Have you ever asked yourself, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Cute question, until
you realize you’re pushing thirty and the only answer you’ve got is a soul-deep sigh.
I’m not some dreamy, impressionable girl anymore. I pay my bills, I own matching towels, and I
even floss regularly. Certified adult, right? So, why does my brain keep circling that question, like it’s
an unsolved mystery?
Letting my mind wander there suggests I’m unhappy, but that’s not true. Not at all.
I blame insomnia. And the Hallmark channel, where the baker, the dressmaker, and the hot
neighbor all find their happily ever after before the credits roll.
That’s not real life. It’s definitely not how my life’s scripted. So, this contemplation is pointless and
unproductive. Tonight, if I can’t sleep, I’m watching The First 48 or Snapped. To balance it all out.
I sit in my swanky cubicle on the 21st floor of one of downtown Houston’s most prestigious office
buildings, where I should be focusing on numbers and formulas in a client’s accounting spreadsheet.
Instead, my mind drifts to the question I can’t shake: I am a grown woman, so why does it feel like
that very fact snuck up on me? And why does it feel like something is missing?
As a young girl, I built castles in my head, filling them with vivid fantasies of the life I’d one day
have. By now, I was supposed to be married to my prince, with two perfect children racing around.
Instead, it’s just me, my spreadsheets, and a hollow space where that dream should have been.
My friends, Sarah and Roxy, seem never to ponder this. They are both carefree spirits, happy to
party and date as the mood strikes them. I don’t recall either of them ever discussing a future that
included marriage or children. They’re both too free-spirited to settle down, and I doubt either of
them believes in fairy tales anyway.
I love both of them and wouldn’t change a single thing about either of them. Secretly, I enjoy
living vicariously through their wild escapades. I’m the more conservative one among what our college
friends often called ‘The Hot Three Musketeers.’ We met during our sophomore year in an art elective
class, and that nickname has stuck with us ever since.
Although I am part of the Hot Three, I know that it is by association only; my own looks and
personality are nothing special. Being called hot was so much better than when I was called a
Philomath Sociopath in high school, just because of my love for numbers and learning.
Joke’s on them: my love of numbers paid off. I received a full-ride scholarship to the University
of Houston for a Master of Science in Accounting. As a bonus, it allowed me to pursue my own goals
instead of having to let daddy pay and dictate my future. Now I work as a Data Integrity Analyst for
one of the largest Risk Management firms in the Houston area. The best part is that I get to embrace
and utilize my geekier side.
My full name is Emily Sue Wilson, but I’ve been called Em since 2nd grade. My birth name was
too boring, so the other 6-year-olds started calling me Em.
I’m relatively tall at 5’7″ with long, dirty blonde hair and grey eyes. Okay, my eyes are blue, but
they’re so light that they seem more grey than blue. My hairdresser told me I have a delicately feminine
face. I can only assume it was in reference to my softer contours, fuller, bow-shaped lips, and a pert
nose, features often found on young children. My looks might not draw a lot of attention, but I can’t
deny that I have a great body underneath all my clothes. My personal trainer is a strict enforcer who
makes sure my body stays in top form.
Just then, my desk phone rings, startling me out of my self-deprecating musings. As I answer, I
hear my friend Roxy before the receiver even hits my ear, “YO Biach! Ready for lunch?” I can’t help
but smile. Roxy is LOUD and proud. She’s only 5’5”, but her presence is bigger than life. She has dark
brown, almost black hair with striking blue eyes. Her blue eyes are the brilliant kind that sparkle when
she laughs. Jealous much? She is H.O.T. with all the right curves in all the right places; even I have to
concede that.
Roxy works on the 15th floor of Wren Tower as a Corporate Trainer; she motivates employees to
strive for better. The role suits her personality perfectly. She can make almost anyone do anything. It’s
a bit scary when you think about her zest for all things fun, and I’m almost always one of her victims.
I’m not surprised she’s calling to confirm our lunch plans, even though it’s unnecessary since we eat
lunch together nearly every day.
Ten minutes later, I arrive at the building’s courtyard bistro. This small French-inspired restaurant
is on the 10th floor. It’s unique in that it is an open-air area spanning at least half of the 10th floor. The
outdoor seating area features bistro tables set on either artificial turf or cobblestone tile. Some of the
tables have two chairs, while others have four. All of them have black-and-white striped umbrellas.
The pattern matches the outside awning of the main restaurant. The best part is the views of
downtown Houston.
Roxy is already there, talking with rapt interest on her cell. Her blue eyes are bright and almost
animated as she motions for me to come to her side of the table to share in listening to her
conversation. The other caller was Sarah, our third Musketeer; she was going on excitedly about a new
guy she had met the previous week at work.
Sarah is a prominent freelance artist with a large and lucrative client base. She also occasionally
moonlights as a bartender at The Rusty Nail. The Rusty Nail is a neighborhood bar we frequent, in
my opinion, way too often. Sarah is stunning; she has natural beauty with piercing green eyes and
strawberry blonde hair that falls just past her shoulders. When she dolls herself up, she’s unstoppable.
She earns good tips as a bartender; of course, her double D boobs probably don’t hurt either.
“You have to come!” I heard that part over the phone line loud and clear. It was Friday, so of
course, Sarah and Roxy would be planning our night out. I heard all I needed to hear, so I took my
seat across from Roxy and started browsing the menu. As if something new would appear, we knew
this menu by heart.
Since Roxy and I both work at the Wren Tower in downtown Houston and because traffic is such
a bitch in this area, we ate lunch at Bistro Monte at least three or four times a week. Sometimes Sarah
joined us if she was dropping off artwork or meeting with prospective clients downtown.
I had to smile at this train of thought; besides our lunches, we all lived in the same DalRock
Condominiums and often ate dinner together. Yet we were still friends. Personal space, anyone?
Roxy hung up just as the waiter arrived to take our lunch orders. We both got the turkey club
sandwich combo with water, no surprise there, and Justin, our waiter, just smiled at our predictability.
What would he do if we ever ordered something different?
“So, chickie, we’re going out to have some fun tonight!” exclaimed Roxy in an overly loud,
enthusiastic voice. I cringed, looking around at all the faces turned toward us. I did mention that Roxy
is loud and proud, with emphasis on the loud part. You also never knew what would come out of her
mouth at ANY time. She has no filter, none whatsoever.
I wasn’t exactly ready to ‘have fun tonight,’ but I would go. After all, you can’t have only two “Hot
Three Musketeers” out on the town. Plus, I knew I would lose the argument to stay home with a great
book and a large glass of wine. Not to mention, Sarah really wants us to meet her new guy. And, I
must admit, I’m curious to check him out since Sarah rarely sounds excited about anything boy-related.