Emergency Contact(63)

The last thing I asked you was “You good?” Well, are you? I think about it all the time.

If you’re like, NEW LIFE, WHO DIS? I totally understand.

If you’re not, here’s a list of things that have happened in no particular order since I last bothered you.

I got stupidly drunk. Hurt-drunk. It was depressing.

Lorraine isn’t pregnant. And that was strangely disappointing and I don’t know why.

I started shooting the doc. Finally! I don’t know exactly where it’s going at all, but I love it. Turns out the kid’s name is Sebastian. He goes by Bastian, which sounds so badass, and he’s brilliant and insane and I want so badly for you to meet him. Badly? Bad? I never get those right. Kind of how “bemused” doesn’t mean “amused” and how I think “nonplussed” means “unimpressed” when it means something else. Does anyone know what “nonplussed” means? You probably do. Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t actually know how irony works either.

Flammable/inflammable = also confusing.

Anyway. I miss you.

I know we’re basically just a series of texts. But I’m glad that whatever led you to me happened. I’m grateful that you’re my emergency contact. Even if you’re super intense and talking to you late at night is as constructive as Web MDing a bunch of symptoms in the sense that I’m almost always convinced all roads lead to death, but I mean that in a good way. I hope you know that it’s my favorite.

I think I get to miss you. I feel like I’ve earned it. Which I know sounds weird/creepy/possessive or whatever. Our relationship, as abstract as it is, is the best of any relationship, I think.

You’re intense, so much fun, and maybe a bit nuts, and at the same time you’re super focused and passionate about how you want to live your life and your work and it’s beautiful. Also, NONE of this is meant to make you uncomfortable or put you on the spot (I know how you feel about compliments). You give the best advice (for a kid etc., etc., etc.).

I’m happy to know you exist. And even though I feel like I screwed things up, I thought I’d let you know. And to remind you that I exist also. I hope you’ve been good. You good? Let me know.

*all the best emojis even the embarrassing girlie ones*

—S.





PENNY.


Well, that was it. Penny and Sam were officially multiplatform.

Penny texted him.

Hi

You’re a crap emergency contact btw If there’s no response to “You good?”

the correct response is to send paramedics Everybody knows that She waited.

Great point

Such an amateur

Hi

I got your email I’m glad you’re not dead No thanks to you

I KNOW

I’m sorry

I missed you

Me too

Pretty good email right?


She had to hand it to him. It was the best one she’d ever gotten.

Are you at work?


Okay, so Penny knew this qualified as borderline psychotic behavior. And she didn’t want to freak him out on some “THE CALL WAS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE!” but the call was coming from inside the House. Almost.

It had taken half a beer and some serious hand wringing and five outfit changes, but Penny felt it was time for a grand gesture of her own. She didn’t even have to entertain her usual decision tree.

She’d texted him from his porch.

Yeah wrapping up

OK well I’m outside What?

Here?

On the swing

My swing???


Sam walked out of the side door into the dark night with his phone in his hand. His face was lit blue. He continued to type.

Whoa serious escalation Penny smiled and typed back: Boom


“Hey,” he called out. “I guess we’re doing this now?”

“Guess so! It’s scary.” The swing creaked beneath her.

Sam laughed.

This time she had picked the perfect outfit. Penny wore Mallory’s dress again. Her feet were still healing, so she’d put on sneakers, and while she’d applied lipstick, she’d changed her mind and smudged it off onto the back of her hand like a sophisticated young lady. And to make absolutely sure that she wasn’t too exposed, she threw a ratty hoodie over the top. A perfectly Penny outfit. She stood up, which signaled the motion detector floodlight from the back lot to blind them both.

“Hell of an entrance,” Sam said, lifting his arm up to shield his face.

“Sorry to bust in on you like this,” she stammered. Penny couldn’t believe it was happening. “If you’re busy I can . . .”

“Yeah, right,” he said, herding her into the side door. “Just come in.”

Penny followed him into the kitchen. He grabbed a stool, parked it next to the steel workbench, and made her a cup of tea. She took it gratefully and sat.

“Hungry?”

She was.

Sam set to work. He didn’t ask her what she wanted. He peered into the fridge, pulled out some plastic tubs, some bacon and eggs, and palmed a half loaf of bread. They didn’t talk while he assembled. She watched as he grabbed bits of chopped-up ingredients from the tubs and tossed them into the pan. He toasted big, thick slices of bread with olive oil in the broiler and fried up the bacon and eggs and assembled everything into two enormous sandwiches that he cut into diagonal slices. He set one down in front of her.