I read Emma's first text when I woke up that morning. I allowed myself to read her second only after I had finished packing, the third once I was settled on the train, but the fourth, fifth, and sixth messages I didn't even open. I would've turned my phone off if I hadn't needed to stay up-to-date on emails for the foundation.

I had managed to clear my schedule of all in-person commitments for the next two days in order to take a long weekend. The train was packed with people attempting to flee the city and it's stifling heat wave. Despite the high temperatures, tempers weren't reciprocally flaring as one might expect. Instead, my fellow passengers seemed to offer each other commiserating smiles and nods as they passed one another or stepped out of each other's way. A few offered me similar gestures, but I knew I wasn't able to fully reciprocate—the soaring degrees outside hadn't really been a bother to me in my air-conditioned office and apartment. I wasn't escaping anything; instead, I was running toward something...towards someone in particular.

A part of me (a large part of me) felt bad for ignoring Emma's messages, but I knew myself too well to trust I could read them without responding in a way that would give me or my plans away.

Charlie had been adamant that to truly sweep someone off their feet, the gesture had to be done in secret and only be revealed at the perfect moment that would yield the most reward on investment.

Trisha, when I called her to essentially ask if Emma would think my idea endearing or frightening, reemphasized the importance of keeping my plans covert.

"You know if she finds out, Emma will convince you it's too much of an inconvenience for you," she'd told me.

"So she wouldn't like it if I—"

"Oh she'd love it!" Trisha had assured me. "She just wouldn't let you do it if she knew about it."

I had only known Emma a short while, but I knew her friend was right. I only hoped that when I finally did arrive in Hay-on-Wye, she would be excited to see me and forgive my ignoring her.

So far, we'd spoken every night on the phone—except for the night before when she had to work—and texted constantly throughout the day. Sometimes we spoke about nothing, sometimes it was about a panel discussion she was in the midst of processing, sometimes about one of my partner organizations, but every time—every time—Emma somehow found a way to make me laugh whether it was at myself or inspired by one of her comedic retellings of some anecdote from her day.

Our relationship felt too fresh, too undefined for me to cherish our conversations like I did. Even Emma's texts—thoughtful, entertaining, reflective, or even a simple 'hey you'—were enough to make my day.

I felt my phone vibrate again in my hand. I shoved it into my bag, which I promptly kicked under my seat. I stared out the nearby window and prayed Charlie was right.