Chapter 4
Byron
Byron rolled his eyes, pulling the deep navy blanket back off the bed and folding it roughly before dropping it at his feet. He was overthinking this. He knew it, and looking around the spare room he had rushed to get ready for Emory, she would know it too.
He’d started by simply changing the sheets.
No one had slept in the bed since Tucker moved out almost a year ago, but Byron had figured it needed refreshing before Emory settled in for the next week or more.
It had been so long since anyone had even been in this room that he presumed everything was covered in a fine layer of dust, bedspread included.
He’d wiped down all the surfaces and across the windowsill, vacuumed the faded grey rug, and fluffed the pillows as best he could. Remaking the bed after stripping off the old sheets, Byron had felt a sudden urge to do more.
The off-white sheets he used looked fine, but plain.
And Emory deserved far more than plain, even if Byron was not the one to ever give it to her.
So, he’d added the deep navy blanket and a few of the throw cushions from the couch in the den.
They only got used when he and Clayton built forts and collected every pillow and cushion from the house to be their walls, so he knew they wouldn’t be missed.
But scattered across the bed, they looked cheap and gave the distinct impression that he was trying too hard to make Emory comfortable.
He needed to give an air of nonchalance, not this prissy bullshit.
He yanked the cushions off the bed, throwing them behind him towards the door and turning his attention to the lone bedside table.
The lamp was fine, but the books he’d pulled from the bookshelf would have to go.
He knew Emory loved to read, but he was kidding himself if he thought he could pick a book out for her.
Never mind how downright over the top it was for him to have even attempted it.
If she didn’t bring books of her own, she could choose from the wall-to-wall shelving down in the den.
Most of the books were left behind from the boys’ younger years, but there were a few old classics Josie used to enjoy.
The ones he still hadn’t been able to get rid of might just end up being read again after all.
Byron sucked in a breath at the reminder of his wife.
Of how young they both were when she died.
It was an age ago now, and Byron had mostly settled into life as a widower.
The farm had carried on, and the boys needed him.
He’d never had time to dwell, and he preferred it that way.
Still, it would be nice to have someone again.
To hand him a coffee when he came in after tending to the cows, and to listen to his complaints when the monotony of farm life became all too much.
To keep his bed warm on the frosty autumn mornings and to bring light to his otherwise dark and lonely life.
He pictured Emory in that role, and he hated that he did.
It looked good on her, at least in his imagination, but it would never do.
It wasn’t right. And if she was going to stay for the next however long until the floodwaters dropped again and the cottage was clean and safe, Byron figured he would have to rein in this forbidden fantasy that kept popping up.
Shaking the vision from his mind, he removed the fresh flowers he had cut from the garden and propped in a jar from the dresser by the window, too. If everything else was over the top, they were downright excessive.
The sky was a deep grey, a warning of the storm to come.
The rain the night before had been nothing more than a pre-game, and the sky was rapidly growing darker as the next pelting inched closer.
Byron hoped Emory would be there soon. He’d said before the storm, but he hadn’t planned on it hitting so early in the afternoon.
These roads were dangerous when they were wet, he knew that all too well, and the thought of Emory driving on them was a persistent itch behind his ears.
Trudging down the hallway to return everything to its suitable, unused place, Byron heard the crunching of the gravel driveway. The sound stirred something unusual inside him, anticipation that flooded his veins with lava and left needles all over his skin.
Lightning flashed outside the windows, sending a burst of light through the house.
It was the distant, far-off kind that flashed through the air without any real starting point, but Byron knew it was only the beginning.
He started to count, even though he could never remember the proper measurements.
All he knew was that the less time between the light and the thunder, the closer the storm was.
He threw the cushions and blanket back over the couch in the den, leaving the flowers and books on the raw wood coffee table.
And as he raced to the front door, his heart pounded with that same anticipation, but an edge of something else.
Excitement tingled down his spine. God, he was pathetic.
Surely at this age, he should be over such immature rushes of emotion.
He couldn’t help it when he thought of Emory, though.
He got to five one-thousands before the thunder cracked through the air, right as he pulled open the front door. The loud clap shook the branches of the tall gum tree that stood halfway down the driveway. Byron could hear Clayton’s cries from inside Emory’s small car.
His shoulders dropped. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding them so high, but when he saw Emory and finally knew she was safe, an unexpected sense of relief poured over him.
Miff bounded around the house from her kennel out back, barking at the sky. She tangled herself around Byron’s feet, squeezing between them and resting her front paws on his toes.
“Alright, inside,” he told the scaredy dog. He patted her behind, nudging her into the house.
Seeing the boxes in the back of Emory’s car, Byron grabbed a pair of old gumboots that had been propped upside down on the mat, giving them a firm tap on the ground before flipping them up to slide them on.
Striding down the steps of the porch, he called out a hello to Emory as she opened her door.
She waved, distracted by her attempts to calm the still-crying little boy in the car.
“It was just thunder, Clayton,” she said, twisting her body to give him a gentle pat before she got out. “We’re at Papa’s, hold on.” She smiled politely at Byron and pulled two backpacks across the front seat.
Byron rushed over to take them from her, fumbling with the tangle of long straps. His hand brushed against Emory’s. Electricity buzzed between them, and lightning lit up the yard once more, only this time, Byron could see the distinct zig-zag pattern as the power surged through the sky.
Just the storm, Byron told himself. Still, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Emory.
He counted thousands again, muttering the numbers under his breath as he tried to steady the anxious swirl in his chest. Emory stood, frozen out of fear or shock or unease.
He hated feeling like he caused something uncomfortable for Emory, but her nose scrunched up just so, leaving the cutest lines across her freckles.
Her long hair had been tied in a loose, messy knot high on her head, with haphazard pieces that flew about in the wind.
And there was something about her eyes that Byron couldn’t help but get lost in.
Before, he might have said they sparkled, but now they reflected the uncertainty in the air.
The chocolatey brown of her irises had darkened in the overcast light.
God, even in her oversized grey shirt with the buttons done in the wrong holes, Emory was perfect.
So, Byron stared even though he knew he shouldn’t, and did his best to fill his expression with something that looked friendly.
Caring, even. Until she blinked slowly, breaking the trance Byron had fallen under.
Emory pulled her lower lip between her teeth, and Byron tracked the movement with his eyes. She released it with a slight pop, and her mouth hung open, only by the tiniest sliver.
Byron was captivated.
He stepped forward. No longer thinking. His mouth still counted, but his brain had switched off. Their hands were still touching over the straps of the backpacks. Byron wrapped his fingers around Emory and stepped closer. Her eyes dropped to his mouth. He could tell.
Their chests heaved in time, and Byron swallowed down everything that was threatening to spill over. It didn’t work.
Thunder roared around them. Byron stood his ground, holding down the unsettled feeling storms always brought out in him, but Emory jolted back.
She dropped the bags into his arms and raced around the car to get Clayton out.
The poor kid was terrified. He clung tight to Emory’s shoulders as she picked him up and nuzzled his head underneath her chin.
Emory stared at Byron over her son’s head. Her eyes were harsh, and her mouth had thinned into a straight line, and Byron wanted to storm over there and wipe the jarring expression from her face. He took a step towards her, but stopped in his tracks when she shook her head.
“I can help with the tubs once I get Clayton inside.”
“Don’t be silly. You get him settled. His room is all set up.”
It would be good, Byron thought, for Clayton to actually use the room properly for once.
He’d set it up as soon as Jaxon had left.
He thought maybe he’d take over that fatherly role, and wrongly, he supposed, figured that meant watching him overnight every once in a while.
But a grandfather can’t replace a father, he’d learnt.
And while Emory was more than willing to bring Clayton over as often as possible, she drew a firm line at sleepovers.
As Clayton grew a little older and progressed from an immobile baby to a running toddler, Byron started watching him during the days while Emory worked at the local café.
Sure, he’d had his fair share of naps here at the farmhouse, but otherwise, the miniature bed was unused.
The toys and books remained too neatly stacked on the shelves. The dresser was never filled.
So yeah, Byron was happy for the room to see a little extra life now that Clayton and Emory had come to stay. He just wished it would be a permanent change, even though he knew all the reasons why that would never be.
“Thank you,” Emory called over her shoulder. Clayton clasped around her neck as she trudged up the stairs and kicked off her shoes.
“You can stay in the room next to him,” Byron added as she stepped inside.
Emory didn’t respond, although Byron presumed she hadn’t heard him over the distant grumble of constant thunder and pounding rain on the horizon.
Moving to the back of the car, he threw both backpacks over an arm and pulled the suitcases out of the boot.
One was far heavier than the other, but Byron managed to whisk them up to the house and into the entry hall.
He dropped the backpacks with them and returned to the car.
All that was left were two large plastic tubs, stacked neatly in the car.
Byron double-checked the back seat, sure they should have more belongings than this.
Besides Clayton’s harnessed booster and a scattering of toys, there was nothing.
All that was left were the tubs. Byron hauled them from the car and up into the house.
He stacked them in the living room. One was full of toys, the other books and photographs, and he didn’t want Emory to think she and Clayton were confined to their rooms. He wanted them to feel at home here.
Clayton’s giggles drifted down the hall, and Byron paused at the sound.
It wasn’t unusual. After all, Clayton was here most days while Emory worked.
But there was a sweet echo to the sound that wasn’t usually there.
It tickled inside Byron’s ears and sent whispers down his spine.
It made his breath hitch against his throat and squeezed at his heart.
He stood there, transfixed, and it took him far too long to realise that the sound wasn’t coming from Clayton at all.
It was Emory. He wondered if he’d ever heard her laugh.
Small chuckles? Maybe. The silent ‘ha’ after a punchline that wasn’t quite funny?
Definitely. But never this. Never so unfiltered and joyous.
This was light and sweet and laden with syrup. Emory’s laugh filled all the little gaps he didn’t realise he had, soaking him in a pure kind of warmth. It made his heart swell and his eyes water and twisted at something inside him that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
His brain stopped connecting to his body, and he stood, paralysed in every way, listening to Emory’s melodic laugh. It was beautiful, and he could have stood there all night.
He would have stood there all night, too, but Emory stepped out of the room and into his line of sight.
She stood, staring at him. A small crease formed between her brows, her nose scrunching.
Biting at her lip, she folded her arms across her body before dropping them by her sides and shaking out her hands.
Lifting her head high, Emory walked towards Byron, never breaking their locked gaze.
“You alright, old man?”
She was so close to him. So close, all he had to do was wrap his arms around her back, and he could kiss her.
He wanted to, but he didn’t. Because with two short words, she slapped him with a reality far harsher than the fact that he was actually getting older.
It was the fact that she saw him that way.
All this infatuation he was drowning in was one-sided. Byron rolled his shoulders and forced air into his lungs. This was fine. She didn’t know how he felt, and she never would.