The next morning, Emma found herself standing outside Jake's apartment building with a key she wasn't entirely sure she knew how to use and a discharge packet that contained approximately seventeen warnings about "taking it easy" and "avoiding strenuous activity."
Okay, Emma. Home sweet... Jake's home. This is it. The place where Jake Morrison lived his mysterious and apparently very popular life.
The building was one of those modern Seattle complexes that tried to look industrial and cozy at the same time. All exposed brick and carefully placed succulents. The kind of place that screamed "young professional who makes good life choices."
Unlike me, who just spent ten minutes trying to figure out which end of the key goes into the lock.
She'd finally gotten the door open after a brief but intense struggle that she hoped none of Jake's neighbors had witnessed. The last thing she needed was people thinking Jake had suffered brain damage.
Well, technically Jake did suffer brain damage. Fatal brain damage. But that's probably not the kind of thing you mention to the neighbors.
Emma stepped into Jake's apartment and immediately understood why he'd been so popular on dating apps.
Holy shit. Jake, were you secretly a millionaire?
The place was... perfect. Hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a cooking show, and furniture that had clearly been selected by someone who understood concepts like "aesthetic" and "adult living."
This is what happens when you have taste and money and probably don't spend all your time researching the theoretical physics of wheelchair accessibility.
Emma walked through the space in a daze, touching surfaces like she was in a museum. Everything was clean, organized, and exactly the kind of sophisticated that she'd always imagined she'd have if her life had been different.
The couch alone probably cost more than I spent on... well, anything, ever.
She made her way to what had to be Jake's bedroom and stopped dead in her tracks.
Okay, this is definitely where the magic happened.
The bed was enormous, dressed in what looked like actual adult bedding instead of whatever random sheets happened to be on sale. There was art on the walls that wasn't posters held up with thumbtacks. A dresser that matched the bed frame. Curtains that had probably been professionally installed.
Jake Morrison, you were living the dream. No wonder half of Seattle wanted to date you.
Emma opened the closet and felt her jaw drop.
This is not a closet. This is a clothing showroom.
Suits that looked like they'd been tailored. Casual clothes that still somehow looked expensive. Shoes that were organized by color and style. Everything hung properly, no wrinkles, no stains, no mystery stains that might have been food or might have been something worse.
I need to make a list. A very long list of things I need to learn how to do.
She grabbed a notebook from Jake's nightstand and started writing.
Basic Adult Male Skills Emma Needs to Master:1. How to dress like someone who has their shit together2. What all these hair products are for3. Why Jake owns seventeen different types of cologne4. How to operate what appears to be a very complicated coffee machine5. Dating app etiquette that doesn't involve writing essays about compatibility
Emma paused and looked around the bedroom again. On the nightstand, she noticed a small framed photo. Jake with his arm around a woman with short dark hair and a smile that suggested she found everything hilarious.
Girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend? Sister? Friend who's going to notice if Jake suddenly starts acting like he doesn't know how to use his own shower?
She picked up the photo and studied it. They looked comfortable together, familiar. The kind of casual intimacy that suggested history.
Great. Another person I'm going to have to figure out how to interact with without revealing that I have absolutely no idea who they are.
Emma set the photo down and continued her exploration. Jake's bathroom was like stepping into a spa advertisement. Products she'd never heard of lined the shelves. A shower that had more settings than her old car. Towels that were probably softer than her previous bed.
This is going to take some getting used to.
She was examining what appeared to be some kind of exfoliating scrub when her phone buzzed. Jake's phone. She was going to have to stop thinking of it as separate from her.
Text from "Alex with the amazing smile." Who is Alex with the amazing smile? And why does Jake have people in his phone identified by their physical attributes?
"Hey stranger! Haven't heard from you since your accident. Coffee later? I have news about the Thompson campaign."
Thompson campaign. That sounds work-related. Alex might be a colleague. Someone who expects me to remember professional things about Jake's job.
Emma stared at the text, paralyzed by the complexity of responding appropriately.
What would Jake say? Something casual, probably. Smooth. The kind of response that makes people want to keep texting you.
She typed and deleted approximately fifteen different responses before settling on: "Still recovering, but coffee sounds good. Usual place?"
Please let there be a usual place. Please let Alex respond with specific location information.
While she waited for a response, Emma decided to investigate Jake's kitchen. The coffee machine turned out to be even more intimidating up close.
This has more buttons than the space shuttle. There's a setting called 'espresso strength.' What does that even mean? How strong is too strong? Is there a wrong way to make coffee that results in injury?
She was studying what appeared to be an instruction manual when her phone buzzed again.
"Of course! Bean There at 3? Hope you're feeling better. Can't wait to catch up!"
Bean There. Okay. That's probably a coffee shop. At 3. I can handle this. How hard can coffee be?
Emma looked at Jake's reflection in the refrigerator door and tried to practice casual expressions.
Smile. Look interested but not desperate. Nod at appropriate intervals. Avoid mentioning that I have no idea what the Thompson campaign is.
She spent the next hour trying on different combinations of Jake's clothes, attempting to find something that looked effortlessly attractive. Everything fit perfectly, which was a revelation in itself.
Clothes that actually fit. What a concept.
She settled on dark jeans and a button-down shirt that made Jake's shoulders look... impressive. Then she spent another twenty minutes trying to figure out how much of the shirt should be tucked in.
Is this a full tuck situation? Partial tuck? No tuck? Why isn't there a manual for this?
At 2:30, Emma stood in front of Jake's bathroom mirror, attempting to recreate yesterday's accidental hair success with the texturizing paste.
Okay, less is more. Just a tiny bit. Don't overdo it like last time.
The results were better, though she suspected Jake's natural attractiveness was doing most of the heavy lifting.
Good enough. Time to go meet Alex with the amazing smile and pretend I know what the Thompson campaign is.
Emma grabbed Jake's keys and wallet, double-checked that she had his phone, and headed for the door.
You can do this, Emma. It's just coffee. With someone who knows Jake well enough to have a usual place. Someone who's going to expect you to remember professional details and personal conversations and probably inside jokes.
She paused at the door, suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of what she was attempting.
I'm about to walk out into Jake's life and pretend to be someone I know nothing about. Someone confident, successful, socially competent. Someone who has never spent twenty minutes trying to figure out how to tuck in a shirt.
Emma took a deep breath and opened the door.
But on the other hand, I'm walking out at all. Under my own power. To meet someone for coffee like a normal person doing normal person things.
She locked the apartment door behind her and headed for the elevator.
Besides, how hard can it be to fake being charming for one coffee date?
Famous last words, Emma. Famous last words.