In 2011, Emerson was reading a blog piece about successful 30-year-old entrepreneurs in Brooklyn and saw Greta on her screen.
She saw Greta’s dashing eyes, looking, as they always did, ahead of their time. The bones in her face, however, were more pronounced, and her clothes had more buttons than Emerson was accustomed to. The article said she had founded a restaurant that plied Choose-Your-Own-Adventure dining experiences and had since accumulated a number of locations throughout Brooklyn and even one in Manhattan.
Meanwhile Emerson was still 26 and still writing freelance and still thanking her dad every once in a while for frequently picking up rent. Once she thought about getting a dog, but the idea stressed her out so much that she dropped it almost immediately.
Emerson clicked around on Facebook and sent a message that began “Hi, it’s Emerson” and Greta hugged her tightly when they met.
They sat across a round café table on the 7th-Ave sidewalk in Manhattan.
Towards the end of the afternoon Greta leaned in conspiratorially. “Hey, what are you doing December thirty-first?”
In that instant Emerson forgave Greta, forgave herself, felt the sun heating up her skin. “Can’t say I have any plans. What’re you thinking?”
“I’m getting married that day. You gotta come, man.”
“Oh.” Emerson was going to ask for his name, a good summary, the way he dressed. “Right on.” Then she cast her glance away.
A lady walked past and Emerson fantasized about her ethnicity. “Hey, that chick’s name, on the count of three. One, two, three, Blaize.”
Greta was already lost to someplace else. She looked up from her phone. “I have to take this.”