Chapter 12 #2
“Emma Jane, I have a serious question for you, and I want you to be honest with me, okay? Don’t let the fact that I’m his mother determine your answer.” Jane fixes me with a hard stare—an expression her son wears when he’s about to chastise me—her hands splaying on my desk.
I swallow a building lump in my throat and nod.
“Do you like Knightley?”
Choking on a laugh, I cough a few times before answering. “Of course I like him. He’s my biggest nuisance at times, but he’s also my very best guy friend. I look up to him and respect him and—”
“That’s not what I mean, E. J. You know that.”
I only admitted it to myself a few weeks ago. Trust me, I've tried to get rid of the feelings. They hang around like a disastrous stain on my favorite shirt. Now God wants me to speak these ridiculous feelings aloud to his mother?
Nope.
“If you are asking if I like Knightley romantically, then I can truly say…” Gah.
I can’t blatantly lie to this woman. She knows me too well, and I respect her too greatly.
“Yes. Unfortunately, I do. But I’ll get over it, don’t worry.
I’m not even sure how it happened.” I take a sip of water to cool my burning face.
“You straddled him on the kitchen floor is what happened.”
Water dribbles down my chin as I choke on the liquid. After wiping my mouth, I meet her amused expression. “That was an accident!”
She shrugs her delicate shoulders. “Accident or not, it still happened. And I was certain I’d have to drag your father out of the room so you two could kiss.”
“The thought never crossed my mind!” Which is true. I felt… something. But it wasn’t a desire to kiss him. It was more like a warm, fuzzy feeling enveloping me. I wanted to lay on top of him and hug him. I wanted to be ensnared in his arms. I wanted to never detach myself from him.
But kiss?
No way.
Not until that accidental one… “What’s with me and accidents?”
“Hm?” Jane asks as I mumble.
Might as well come clean to her. About everything.
“We accidentally kissed two weeks ago.” I wring my hands in my lap, wondering if she’s pushing for us or against us.
There’s no us, I remind myself.
“Interesting. And how did you manage to accidentally liplock with my son?” Her tone isn’t upset, angry, or disappointed. She’s… curious. Her blue eyes sparkle with eager excitement.
“I slipped getting into his truck—you know how lifted that monstrosity is—and when he caught me, my lips smashed into his. It wasn’t pretty. There was blood.” I chuckle, hoping she doesn’t ask how—
“How did you feel about it?”
Gosh darn it. “I wanted more. More lips. Less teeth. Definitely less blood.”
“I see.” Jane hums, then she fixes me with a serious stare. “Pray tell, Emma Jane—” My insides flip at the phrase Knightley uses. Guess I know where he got it from now. “—my sweet girl who carries my name, why did you set him up with another woman?”
Time to take her through my internal laundry list. “He’s thirteen years older than me.
We grew up together. He was married to Cami, who was like an older sister to me.
I’m never getting married because I—” I stop myself just short of telling her that my chances of having kids are slim to none because of my disease.
“Finish the sentence, dear. Tell me everything. Because the reasons you’ve listed prior are not valid excuses in my book.”
Tears well in my eyes, but I shove them down as I gather the courage to tell her my deepest secret.
Will she think less of me? Think of me as less of a woman?
Halle and Henrietta didn’t think that of me when I told them, but the only reason they know is because Halle was the one to take me to the appointments, and Henrietta was spending the week at a summer camp with me a few years ago when I had a flare.
I’ve never outright told somebody because, well, it makes me imperfect, and that’s not what’s expected of me.
No one asked you to be perfect. Knightley’s words come back to me full force.
He asked me to try and resolve the ridiculous guilt I carry over my mother’s death.
And I have been trying over the past two weeks.
When I feel the need to be perfect, I remind myself that no one asked me to be, and I’m not at fault for my mother’s passing.
Taking a steadying breath and wiping a stray tear, I decide to be brave. I can trust Jane, and she’s the perfect person to practice vulnerability with. “I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome, or PCOS, when I was fifteen.” There. It’s out.
“Oh, honey.” Jane stands, and I meet her in the middle of the room, welcoming her warm, tight embrace. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Through small, muffled cries—my face is planted in her cotton t-shirt—I reply, “I was scared. I may never be able to have kids, Jane. I can’t continue to harbor feelings for your son because I can’t give him the future he desires.”
“Sweet girl,” she says as she pulls back. Her hands never leave my arms. “I can’t speak for him, but I can say without hesitation that you’ll never know unless you open your mouth and ask.”
“Easier said than done.” I laugh without mirth. “Besides, the other reasons are valid to me. I can’t make a move on Knightley. What if he laughs at me? Or pats my head like I’m a child and tells me it’s just a phase? I can’t risk that kind of humiliation.”
After a pause, I add, “He’s making things official with Mallory tonight. I cannot and will not get in the way of a relationship regardless of how I feel.”
Finally, Jane nods as if she understands. “Did you know your mother had PCOS?”
A dammed wall inside me breaks, and the tears I was working so hard to push back come flooding out. My mom had this same disease? Yet she bore me and my sister. Though I killed her.
No, Emma Jane. You didn’t kill her. “Did she die giving birth to me because of a complication from PCOS?”
Jane nods solemnly. “Preeclampsia. Your father never told you?”
I shake my head. “He doesn't like talking about it.”
“Stubborn man,” Jane mumbles under her breath as she pulls me into another hug.
PCOS killed her.
And it could kill me, too, if I was blessed to become pregnant.
All the more reason to never get married.
All the more reason to let Knightley go.