Red Light, Green Light
Chapter Thirteen: J'ai Deux Amours

In a drafty and empty terminal sat a boy and a girl. The girl had her legs folded Indian style, slumped against a cold plastic bucket seat. She had her red hair coiled in a tight bun and wore a green zip-up and skinny jeans. A chai tea latte from Saxby's was casually sipped as she gave discreet sidelong glances that only worked because she hadn't bothered to take off her aviators.

To her left, sat the boy. He wore a collared navy polo and jeans. Dark, thickly rimmed reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose. He scanned The New York Times diligently, turned a page, and took a sip of his coffee. It had a certain undisturbed rhythm to it.

Until Emma leaned in.

"Now boarding, Platform 9 ¾."

Jack turned a page.

"Anything off the trolley, dears?"

A forced cough.

"Alas. Earwax," she joked.

Jack cleared his throat.

Emma slumped back in her seat. "Here's what you're supposed to say," she made her back ramrod straight and sniveled, "Emma, we are in an airport. We are not fictional creatures of JK Rowling's magical realm. And you are trying way too hard to start a conversation right now."

Jack glanced up and smiled, "See, why would I do that when you're perfectly capable of carrying on a full conversation by yourself?"

Emma frowned and said pointedly, "You don't like Luke."

"Sorry?" he turned his head.

"Well, it's the only conclusion I can come to. You've been ignoring me since you saw him in my kitchen. You disapprove."

Jack shrugged.

"That's all I get?" Emma gaped, laughing. "Come on, Jack, I hate your criticism on a daily basis except when it comes to people I date. It came especially handy in high school."

"Yeah, you did date some douchebags," he agreed. "I liked Steve Weiss though."

"That's because he let you borrow his car whenever you wanted."

"Mustang," Jack sighed, gazing far off. "I think I had a mancrush on him."

Emma rolled her eyes. "So, tell me. What about Luke don't you like?"

He smirked and pointed, "See, that? That's a trap."

"No, it's not, I just want your honest opinion."

Jack took off his glasses and polished a lens.

Emma stared at him.

"What?" he laughed, "I think he's nice."

"Nice?"

"God, Emma, drop it."

"What's the point of being my best friend when you're not going to be completely honest with me?" Emma elbowed him. "I can take it, you know I can. I've been taking it."

Jack sighed. He folded his paper, shook his head, and was about to finally open up, when an announcement came on the P.A, followed by a flood of people from the gate.

Emma perched her sunglasses up and sighed, finishing the last of her chai tea. She dunked it into a recycling bin and slung her purse over one shoulder. "What does she look like again?"

"I don't know. What was it that Dara said?" Jack tucked the newspaper under one arm. "Oh, she has brown hair."

"Cool, that narrows it down."

Jack snorted and Emma pulled out the creased newspaper. She dug for a black Sharpie in her purse, pulled the cap off with her teeth, and scribbled something onto The Times.

"What are you doing? I bought that," Jack said, horrified.

"Shush," Emma muttered. She capped the marker, threw it back into her bag, and flipped the paper around. Giant, thick black capital letters spelled out Jane Fairfax across the front page. Emma held it up above her head like a dutiful chauffeur.

After a solid five minutes of scanning faces, the pair noticed a girl around Emma's age walking towards them. She had a beat-up, tribal looking camping backpack slung over one shoulder, and a guitar case held in her other hand. Colorful bangles were around her wrists and her fingers were adorned with eclectic looking rings.

The girl came to a stop in front of them. "Jack and Emma?"

"Yep," Jack smiled. "Are you Jane?"

"Yep," Jane repeated with a grin. She held out her hand and they shook. "Pleasure to meet you guys. Thank you so much for picking me up, I'm pretty sure Dara is eternally indebted to you."

"It's no problem. Dara kicks herself over the smallest things."

"How was your flight?" Emma asked politely.

"Long," she laughed. Jack smiled.

As they set off for baggage claim, Jack and the newcomer started a conversation about her mission trip in India. Emma listened quietly and tried to ignore the feeling of being snubbed. You're being too sensitive.

"See any of your luggage?" Jack asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. He gestured at the slowly rotating wheel.

"Not yet. Mine's bright green. It's about yay big."

"What, just one?" Jack asked, surprised. "You were there for three months and you took one bag?"

"And this baby right here," Jane grinned, patting her backpack. She shrugged, "I'm a light packer. I don't need much. I don't buy much. I find pleasure in other things. The culture, the people, the lifestyle."

"I respect that," Jack said.

Emma pressed her lips together.

Jane smiled and slipped out her cell phone from her jean pocket. "I should call Dara and tell her I'm here. She's such a sweetie—always worried sick about me."

As Jane Fairfax held up the flip phone to her ear (an old AT&T model Emma was sure she hadn't seen since 2003), the redhead couldn't help but watch her critically.

The truth of the matter was that Jane Marie Fairfax was kind of gorgeous. She was tall, taller than Emma and a little shorter than Jack, and had the slender physique of some backpacking vegetarian yogi. Her hair was dark, thick and pin-straight, falling like some great curtain to her ribcage. She brushed her bangs out of big brown eyes and flashed a perfect white smile.

Emma wondered if Jane ever had braces and decided to unconditionally hate her if she didn't.

"I see your bag," Jack said. "Wait here." He dragged it off the carousel and the wheels clattered on the linoleum.

"Thanks," smiled Jane.

Emma mutely followed them out.

In the parking garage outside of JFK International, the (minimal) luggage was loaded in the trunk of Tom Woodhouse's old Honda. Seatbelts were fastened and the rear view mirror was adjusted and the key slipped into the ignition. The journey to the Bates residence began.

"Sorry for stealing shotgun," Jane apologized. Emma smiled politely from the backseat and reminded Dara's stepsister that she had insisted in the first place.

The stereo started blaring and Jack moved to turn it down.

"No way," Jane sat up, folded her legs and cranked up the volume. "Passion Pit?"

Jack glanced at her and grinned, "You like them?"

"Oh my gosh, I've been in love since I saw them live at Bonnaroo last June!"

"Wow, Jack, somebody else actually likes your obscure indie music."

He laughed at Emma through the rear view mirror. Jane, surprisingly, did not look amused. She pursed her lips and stared out the window.

"I wish I could go all the way to Bonnaroo," Jack sighed, flicking on a turn signal. "A couple friends bought us tickets to Lollapalooza in Chicago last summer and Passion Pit was part of the lineup. I am officially converted."

"Ooh, then you'd love Phoenix. You have to let me make you a mix CD."

"I would love that, thanks."

As the conversation became more and more exclusive, Emma sighed and found herself resigning to watching highway signs and playing a not-so-competitive game of Padiddle alone. Which, regrettably, was a lot harder in daylight.

When one door closes, the sunroof opens.

The same could be easily said about friendships. Jack's half-hearted snubs came at the perfect time, as Taylor and Oliver had just returned from Italy. Emma took it upon herself to bike uptown Sunday morning and stop by, armed with a ribboned basket full of brownies.

"What is it with you and baked goods?" Mrs. Weston balked, sliding the batch onto her kitchen counter. "Are you like Ned the Piemaker? Do you stress-bake?"

"Maybe," Emma mumbled, aggressively breaking a brownie in two. She offered half. "Want a piece?"

Taylor smiled sympathetically. "Let me get some milk, sweetie." She opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of Horizon.

"How was the honeymoon?" asked Emma.

"Glorious," sighed the Weston bride. "Siena, Florence and Tuscany. I am a lucky, lucky girl."

Emma grinned mischievously, "Was it all starry nights and vineyards?"

"Um, pretty much." Taylor paused, "Plus a lot of honeymoon stuff I'm not gonna mention."

"Dish."

"No."

"Okay."

Taylor grinned and bit into a brownie. "So, you dish. You met the infamous saint, Jane Fairfax. Does she know Jesus personally?"

"No. Jane… Jane is cool. In a really, really irritating way."

"What do you mean?" asked Taylor.

Emma recounted her meeting with Jane Fairfax, the unbelievably pretty, gracious, travel-savvy sweetheart of strong moral faith and character.

"Fuckin' pisses me off," she finished.

Taylor snorted.

"Oh, and can we talk about how she and Jack are basically getting married?" Emma lifted her eyes incredulously. "We're in the car for two minutes, two minutes, and then it's all yadda yadda, Passion Pit this, and Lollapalooza Bonaboozle that. Let's talk about summer festivals for an hour! Wait right here guys, I'm just going to find a revolver in the glove compartment to shoot myself with."

A cough. "Wow."

"Right?"

"I'm not gonna say it."

"Say what?" asked Emma.

Taylor's dark eyes were mischievous. "Jea-lous-y."

"Oh, come on."

"You are, balls to the wall, legitimately jealous of this girl."

"I don't like labels," said Emma moodily. "And ew."

Taylor snorted and wiped her hands free of brownie crumbs. Oliver stumbled into the kitchen a minute later, sleepy and bleary-eyed. He yawned, waved to Emma and stopped to drop a kiss on top of his wife's head. He smiled contently and trapped her in a bear hug.

"Honey, can you please put on pants? A Hanes tee and boxers is not guest-appropriate."

"Mmf."

"Right," Taylor said dryly. "Coffee first, I get it."

Emma grinned. Her ringtone (The Cure's "Friday, I'm in Love") interrupted the clatter of pots and pans in the sink, and she flipped her phone open. "Hey, Heather."

"Oh my God! Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God."

"Open your mouth. Inhale."

Heather hiccuped.

"Now exhale."

Whoosh.

Emma smiled, "Good girl. Now you may talk."

Heather gushed, "I just ran into Robbie Martin and his little sister buying groceries. I could die, ten times over."

"Aw, honey," Emma winced. "What happened?"

"Well, I thought about laying low. I kind of ducked behind the produce. But then my elbow hit one of the shelves and a ton of apples went rolling across the floor."

"Way to be inconspicuous," Emma had to laugh.

"It's not funny!" moaned Heather. "Jenny saw me first. She's 10, and a total cutie. I used to braid her hair and watch Hannah Montana on Saturday mornings. But yeah, Jenny ran over and hugged me, and Rob asked me how I was. He was so nice about it, Emma, he didn't even mention what had happened! It was like he was trying to be friends."

"That's nice," she murmured. This was unexpected.

"And then he—well, Robbie—thanked me for the CDs I burned for him a few months back. Remember? He said I had gotten him hooked on a new artist. And then we got talking about books, and he had just finished this memoir about World War II that sounded really interesting. He's going to lend it to me next week."

"Wow," Emma said. "Rob's being…surprisingly thoughtful."

"Oh, he's always been like that," Heather murmured. "They're such a nice family."

"If anything, this shows that you truly can stay friends with people, am I right?" smiled Emma. "I'm happy for you. Now you can really let it go."

"Oh. Yeah, that makes sense."

"Heather, can you hold on a second? I'm getting another call." Emma switched lines, "Hello?"

"Emma!" The frequency of Dara Bates's voice had the capacity to shatter glass sometimes. "Oh, you absolute angel, thank you so much for picking up my Janie!"

"Oh—it's no problem, Dara. Jack drove, not me."

"So modest. What did I want to tell you? Oh, yes. Mother and I want to treat Jane to dinner tonight, a sort of Welcome-Home feast. I'm inviting you and Jack! And maybe another girl friend of yours? Who was it I met at the wedding… brunette, short…"

"That was Heather." Ugh.

"Oh, yes, her. Perfect. I'll text you the restaurant address. Hugs and kisses!" The line went dead.

Emma took another brownie.

Author's Note: So, I understand now what Jane Austen meant when she wrote: "I am going to take a heroine whom no-one but myself will much like." Don't get me wrong, Emma's a doll. I adore her. But sometimes she gets a little…well, testy. Okay, not a little.