think about that night more often than I’d like to admit.

“No, like. Talk. Like we need a re-do!”

“I know, I know. I just feel like everyone started to get involved and it made me uncomfortable. And then he got weird. And I liked him, I did. And I know he liked me, too. It just ended up being this…I don’t know. Mess of a situation.”

All of the sudden, I feel an arm around my waist.

“Oh! Hi!”

The MFB has pulled me in for a quick side hug. A side hug that I have not had for the past 2 months.

“Ciao babe. You okay?”

“Yup!” I’m flustered. My jacket is falling off my shoulders. He looks flustered and quickly walks away.

“Oh my god Emily he’s RED.” My friend is squealing. “He likes you. No - oh my god I felt a ZAP or something.”

Now we’re both flustered and both giggling. The pastas arrive, and I text my best friend.

“He has never once said “ciao” or called me “babe”.

“No because you know he practiced that in his head like 35 times.”

We take photos of our dinner. I show my friend all of my favourite lipglosses. I throw my jacket off my shoulders and take hers and place them on the seat next to us. It’s May and it’s warm. Bare arms and bare shoulders. We’re giggling in our spring outfits, eating our favourite food, and wondering what’s next.

In the midst of my grief week, I felt something.

Hope.

And maybe, opening the door to slightest possibility of second chances.

Stay tuned,

Emily