Missing you

“It has been too long. I’ve missed you,” Emily said.

The two of us shed our winter weather gear layer by layer—hats, scarves, gloves—and settled into deep armchairs near a gas fireplace, cradling tall mugs of hot chocolate. The sweet, rich scent enveloped the air as we warmed our hands. The cozy coffee shop provided a welcome respite from the frigid December weather we had just walked through. Emily still looked the same, trim and stylish, with slightly longer hair and a few more wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. Yet, behind those eyes, I still saw the same sweet and bubbly 16-year-old girl I met 40 years ago. I couldn't help but wonder how she saw me and how much I might have changed over the years.

“Me too,” I said, delicately blowing into my mug, causing whipped cream to spill over the side. I ran a finger across the mug's edge to prevent drips.

Three years had passed since our last in-person meeting, and it had been five since we'd spent time alone together. We were lifelong friends, having met as cashiers at a part-time job when we were 16. Roommates for three years in our twenties, we had been each other’s maid-of-honor, for my first and second weddings and her only one. Despite numerous moves across countries, states and provinces, we had managed to stay in touch until the last five years, during which our contact had dwindled without a clear reason. There had been no falling out or disagreement. 

“So really, how are you?” Emily asked for the third time. We both replied with the customary "great, and you?" This was the first time I'd felt awkward with her. Our lives had diverged, and we were now living in separate countries with only brief glimpses into each other’s worlds. In the past, we would have eagerly shared every piece of news, information, and gossip with each other, using a shorthand language to talk faster.

“Good. Great, really. Our trip was fantastic,” I replied. My new husband and I had eloped a few months ago in Costa Rica. I took a cautious sip of my drink, getting whipped cream on my nose. She smiled at me, and some of the tension lifted.

“Congrats again! How is married life treating you?” she asked, taking her own cautious sip of hot chocolate. I was grateful she didn’t mention 'again,' given that this was my third marriage. The first had been in my early twenties to an abusive boyfriend, the second in my late 30s, lasting eight years. My current husband, whom I met in my late 40s, was the first relationship where I felt completely comfortable.

“Wonderful,” I responded, smiling. She nodded, smiling as well.

“Great. I’m so happy you’ve found someone that truly loves you. You know you deserve it, right?” she added.

I nodded, bristling slightly, unsure of where that comment was coming from. Did she still see me as the insecure 17-year-old I was 40 years ago?

Then I realized that she did. She still perceived me as that person from decades ago, shy and with low self-esteem. She didn't acknowledge or admire all my growth; my successful career, my travels, my current marriage.

I nodded, looking away. “Of course. Ryan’s a great guy and my very best friend.”

We continued catching up on each other’s families and mutual friends. She shared concerns about her mom living alone, and I reciprocated with similar worries about my in-laws. Then she asked about my job.

“So, what is the timeline for your retirement?” she asked.

We had discussed this before, and I had mentioned that retirement was years out for me. Emily had retired from her only company back in her late 40s, enjoying a golden parachute package and a lifetime pension. I, on the other hand, had moved through various companies and job titles, considering my savings healthy but understanding that they had to last into my 90s.

“Certainly not anytime soon,” I responded. “Retirement isn’t really in the picture right now. Both Ryan and I figure we’ll work at least another 6-8 years at least.”

Her brow furrowed, and she swallowed the last of her hot chocolate. “Oh, I didn't realize.....I’m sorry to hear that.”

I wasn’t seeking her pity, and my frustration flared. She was financially well off, and I was happy for her, but we had followed different paths.

“I don’t think there’s anything to be sorry about,” I retorted sharply, unintentionally more cutting than I had intended. This was a conversation we had already had four months ago.

She froze, met my eyes, and color came to her cheeks. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. Just… you’re eligible for Canada Pension, right—or whatever the US equivalent is?” she asked.

I nodded, explaining that it couldn’t be accessed until 67, and it wasn’t sufficient to live on for 30+ years.

She insisted that one could get it sooner, and I leaned back in my chair, taking another sip of now-melted whipped cream.

“Besides the financial reasons, even more importantly, I don’t yet know what I want to do in retirement. I don’t want to just sit at home, that’s for sure,” I said, steering the conversation away from the uncomfortable topic of money.

“Oh, you’d be amazed at what comes to you if you’re open to it,” she said, recounting her consulting work for her brother and a friend's small businesses.

“I’m not sure what that means exactly,” I frowned.

“Just that when you don’t have a 9-5 anymore, you find yourself reaching out to others more, saying yes to... well, whatever comes your way. It’s great having this freedom. I’d love to see it for you too.” She tipped her mug back, draining it. 

I counted to ten in my head to avoid a retort I would likely regret instantly. I was in a good place in my life, so why did I feel defensive? Now I was irritated.

“Someday, I guess,” I stated flatly. “I’m glad you’re enjoying your ‘retirement,’ though,” I added with air quotes, perhaps a tad passive-aggressive.

She stared at me for a couple of seconds, then put down her empty mug on the table as she started to gather her things. “Done?” she asked.

“Oh, sure,” I replied, taking a last gulp and placing my mug down as well.

“So,” she said, buttoning up her coat already. “I told Patrick I’d meet him and his mother at 4, and it’s all the way downtown.”

I felt a punch in my gut. I had told her months ago about my visit and our plan to catch up. We'd only been here for 30 minutes. I grabbed my coat, feeling tears welling up. Had I ruined things? Had she? What had happened to us?

I reached for my coat but stopped, looking at her. “I have to ask – did I offend you?”

She gave a too high-pitched laugh, putting on her hat without meeting my eyes. “Offend me? What do you mean, silly?” I shrugged. “I don’t know, just…”

She cut me off, “So, this was great. It was wonderful to see you. I’m glad you fit me into your schedule while you’re here,” she said, oblivious to the fact that she was a main part of my schedule. I thought we’d get together a couple of times during my visit, but that apparently was not in the cards.

“You need to come visit me in Charleston,” I suggested. “We’d love to have you.”

She nodded. “Sure, maybe. Patrick’s not a fan of the south, though. But next time you’re up this way, the group of us should get together.” No mention of a zoom call for the two of us, something she had insisted on monthly just a year ago.

We stepped outside into the brisk, dry December Toronto air. The sidewalks were crowded with Saturday shoppers, and we kept getting bumped as we said our final goodbyes. We hugged, and she turned away, hurrying towards the subway.

I watched her go and whispered to myself, “I miss you, Emily.”