8. Emma #2
Carson faces me, lowering the roller. He pauses, trying to read me like I’m the latest Giants stats. “It does. It really, really sucks.”
Our gazes latch to each other as the tension in the room tightens. He sets the roller in the paint pan and walks toward me. I don’t know if he wants to reach for me, but his hands look anxious for something to hold.
He slides them into his pockets, his chin tipped so he can look right in my eyes. “You don’t pity me.”
Is this a trick question? It isn’t a question at all, but I sense something way deeper than a minor observation. “True.”
“Everyone falls into one of three camps when I talk about my divorce: pity, curiosity, or self-centeredness.”
I shrug. “Not everyone, I guess.”
“You aren’t going to ask me what went wrong?”
“It’s none of my business.” I’m insanely curious, but I’d never push him.
Carson shakes his head. “You’re the first person, besides my family, who has given me room to feel…I don’t know…annoyed, I guess.”
That can’t be true. The first? “How long have you been divorced?”
“A few months, but she asked for the divorce over a year ago.”
I lean on my right leg, popping my hip a bit. “There’s no way I’m the first.”
“Believe it.”
“It makes me question your friends.”
“In Tennessee they were all Jen’s friends, really. I was golfing buddies with a few of her friends’ husbands, but I lost them in the separation.”
“No work friends?”
“The dentist I worked with was getting ready to retire.”
“You can hang out with people twice your age.” I give a little flourish to gesture to the house we’re standing in. “I count your mom on my list of friends.”
“As you should. She’s a great person to have in your corner.”
“It sounds like you need more people in yours.”
He shrugs. “I have people, but everyone’s dealing with their own stuff, too. I don’t want to dwell on my failures.”
“Maybe that’s your first problem, Carson. It’s not your failure. It just didn’t work out.”
“I couldn’t keep her happy, so I’d consider that partially my fault. She wanted more than I could give her.”
“Some people will never be happy if they think they need more. Some ambition never dies; it just festers until it spoils.”
There’s silence while he narrows his eyes. “So that’s why you weren’t curious. You already know what happened.”
“I promise I know nothing. The only thing your mom said was that you got divorced, and she hopes you heal from it quickly.”
Carson reaches for my cheek, wiping at what I assume is a paint speckle and leaving a swarm of butterflies in his wake.
“Judging by the bar last week, you’re…healing,” I say, way too breathless to play it cool.
He smirks, more of him leaning into more of my space. The air buzzes between us and his warm finger keeps brushing over the spot on my cheek. “It won’t come off,” he murmurs.
“I’ll shower when I get home.”
Carson’s eyes cut to mine. He swallows, his Adam’s apple moving right in front of me. “That thing that happened the other night was…I don’t do that. It wasn’t normal for me.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I get the feeling it wasn’t normal for you either.”
I shrug. “Bar scenes in general aren’t usually my thing.”
“Introducing women to my daughter isn’t really my thing.”
“You didn’t, though.” My smile widens, and I feel myself being drawn into his space. “I kind of accidentally did that myself—as a friend of your mom’s.”
“We’re back to that.”
“We should be painting,” I whisper, because this is all too messy and we should focus on the task before the paint dries and we have lines around the border.
If anyone’s going to give me butterflies, it’s going to be eligible men—not off-limits wounded hot guys.
I can smell him stronger than the paint fumes, which are reaching a high level right now, and it’s making it difficult to breathe.
He drops his hand to my shoulder and squeezes. “Yeah. Sorry.”
Once he backs off, picking up his roller and getting back to work, I miss him.
Penny sits on the floor in front of the sofa, her hair wet from a spray bottle and meticulously combed out.
I’m on the cushion above her, Carson right next to me as he watches my fingers move through her hair and pull tight.
The room is finished and drying with the windows open, and we closed the door to keep the paint fumes somewhat contained.
“You aren’t hurting her?” Carson asks, an adorable furrow on his brow.
“Does it hurt, Penny?”
“No.” She cringes, but I’m guessing she’s feeling like the tightness is worth it. She wants this braid to last a few days, after all.
He shakes his head in mild wonder. “I can’t hold all that hair and make the sections so clean at the same time. I don’t have the dexterity.”
I glance at him briefly before looking back at her blonde hair. “You’re a dentist.”
“Barely.”
“What?” I glance at him. “Should I avoid switching over to your practice?”
“Give me a few weeks. The place is a disaster. I don’t think Vance even owned a computer that didn’t rely on dial-up.”
“Dad has lots of painting to do, and he’s going to put in a new kids’ area, and the new chairs are late.” Penny’s sitting with her knees up to her chest and she plays with her toes. “It looks really ugly right now. I think he should paint butterflies on the wall, but he hated that idea.”
“Didn’t hate it,” he counters. “Just need to have a solid color.”
“When are you painting?”
“This week. Probably starting tomorrow.”
I finish off the braid, moving deftly and tying it off before switching to the other side of her hair. “Let me know if you need help.”
“I think we’ve used our neighbor assistance quota of the year on Penny’s room. And her Band-Aids. And her hair.”
“I don’t mind.” I give her shoulder a light squeeze before getting back to work. “You have Rapunzel hair, girly.”
Penny’s smile is so wide I can see it from my angle.
Once her hair is finished, she runs off to the bathroom to get a good look at it. Her squeals practically ring through the house as Carson walks me to the door. “Thanks for spending half of your weekend taking care of my little girl.”
“The wedding took my whole Saturday. Being here was a nice endcap.”
Carson watches me for a moment, looking like he wants to say something.
I’m not trying to infiltrate his life or anything.
I genuinely like Penny, and his mom has been a great neighbor since I bought my house a few years ago.
Giving back is something my parents always taught me: you take care of the people around you, and they’ll take care of you.
My mom was a bubbly woman, a friend to most, and an excellent neighbor.
She’s been gone for a decade, but the lessons she taught me will stick forever.
Maybe in some ways Sharon reminds me of my mom, but that’s not why I care about her.
I care because she’s wonderful, and she cares about me.
None of this leaves my mouth while I wait for Carson to speak. He seems to be wrestling with himself.
Then he finally opens his mouth. “Good night, Emma.”
My body practically hums as I walk away.