Chapter 21 Emory
Emory
The days began to drag. Not in a mind-numbing, hopelessly boring kind of way, but in a softer, peaceful kind of way.
Emory and Byron, and Clayton, fell into an easy rhythm.
Byron cooked breakfast in the mornings while Clayton watched cartoons and Emory snoozed on the couch.
After they ate, Emory would escape into the study to work on her assignments, and Byron would entertain Clayton.
She heard them sometimes, running up and down the hall with Miff on their heels, or playing outside.
And every evening after Clayton had fallen asleep, Byron and Emory curled up on the couch.
They’d start the evening with a movie but get distracted halfway through.
The heat between them would rise, and the temptation grew too hard to ignore.
The movie would end up rolling, forgotten, through to the credits while Emory and Byron got to know every inch of each other’s bodies.
And, oh, how they moved in sync. Byron had Emory over just about every surface in the house, and she was still desperate for more, every time.
He could be rough and raw in one moment, and tender and soft right after.
Emory never knew which side of him she would get, and she loved the thrill.
She felt the best kind of battered and bruised, and it was excruciatingly titillating.
Their relationship had fallen into the best kind of balanced normal, and for a while there, Emory thought maybe this was what she wanted.
Maybe she didn’t want to leave town if this was her new normal.
The water began to creep back down the hill until four days after the rain had stopped, it started again.
This batch didn’t come in rolling thunderstorms with wild winds and sheets of water that pounded on the roof.
It came slow, starting as a sprinkle that never seemed to go away, even as the day pushed on.
The floodwater halted its slow decline and started rising again instead.
Emory watched it through the study window, running her hands through the knotted ends of her hair.
This wasn’t her new normal, it couldn’t be.
Because the water wouldn’t stay this way forever.
Soon enough, the rain would stop again, and eventually, the water would drain down the creek. The bridge would open.
And then what?
Would she return to the cottage? Could she return to the cottage?
She didn’t know, and she was too scared to find out.
Byron’s hill was the highest part in the region.
The bulk of the Gardner Creek township was on the back end of the gentle hill that curved up on the other side of the river.
Her cottage was on the outskirts, in the shallow valley on the other side of town.
It was far from the river, but in the lowest part of town, and the water was widespread through Byron’s property.
She could only imagine that meant it had spread just as far on the other side of the river, too.
Oddly, she wasn’t at all sad about the cottage.
After all, it was never hers anyway. She was just thankful she’d taken the time to pack up all their most important belongings before they evacuated here.
Besides, Jaxon was kicking her out anyway.
Did an extra week or two in the cottage really make that much difference? She didn’t think so.
But when the water finally came down, where would she go?
For a while there, she’d thought she knew.
She thought she’d run off to the city and find somewhere close to all the jobs.
The university had a socioeconomic crisis team, and sure, she hadn’t really looked into it, but she’d banked on their help.
Even if she and Clayton ended up squashed in a tiny dorm room for a little while.
She would be out of Gardner Creek and on her way to bigger things. Better things.
Only now, she wasn’t sure it sounded better. The present was pretty fucking good.
It just wasn’t going to last.
Emory skimmed the closing paragraph she’d just rewritten and double-checked that her reference list matched the format in the submission guidelines.
Satisfied that everything was as good as it was going to get, she uploaded her final assignment to the university website.
It was a bittersweet moment. Far more so than she had imagined it would be.
She’d pictured champagne with Mya and the excitement of planning her trip for exams. She’d imagined she’d hit send and move right on to applying for graduate positions at all the top Sydney marketing firms.
Instead, the thick sludge of dread had settled in her stomach. She needed to make up her mind, sooner rather than later. Stay, or go. Give whatever this was with Byron a proper chance, or move on to the life she had always imagined for herself. She wasn’t ready to make that decision.
With a sigh, she pushed out of the chair.
Her neck ached from the incredibly unergonomic, curled-up position she had been sitting in.
Stretching out her shoulders, Emory attempted to roll off the unease that had settled.
The rain hadn’t stopped all day. The floodwaters weren’t going anywhere. She had time.
The house was eerily quiet when she stepped out of the study.
She’d been longer than usual, skipping lunch and carrying on with her work because she knew she’d been so close to finishing.
Her stomach grumbled, finally realising just how empty it was.
Emory made her way to the kitchen, taking the last apple from the bowl on the bench.
Byron had done so much of the cooking that Emory hadn’t stopped to wonder how much food they had left, but the now-empty fruit bowl glared at her.
Would they have enough? In her haste to evacuate and all the stress that had come with it, Emory hadn’t brought any food with her.
Even that day she went into town before the flood hit.
She’d been so preoccupied, worried about keeping Clayton entertained and buying herself condoms. She hadn’t thought that maybe buying some actual food instead of chocolate and snacks probably would have been a good idea.
The apple crunched as she bit into it, and her insides did a happy little dance at how perfectly crisp and juicy it was.
It had been highly unlikely, considering it was the last one, but she was pleasantly surprised.
Her satisfaction did nothing to quell the growing worry about their food situation, though.
Still unsure where Byron and Clayton had escaped to, Emory double-checked outside through the large kitchen window.
Rain still trickled down the overflowing gutter, Betty was doing her best to avoid getting wet by standing as close to her pergola pole as possible, and both the boys’ gumboots still sat upside down by the back door.
The living room was empty, and she would have seen them if they had been playing bowling in the hallway.
A quick check into Clayton’s room told her they weren’t there, either.
There was only one place left they could be. Well, two, but Byron’s bedroom door was shut, and she figured it was highly unlikely that they might be there.
The den at the end of the hall was dim, the dark grey curtains blocking out what little sunlight was creeping through the clouds outside.
Lit only by a glowing lamp on the small table beside the couch, the room was not at all as masculine as she would have imagined for Byron’s man cave.
It felt cosy and comfortable, and Byron sat on the wide sofa, nestled against a pile of navy cushions.
A deep, matching blanket was wrapped around his lap.
Clayton was curled under it, his head resting on a smaller pillow Byron had tucked in the crook of his elbow. He was sleeping, Emory realised.
As if sensing her presence, Byron closed the book he’d been reading and gently threw it onto the coffee table next to his feet. He smiled up at her, then down at Clayton.
Emory moved to sit next to Byron, lifting Clayton’s legs and placing them over her own.
She kicked off her slippers and propped her feet up beside Byron’s.
There was a thin gap between them, running the whole length of their bodies.
From her shoulders, right down to her feet, Emory had left a little space, making sure they wouldn’t touch.
Byron was having none of it, apparently.
He didn’t let her get settled, reaching his free arm across her and pulling her in by the waist. He didn’t speak of it, just made sure she was close, then carried on. Emory’s heart skipped against her chest.
“He didn’t want to sleep,” Byron whispered. “But he was wrecked. I was reading to him in the living room, but he kept trying to find the remote and turn the TV on. He didn’t want a bar of his room either, so I brought him here. He didn’t last long; I’d barely read a page before he drifted off.”
Emory leant forward, stretching her arms over her legs to pick up the book Byron had been reading. “I don’t blame him. I doubt Stephen King is very entertaining for a toddler.”
“We were reading The Hungry Caterpillar, actually.” Byron kept his chuckle to a whisper as he gestured to the other book on the coffee table. “I picked up my book after I realised Clayton was no longer listening.”
She leant back, letting the corner of her mouth curl up into a huffed smile. “I can see why you like it down here. I’m sorry if I’m intruding.”
She looked around the room. Behind her, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf lined the whole wall, filled with books arranged in a faded rainbow.
She needed to borrow a new book, but had been too unsure about coming into the space.
It seemed to hold too much history for Byron, so she’d done her best to keep it as his own private sanctuary when the craziness of sharing his house with a toddler became a little too much.
“You are always welcome down here, Emory. I should have made that clear sooner.”
Byron’s hand found her thigh, the weight of his touch spreading through her.
She noticed for the first time just how at peace she felt when she was with Byron.
Her heart seemed a little lighter, and her shoulders more relaxed.
The usual constant pit in her stomach, the feeling like every decision she made was the wrong one, the constant worry over literally everything.
It was all gone, replaced with an easy kind of comfort.
She dropped her head to the side, resting on Byron’s shoulder. This was what she wanted. She just didn’t know how it would work.
“Hey, Byron,” she said after a grumbling in her stomach broke the silence between them. “Are we going to run out of food?”