CHAPTER TWELVE
W e spent the following days and weeks continuing to clear out Mrs. Baker’s old home. The days were filled with hard work and laughter as we scrubbed away years of neglect. Each creaky floorboard and dusty corner held a memory we were intrigued to uncover. Amelia dove into the task with enthusiasm, sorting through forgotten trinkets and dusty books, and I aided in the clear out whenever I got off work. It soon felt like our joint endeavour, and each discovery and late-night conversation brought us closer together.
During breaks from clearing the house, we utilised the front porch, often sipping on a fresh batch of sweet tea and indulging in delicious food from Cooper’s or a homemade concoction. The latest craze from my mom was a tomato, cheddar, and bacon pie. She finally perfected the recipe on the fourth attempt. Meanwhile, I had to eat two of the previous three to avoid waste. Katherine took the third after she saw my disgruntled face.
I tested my own cooking skills on Amelia in an attempt to impress. Was there anything sexier than a woman who could cook? I thought not. I pulled out all the stops: chicken and dumplings, fresh peach cobbler, a good old fashioned banana pudding, shrimp gumbo, oyster casserole, and my favourite underrated dish of all time—potato salad, southern style. No barbecue was complete without it: sweet pickle relish, hard boiled eggs, small chunks of crispy bacon—delicious. We ate it four nights in a row.
The lazy afternoons stretched into evenings filled with laughter. Amelia opted to return to her semi-permanent residence at Cindy’s for the first few nights until our post BBQ nights turned into passionate encounters, after that, she didn’t leave, and the sound of her laughter echoed through my house in a way that filled it with a whole new joy.
We spent my days off tangled in the bedsheets or wrapped in old blankets on my back porch. When we weren’t exploring each other’s body, we were exploring my hometown.
We ventured out, exploring the charming cafes and antique shops. We sampled homemade cupcakes at the local bakery, browsed vintage vinyl at Brittany’s store, and attended enough community BBQs that our nostrils permanently inhaled the smoky aroma of grilled meats. Most mornings we took a leisurely stroll along the banks of the Magnolia River, a route I adored, and suddenly what I feared weeks before had started its transition.
Amelia was becoming a part of my life, and the deeper our connection grew the more cautious I became. I refrained from asking questions I might not like the answers to, but as the days rolled into weeks, I started to wonder if Amelia planned to stay in Magnolia.
She’d never confessed a timeline to me or anyone else. I never heard her conversations with family and friends. Whenever she got a phone call she took it in private. Did she feel pressure to return to Austin? She’d been in Magnolia for almost a month, and as much as she didn’t want to discuss her overbearing mother, I could only assume Amelia’s trip was funded by Pamela Baker.
Her motive, however, was unclear. If Pamela was half the dominating intrusive woman Amelia painted her to be, there had to be a motive. She was allowing her daughter this respite from life, a different town, a different atmosphere, away from everyone she knew and loved, for what reason? What was Pamela hoping Amelia would gain?
Brittany invited me and Amelia to a BBQ at her parents’ house because, in her words, “She’s basically your permanent plus one now.” She wasn’t wrong, but hearing the words said out loud by a human outside me and Amelia made my heart drop.
We mingled with Brittany’s family. Many of her friends were my friends. There wasn’t a single person I hadn’t conversed with in the last few weeks. My job required the familiarity, but I also loved the people. As we made our way through the heavily decorated garden area, I noticed the curious glances and whispered conversations that followed us. My friends and family were terrible at hiding their gossip. It seemed our growing connection had not gone unnoticed, and soon, we found ourselves at the centre of attention.
“Are you two a couple now?” Brittany asked, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Amelia was over by the river, deep in conversation with one of my coworkers, and well out of earshot.
“No.” I shook my head.
“You’ve got to give me more than that.”
What was I supposed to say?
Did she sleep at my house regularly? Yes.
Did she kiss me before I went to work in the morning? Yes .
Did she sit on the porch at night, hold my hand, and sip iced tea to the sweet sound of the birds tweeting? Yes.
Did I feel a warmth in my chest every time she was in my presence and a severe lack of joy whenever she wasn’t? Absolutely.
Oh God. It was bad.
“We’re figuring things out,” I replied with a smile, but my voice filled with too much uncertainty.
“That’s so vague.”
“We’re enjoying getting to know each other,” I added.
“Okay, Mrs. Vague-erson.” Brittany’s eyes sparkled.
I knew that look.
“Have you had the conversation about how long she plans to stay in town and continue to let you eat her like a fresh pecan pie?”
“You know that question would’ve been perfectly acceptable had you not added the last part.” I laughed.
“Acceptable is boring.” Brittany smirked. “So, have you?”
“No, I haven’t brought it up,” I replied, attempting to keep the conversation casual.
She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Too scared, huh?”
She knew me too well. It was kind of annoying. Keeping Brittany in the dark was like trying to keep my mom from bringing a pie when she visited. She could be calling for a five-minute conversation and the recipient would be left with a food gift. It was a southern thing, my mom did everything “southern” but ten-fold.
“Yes,” I admitted.
Brittany handed me a glass filled with a vibrant liquid and garnished with an orange slice. “Here, you need this. ”
“Is that a slammer?”
“Uh-huh.”
The Alabama Slammer wasn’t my favourite cocktail, but it was a sure-fire way to get me drunk. Brittany preferred to go hard on the three-way alcohol mix and less on the orange juice.
“You need to take off the badge,” she reached over and pretended to remove an imaginary badge from my shirt. “You don’t have to be permanently on duty. Take a load off, have a few drinks, and when you get home tonight you can have a serious conversation with Amelia about whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”
It sounded so simple when she said it like that.
“I think I prefer to remain oblivious.”
“No, you don’t. I know you. You’re a hard ass on the outside, but inside you’re a soft shell, and you’ll be overthinking every little thing she does.”
“I will not.” I looked away, a clear sign I was lying.
“Yeah, okay!” Brittany’s expression softened, and her playful demeanour gave way to genuine empathy. “Just ask her, okay? I don’t like seeing you be this uncertain; it’s alarming.”
“I’m okay, honestly, but if after a couple of slammers I feel the need to gain some clarity, I will do so.”
“You better.” Brittany linked my arm. “Now come with me. Let’s go rescue your future wife from Elijah.”
Elijah was a new corporal at the station. He was tall and imposing, always well-dressed, and confident, but he was by far the biggest gossip in the station. Any information he was tactfully draining from Amelia would undoubtably make its way around the station by noon the following day.
I would’ve bet my house on it.
Oak trees draped in Spanish moss filled the landscape around us. Magnolia had a way of creating a serene atmosphere, but until this moment I hadn’t understood the romantic element. We walked hand in hand beneath the green veil. The trees’ sprawling canopies filtered the last of the sunlight and cast soft shadows on the grass below.
“I love this.” Amelia reached out to touch the intertwining strands of moss.
The Spanish moss swayed gently in the breeze, and it felt almost—
“Magical,” I whispered.
“What did you say?” Amelia asked.
“Nothing.” I smiled.
The majestic moss-draped trees created a cocoon of sorts. Inside I felt secure, like the trees were providing me with a sense of privacy, so I could broach the impending conversation.
“It sort of feels... poetic, don’t you think?” I said.
“It’s certainly very fairy-tale-like,” Amelia said, in awe of nature’s beauty.
The further we walked from the historic tree-lined streets, the quieter it became. The distant sound of the river flowing and the birds chirping was our only backdrop. I felt the warmth of Amelia’s hand in mine intensely. She squeezed lightly every thirty seconds or so. Maybe she was nervous too. She pressed her thumb into my knuckle. The repetitive pressure was comforting. I was torn between remaining in the blissfully unaware state we were currently in and the fear of initiating a conversation that would shift the dynamic completely .
Brittany’s words refused to disappear into the background. There, at the forefront of my mind, they tried to escape my lips before my brain could fight back and form other irrelevant words. I was fighting the desire to convey how I felt. I wanted to understand our situation more, but I didn’t want to risk losing what we had.
The setting was ideal. We were alone. We were connected, and most importantly, I was three slammers deep and grateful for the liquid courage.
“Amelia,” I began. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
You can do this. Compose yourself.
“Are you okay?” She stopped and turned to look me directly in the eyes. She didn’t remove her hand, instead, she notably squeezed tighter. My discomfort was clearly visible.
“What’s happening here . . . with us?” I mumbled.
“With us,” Amelia repeated.
“I love the time we’ve spent together,” I confessed, my heart began to race. “But I don’t know what it means.”
“What do you want it to mean?” she asked, her gaze unwavering.
What do I want it to mean?
She was deflecting.
“I was kind of hoping you’d answer that for me.” I laughed nervously.
“Riley,” Amelia started, her voice soft.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything you don’t feel,” I reassured. I let my hand slip from her grasp and attempted to continue on our journey.
“It’s not that.” She reached out to pull me back. Her eyes searched mine for answers. “These past few weeks with you have meant everything to me, and I want it to all be for something, y’know? I just—”
Here comes the but —
“It’s okay. You’ll leave town eventually, you’ll go back to your life in Austin, and I’ll stay here, and in a few months’ time all this will be a distant memory.” I squeezed her hand. I wanted her to know it was okay, even though deep down the sinking feeling overwhelmed me.
“Is it okay?” Amelia challenged.
“I’ll be the small-town lieutenant you had a fling with, and that’s fine. If that’s all that this was meant to be, then I can accept it.” I looked away. I wasn’t convincing anyone. If the birds could speak, even they’d tell me I was a terrible liar. I suspected my facial expression gave away my discomfort.
“Riley.” Amelia brushed her fingers down my arm. “You’re already so much more than a fling,” she confessed.
My heart fluttered. One simple sentence had the power to change my mood—frightening.
“But you’re leaving town, right?”
“I don’t know. I guess that was always the plan, but...” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“But—” I repeated.
“I didn’t expect to feel things for you, and I’m not sure I’m ready to lose what we have,” she admitted.
“Then don’t,” I declared. “This doesn’t have to be over.”
Amelia looked into my gaze. I knew the bond we had created in such a short period of time was stronger than any bond I’d created with a partner in my lifetime. Granted, my previous relationships weren’t of much significance, but that had to mean something. The way I felt for Amelia after a few weeks of being in her presence was enough to make me risk the freedom that came with being alone. I was willing to risk getting hurt and do the opposite of what I’d done for my whole adult life.
“I just need some time... to figure things out,” Amelia admitted.
I nodded.
She pressed her hand to my chest. “You make me feel like anything is possible. I want you to know that. I adore the time we spend together.”
“I do too.”
I leant forward and kissed her softly. She edged her body forward so her lips were closer to mine. It was hard to believe the taste of her lips was foreign to me three weeks ago. I inhaled the floral notes of her signature perfume whenever she was around, and it was now a smell I specifically associated with her. A thousand other people in Alabama may have worn the same perfume, but it wouldn’t evoke the same feelings in me. They didn’t wear it like Amelia.
Underneath it all, I was nervous. I was vulnerable. I was trying so desperately to be brave. We had a profound connection. I’d known it since the moment we met. Since then, every moment we’d spent together had been overshadowed by this lingering anticipation that I didn’t know how to dissect. Now, as I kissed her beneath the Spanish moss, I knew what it was; it was possibility.
Possibility filled the air around us like the clouds filled the sky. Possibility sounded out as loudly as vocal birds on a quiet summer’s night. Amelia looked into my eyes, lips parted, her longing stare mixed with a hopeful yet cautious expression. She felt it too. The weight of possibility.
I could sense her inner turmoil. It was as though she was fighting against something I knew nothing about. I felt exposed and ultimately susceptible to hurt, but for Amelia, I sensed a battle between her wants and a deeper chaos. She rarely spoke about her past relationships: a boyfriend in college who turned out to be a borderline narcissist was the extent of our communication on that topic, but something was holding her back.
Possibility
noun
: a thing that may happen.