He’s knitting little baby booties for his sister. His sister’s kid. Who will certainly outgrow the booties in the next few months, but it’s the thought that counts. But the point is that he’s knitting when she walks in to the  coffee shop, and his jaw does this thing where it falls open a couple of centimeters before he can force it to snap back closed. All she was doing was walking—there’s a thumpthumpthump going too fast in his chest. The feeling he got the first time he saw Hannah, and the hundred thousand times that he’s seen Emmeline. He drops the needles in his lap and waves her over then gestures at the drinks he’s already ordered. That’s the universal way to find out that someone’s your best friend; know how they take their coffee. It’s not until he stops looking at her, looks at the booties instead, that he realizes he’s turned the heel twice. The whole thing ruined because it’s got two heels instead of one.

“Hey,” she says, picking up one of the mugs before her ass hits the chair opposite his.

“Yeah—I mean, hey. Hey, you.” Westley buries the needles, the ruined socks, into his bag. “How was your day?”

Em takes a sip of her drink. “Fine.”

“That’s good.”

So this is what happens. His papier-mâché world gets stomped on by some divine boot, and he’s having coffee with the girl who caused it. He can’t help but smiling, until Emmeline raises her eyebrows to poise the question. “Hannah called it off,” she asks—or not really asks. She states it; affirms it. Westley nods and gulps down the dregs of his coffee. Signals the waiter for another, and turns back to Em. There’s a piece of hair falling out of the hasty up-do she must have done while she was making the two block walk from her flat. He thinks about sitting on his hands so he doesn’t lean over to pin it behind her ear—except he realizes that there’s nothing wrong with doing it. Maybe a little bit. Because he should be devastated.

 He shouldn’t feel so relieved.

 Except he is, and it’s hard to pretend that he’s not. He reaches over and tucks it behind her ear, pausing to cup that side of her face with his hand. “It’s not your fault.”

 She gives him a look. “Right, Wes. Hannah didn’t dump you because she found out you fucked me in your marital bed. Must have just been because you left the toilet seat up.”

 “You didn’t force me to do it.”

 “I didn’t stop you either.”

 “If we’re playing that game—I didn’t stop you.”

 “Westley.”

 “Just let me take the fucking blame, Emmeline. Can you let me do that? Instead of acting like you’re some shady mistress that needs to be blamed because—because of something I chose to do! I made the first move. Not you. Me. And sure, you didn’t complain when I—when I did what I did, but it was a conscious decision and so just let me take the heat.” She’s frustrating. No one frustrates him like this girl does. Even with the way she grips her mug in between two hands like if she doesn’t her center of gravity will be thrown off, and the way she skips the buttons on her shirt sometimes and is too lazy to go and fix them. Just because she’s Emmeline, this never ending source of frustration.

 There’s an ill concealed frown on her face. “Does she know it was me?”

 “I think she figured it out. But I didn’t tell her.”

 “Oh.” Emmeline closes her eyes, but her mouth is still moving. “We should get out of here.”

 “Okay,” he says. Because he’d follow her anywhere, really. He follows her out of the shop with his stupid bag thrown over his shoulder, bumping against his hip when he has to start running to keep up with her. When he catches up, he laces their fingers together and leans over; “we’ll figure something out.”

 He says it like it’s a secret.

 And hopes to God that she’ll let him make it up to her.