11. Carson
Carson
I pull up to Emma’s house with a truckload of chairs.
If I had her number, I could have warned her I was bringing them, but she still hasn’t given it to me, and asking for it feels weird.
If I ask for it, that’ll move us up a level on a scale that only I care about.
We’ll no longer be acquaintances with a knack for serving each other in times of need.
Okay, I see it. That is the literal definition of neighbors.
So taking us from neighbors to friends isn’t out of line since I’ve already—in my stupid attempt at keeping her firmly out of the romantic zone—mentioned on multiple occasions I’d like to be her friend.
It might have begun as a way to protect myself, but we’re shifting to that level on our own. It’s a natural progression.
Friends can have each other’s numbers, right? That’s not weird. I’m really building it up in my head to be something it’s not. Like taking that step after making out with her will cement us as a thing.
She must have heard me drive up, because she’s out the door and coming down the steps before I can get out of the truck.
She has a sweater and swingy librarian skirt on, and it all looks so cozy and inviting.
Just pose her in front of some fall trees and she’d make the perfect advertisement for all the leaf-peepers we attract each autumn.
Her hair is pushed behind her ears and her glasses frame long, dark lashes.
“Hey,” she says, coming up to my window. Well, Ben’s window. He let me trade vehicles for the afternoon since I can’t even fit one chair in my Lexus, let alone a dozen. I’ve been watching Emma since she stepped out her door, so naturally, I’m still sitting in my truck like an idiot.
“I brought the chairs.” Again, stupid thing to say. She can clearly see them. I open the truck door and hop out. “Do you need to take measurements?”
“Actually, that would be helpful so we don’t overbuy.
” She immediately heads to the tailgate, and I appreciate her get-it-done attitude.
We move all the chairs toward her detached garage, and she disappears inside for a measuring tape.
I take notes on my phone while she calls out measurements.
It’s the perfect moment to ask for her number so I can copy and paste all of this into a text, but I clam up.
Why does this feel like seventh grade and I’m asking my tennis partner in P.E. for her number for the first time? It got easier and easier, but now I’m out of practice entirely.
“Can I see those notes?” she asks.
“Sure. I can text them to you.”
Emma glances up at me, but she doesn’t say anything. “Okay, let me see your phone.”
I hand it over and watch while she copies and pastes all the numbers into a text and sends it to herself.
She hands my phone back. “I can do this on the road if we want to get going.”
Emma locks her house and retrieves her purse before climbing into the truck, then we’re on the road. She spends the first fifteen minutes of the ride doing calculations and asking me questions I don’t have answers for. “Do you have blinds going up, or do you want to add drapes to the waiting room?”
“Blinds. But…” I glance at her, noting the way her nails tap on her phone while she’s patiently waiting. “I have an idea for the kids’ corner, and I wanted it to be a surprise for Penny.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“A tree house. I talked it over with Ben Walker, and he’s going to help me put it in tonight after Penny goes to sleep.”
She shifts on the seat to face me. “That’s adorable.”
“I’m hoping to paint something of a tree around it on the wall.”
“And clouds on the ceiling?”
“Yes…that’s a brilliant idea.”
“What will you put inside?”
I spend the rest of our drive explaining what I have in mind. By the time we pull into the craft store parking lot, Emma is nodding along like she agrees with everything I said. “What about cushions on the upper level? So they have a place to sit and read?”
I never said anything about books, but it’s not a bad idea. Put a basket up there full of them so kids can read or play.
“I can make them,” Emma says. “I have all the stuff at home. I recently made new pillows for my couch and bought way too much stuffing. You just need to choose fabric.”
“What will it cost me? Installing new flooring? Replacing your roof?”
She unbuckles her seat belt and sends me a flat look. “How about we stop keeping track and just help each other out?”
That doesn’t work, though. If we do that, how will I know when our relationship teeters to the side and grows imbalanced?
I’m protecting myself, yes, but also Penny and Emma.
I refuse to enter another situation where equality isn’t important.
“I need to keep track,” I say, searching for a less pathetic explanation than the full truth.
“Then I won’t find myself too indebted to you. ”
A soft furrow forms between her eyebrows. “You aren’t taking advantage of me. I offered.”
“This is something I could buy at the store, though. I don’t need you to make cushions.”
“So are new chairs.”
She has me there.
Emma tilts her head to the side. “If you don’t want the cushions, that’s fine, but if it’s really a matter of feeling indebted to me, I think you’ll feel differently about ten minutes into tiling my bathroom. You haven’t even seen what I want to do to the shower yet.”
My smile spreads, unbidden. “Fine. Yes, I’d love cushions. Thank you.”
Emma grins while she lets herself out of the truck.
We walk into the craft store together and she leads me directly to a section of fabric, then steers me away from the florals and toward muted patterns.
“These are great for upholstery. They’ll stand up to wear and regular usage pretty well, so I’d stick to this section. Do you have a color in mind?”
Overwhelm threatens to drown me. The fabrics all look the same, and to me, they aren’t much different from the brown chairs Emma and Penny hated. “My ex-wife was in charge of anything design-related. I don’t have an opinion on most things, and I’m sure I don’t know what looks good.”
“You probably have better taste than you think.” She gives me a once-over that makes me want to straighten my posture and wear something better than a hoodie and jeans.
“Any idea what might look good with my blue walls?”
“Let’s start with what you like. Don’t think about the office or matching any colors, just point out a couple that you’re drawn to.”
I check the time on my phone. “I need to be back to pick up Penny—”
“We’ll be fast,” she promises. “We’ll make it back in plenty of time. Now point out a few.”
The pressure is on. I try to remove all expectations on myself and my office, the feeling that this could make or break my waiting room, and look at the bolts lining the shelf in front of us. “This.” I point to a thick maroon fabric. “And these.”
Emma nods, fighting a wide smile. “Like I said, you have good taste.” She moves closer, her arm brushing mine as she feels the fabrics I pointed out, giving each one thought.
“I’d go with this one for easy cleanup. Heaven forbid you get a sick kid or someone spills a drink, but if you do, you can wipe it right up. ”
The faux-leather one she’s talking about is a caramel brown. When I pointed it out, I wasn’t thinking of color schemes. It looks nice. “So we’re replacing brown with brown?”
“Dingy brown that needed to be washed ten years ago and a clean new fake leather aren’t even in the same league, Carson.”
“Okay, that’s fair.”
“If you really can’t let go of those old chairs, I might have to rescind my comment.” She presses her shoulder into mine playfully. “You know they give the room a weird smell, right? Did you catch that?”
“All I’ve been breathing in is paint fumes.”
“Carson Price and Emma Harper!” an older woman with dark hair calls, bustling around the aisle with purpose, a more petite woman with white hair trailing right behind her.
It’s the Ednas. A more gossipy duo does not exist than these women.
It’s just our luck that we’d all end up in a craft store out of town at the same time.
Well, maybe the craft part makes this a bit less coincidental.
I don’t know where else I’d expect to see them…
except for every business in town that might have someone they can siphon information from.
Emma must have the same thought, because she takes a big step away from me.
“Good afternoon, you two,” Edna Bloomburg, the dark-haired one, croons.
Her glasses-wearing counterpart, Edna Gilbert, smiles with her eyebrows hiked up. “So sweet to see you two together. Is this a first date?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Definitely not. Nothing like that.”
Emma shoots me a look, leaning close until I get a whiff of apples. “Cool it. You’re acting super suspicious.” She pulls our faux leather bolt from the shelf and turns her attention back on the ladies. “Dr. Price hired me to reupholster his waiting room chairs. What do you both think of this one?”
“Oooo!” They fawn over it, giving their opinions while clutching skeins of yarn.
“We’d better go pick out the other fabric, Dr. Price.” Emma uses my title again, like she’s trying to give an impression of distance between us, or of professionalism. The women seem to respond to it.
Edna B. puts a skein to her chest. “We don’t want to get in the way of your work.”
“Please tell us you’ll be opening soon,” Edna G. puts in. “It’s too much on my bones to come all the way to Burlington merely for a cleaning.”
They’re literally in Burlington right now.
“We’ll be open by the end of the week,” I tell them.
“Wonderful news!” She shakes her yarn. “I’d better have my little project finished in time!”
“Oh?” Emma asks. “What is it going to be?”
“A surprise.”
“Have a good afternoon, kids,” Edna B. says.
“But not too good!” Edna G. says through a cackle as they scurry away together.
Emma gently presses my arm. “Come on. I see a good fabric for the tree house cushions.”
I let her lead me away, but I’m pretty sure we were outed for something that’s not even happening. Emma doesn’t seem worried at all, though. “You’re pretty confident in your powers of deflection.”
“It’s all in the attitude. Act worried about being caught, and they’ll know they caught something.”
“Which they didn’t.”
“Exactly.” She shoots me a funny look. “Because we’re friends, as we’ve each stated multiple times. I’m looking for my Prince Charming, and you’re not looking for anyone, so friends is the most we can be, anyway. It’s pretty basic.”
“Right. Exactly.” I follow her, agreeing when she chooses a color and pattern.
She has multiple fabric options, which we haul over to be cut to the specifications Emma asks for.
I’m letting her lead me around the store like a trusted owner holding my leash as a wriggling thought bounces around in my head, failing to make purchase.
After we load our excess of fabric into the truck and take off for Autumn Ridge, it finally hits me.
When Emma mentioned that I’m not on the hunt for a woman, she didn’t say she wants nothing to do with me either. She said I’m unavailable, and she wants a man.
I am unavailable. I can’t trust my heart to anyone else.
It’s been tossed into a blender and set to smoothie, and there’s no putting it back together.
The only thing I’ve learned in my decade with Jen is that you can’t trust anyone.
One day they’ll be completely in love with you, be your best friend and the person who wants to spend all their free time with you.
The next day, they’ll meet Chad at the gym who makes them feel seen in a way you never have and six months later they’re asking for a divorce.
A year after that, you’re back in your childhood bedroom, starting over completely with a nine-year-old who depends on you to make sure she doesn’t feel the full sting of abandonment.
No, you can’t trust anyone.
Emma will only ever be my friend.