I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Emily sitting beneath the umbrella, holding my phone and trying not to cry.
I kept hearing the way she had said she was sorry.
Sorry for what?
I asked myself that question until the words stopped making sense.
The room was quiet except for the air conditioner and the occasional sound of a car passing outside.
Emily was in the other bed.
I knew she wasn't asleep because I could hear her shifting beneath the covers.
Neither of us spoke.
I considered turning on the lamp and demanding that she tell me everything.
I even sat up once, ready to do it.
Then I looked at her silhouette in the darkness and stopped.
I was afraid of the answer.
That was the truth I didn't want to admit.
As long as Emily hadn't explained herself, there was still room for me to believe that I had misunderstood her.
There was still room for an innocent explanation.
I lay back down.
Sometime after midnight, I heard her get up and walk toward the bathroom.
The door closed softly.
A few minutes later, I heard water running.
I stared at the ceiling, remembering all the nights Emily had slept at my house over the years.
When we were girls, we used to stay awake whispering long after our parents had told us to go to sleep.
We talked about the people we might marry, the places we wanted to visit, and the kind of lives we imagined having when we grew up.
Later, when her marriage ended, she spent nights at my house because she couldn't bear returning to an empty apartment.
I had never minded.
I had thought that was what friendship meant.
Now I wondered how many things I had failed to notice simply because I had never thought to look.
The bathroom door opened.
Emily returned to bed without speaking.
I turned toward the window.
I didn't want her to know I was awake.
Not because I wanted to punish her.
I simply didn't know what my face would reveal if she looked at me.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee.
Emily had gone downstairs.
For a few seconds, I felt the familiar relief of waking up beside someone I trusted.
Then the previous afternoon returned to me.
I dressed and went down.
She was standing near the small table by the window, holding two cups.
She had already added milk to mine.
That small detail hurt.
She still knew exactly how I liked my coffee.
She still remembered.
I accepted the cup.
“Did you sleep?”
“A little,” she said.
I nodded.
Neither of us mentioned the beach.
We ate breakfast slowly.
Emily kept looking at me as if she wanted to speak, then lowering her eyes whenever I noticed.
I couldn't stand it much longer.
“You said I'd understand tomorrow.”
She put her spoon down.
“Yes.”
“It's tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
She pressed her lips together.
For a moment, I thought she was going to do it.
Instead, she said she needed to take me somewhere.
I stared at her.
“Where?”
“Somewhere I should have taken you a long time ago.”
I wanted to refuse.
I wanted to tell her that I wasn't going anywhere with her until she explained what she had been hiding.
But I also knew that if I went home without an answer, I would spend the rest of my life wondering what she had been trying to tell me.
So I agreed.
We finished breakfast.
I went upstairs to collect my things, although we weren't scheduled to leave until later.
I didn't know whether I was preparing to go somewhere with Emily or preparing to leave her behind.
I only knew I wanted my belongings close to me.
When I returned, she was standing by the door with her bag over one shoulder.
She looked at me carefully.
“Are you ready?”
“No,” I said. “But let's go.”
She nodded.
We walked out together.
The morning air was warm, and the streets near the beach were beginning to fill with people.
A shopkeeper was arranging chairs outside a café.
Someone was sweeping sand from a doorway.
Everything looked ordinary.
That made my own thoughts feel even more out of place.
Emily walked beside me without touching my arm.
For most of our lives, she had been comfortable enough to take my hand when she wanted to get my attention.
That morning, she kept a little distance between us.
I noticed.
I noticed everything.
After a short walk, we stopped near a quiet stretch of the road.
Emily looked at me.
“Before we go any farther, I need you to know that I never wanted to hurt you.”
I felt anger rise in my chest.
“Then why did you?”
She lowered her head.
“I don't know how to explain it without making everything worse.”
“You've already made it worse.”
My voice was sharper than I intended.
Emily flinched.
I regretted that immediately, but I didn't apologize.
For thirty-seven years, I had tried to be the friend who understood.
I had given her room when she needed it and listened when she was ready to talk.
Now I was exhausted by the thought that I was still expected to wait patiently while she decided how much truth I could handle.
“I'm not asking you to make it sound better,” I told her. “I'm asking you to tell me what happened.”
She looked at me with tears in her eyes.
“I will.”
“When?”
“Today.”
I studied her face.
I wanted to believe her.
That was the problem with loving someone for most of your life.
Even when they frightened you, some part of you still wanted to give them one more chance.
I nodded once.
We continued walking.
I didn't take her hand.
And she didn't ask me to.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Closer We Came to the Truth, the More I Remembered Every Ordinary Moment When I Had Trusted Her Without Question
The Woman I Trusted With Everything Suddenly Asked Me to Remember Our Friendship Before It Was Too Late
Part 5 of 8
