Chapter 10 #2
I shrugged. “She says I’m an adult and it’s my decision.”
This wasn’t entirely true. Mom did say I was an adult and that it was my decision, but she also said that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I shouldn’t give up.
“Gosh, I just remember your Yurchenko vault during that Arizona competition,” she said. “I’d never seen judges so stunned.”
“Won by a landslide,” I grinned. She was referring to a Yurchenko double twist (also known as an “Amanar”), which basically went like this: you run toward the vaulting table (must have, like, perfect speed and momentum), place both hands on the springboard shoulder-width apart, push off the vaulting table, elongate your body with your arms upward, tuck your knees and twist, then extend your body again, and tuck your knees to complete the second twist, before sticking your landing, which means both feet have to simultaneously land with minimal steps.
You needed perfect form, height, and landing.
“You really do deserve that scholarship, Emerson,” she said.
I wasn’t just handed that scholarship; someone like me never got handed anything.
I had everything they were looking for: technical skills (I was near perfect on vault, bars, and beam, and I could execute complicated routines with precision), strength and conditioning (my core strength and flexibility were next-level), resilience in the face of challenges, leadership, and adaptability.
And finally, I was consistent. I was always consistent before my accident.
I consistently got good grades, I consistently maintained high scores at competition, I consistently worked well under pressure, my friends were consistent, Brady was consistent.
And now look at me: I couldn’t even consistently wake up on time.
“Andi, I’m just not even sure I want that path anymore,” I said, and it was the first time I had said it out loud.
“What path do you want?” she asked softly.
“That’s just it, I’m not sure.”
She smiled at me, reached out her hand and gave mine a little tap. “I’ll be here whenever you decide, Emmy.”
She gathered her things. “I have to run though; left the younger two with the teenager while I was here, and god knows how she’s retaliated after the peanut butter incident.” She gave my shoulder a light squeeze. “I’m here, Emmy.”
I watched her leave into the fading daylight. Mrs. Wilks placed another stack of hash browns in front of me, and I looked up at her.
“On the house,” she smiled. “Exactly as you like them.”
At least I could count on my hash brown order always being the same…
but maybe that was the problem? The picture I had in my head of the way my life was supposed to go didn’t match up with reality at all any more.
And I was so busy trying to remember what that old picture looked like, I’d forgotten to take a new one.
The afternoon dipped into dusk, and I knew Winnie would be expecting me.
I hopped back on my bike and rode to her house.
If my fear of driving had done anything good, it was that it really shaped my quads again.
I mean, I was fit, because I was an athlete, but honestly, biking everywhere—who even needs leg day at the gym?
Winnie didn’t live very far from Main Street.
I opened the weathered wooden gate and pushed my bike up the river-stone pathway leading to the front porch.
She had different-colored potted plants scattered everywhere and two cane chairs underneath the front window.
There was a birdbath in the middle of the front yard, and trellises supporting climbing roses on the side of her house.
The window shutters were painted bright blue and her front door was wide open.
I called out to her as I entered, but she didn’t answer; probably busy rolling the pastry for the chicken pie.
The living room was cluttered with an assortment of old furniture and, right in the center, an overstuffed couch covered in floral patterns.
Her fireplace mantel was covered in random trinkets and sculptures and tiny teacups.
I tossed my jacket over one of her armchairs and called out to her again.
“Winnie!” I said, louder this time.
Still no response. I walked into the kitchen looking for her, and the smell of pie filled the small space. It was definitely in the oven already, but where was Winnie?
She’d been making cookies for dessert and was clearly peeling potatoes for mash, as they both sat on the counter waiting to be finished.
“Hello?” I called again, and I couldn’t help but start to panic.
I looked around in concern and noticed a bunch of letters from Norvale General Hospital sitting half opened on the counter, so I reached for one of them.
“You’re here!”
I jumped. Like, basically through her roof. I could have catapulted myself back into the gymnasium on the vault in that moment, I swear I got airtime.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I said.
“Emerson,” Winnie scolded. “Back in my day my father would have washed my mouth out with soap.”
“Where were you?” I demanded.
She looked at me blankly. “I was hanging laundry.”
“What are all these letters from the hospital?” I asked.
Winnie peered over at me through her glasses. “Oh, it’s just some old mail.”
“But they’re from the hospital.”
“I was cleaning out some cupboards the other day and happened across them. Probably from the time Cliff hurt his knee.”
I squinted at the labels, trying to find the date they were issued.
“Come help me set the table, Emmy,” she said, and she plucked the envelopes out of my hand, storing them away in a drawer.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.
Winnie waved the question away. “I’m just fine, Emmy,” she replied. She checked her watch. “Our dinner guests will be arriving soon!”
“Come on in, girls!” Winnie greeted Olivia and Wren at the front door.
Winnie was practically my best friend these days, and I liked to think of her as mine.
So, as her best friend, I wanted to tell her that trying to set up a woman mourning the death of her fiancée with a washed-up reporter angry at her mother for, like, so many reasons, didn’t exactly seem like a match made in heaven.
But I also knew that Winnie loved rom-coms, and ever since that dirtbag Cliff left her after nearly fifty years, she’d been trying to believe in love again.
This was also probably the highlight of her week—other than hanging out with me, of course.
I took Wren and Olivia’s coats and hung them in the small closet by Winnie’s front door, as she led them into the living room.
“You have a lovely home,” Wren commented, and she sat down on the sofa.
Olivia handed a bottle of red to Winnie, who looked most appeased. I would never understand people’s obsession with wine.
“Do you need help?” Olivia asked Winnie.
She shook her head. “Make yourselves comfy, I’ll be in the kitchen.”
I watched, kind of amused, as Olivia considered sitting next to Wren, and then awkwardly decided to sit in the armchair next to her instead.
“Emmy, come open this bottle and pour a glass for us old gals, will you.”
“What about me?”
She looked at me flatly. “Please,” she said, “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
I grunted and followed her into the kitchen.
Once I’d settled next to Wren, and handed both her and Olivia a glass of wine, Olivia brought up the poetry evening.
“I wouldn’t have the first clue how to write a poem,” she said. “Maybe I could manage a limerick, but how long does Henry think this evening is going to last? All night? There’s only nine of us.”
“I mean, Rita could probably talk for several hours,” I said, and she smirked.
“I think he just wants to put on something that’ll draw a crowd,” Wren replied. “Raise some awareness for mental health initiatives in Everston.”
“But why?” Olivia pressed. “Who’s this even for? Is it for us, or is it for him?”
“Maybe it’s both,” Wren said thoughtfully. “Max could’ve suggested it. Poetry can be therapeutic, right? It could be his way of getting us to dig a little deeper into what we’re feeling.”
“Or Henry’s just trying to invite other people in the community and let them know there’s help?” I added. “He was there when I needed someone. He was there when you needed someone.”
Olivia feigned insult. “I don’t need anyone,” she replied, and then grinned at me. “Besides, if he wants to fundraise, why can’t it be a bake sale? We could sell cookies. I’m much better at baking cookies.”
“We could also have brownies,” I said. “There would have to be brownies.”
“I don’t think Henry’s expecting anyone to win a Pulitzer,” Wren said. “It’s not about being good at it. It’s about putting something out there—your feelings, your story. Even if it’s messy, it’s still yours.”
“I like that,” Olivia said softly. “You can still be something, even if you’re messy.”
Wren smiled, “I think you can be anything.”
Olivia held her gaze a moment too long. “Me?”
Wren blushed and said little too quickly, “Well, any of us, really.”
I cleared my throat, because someone had to, and if they kept looking at each other like that, I was going to throw a cushion at them.
“I’m more worried about the whole public speaking thing,” I said. “I can be catapulted into the air in front of a huge crowd, but if I have to talk, I might puke.”
Wren smiled kindly. “You’ll be okay, Emerson.”
“What would I even write about?” Olivia questioned. “Surely he doesn’t think I’m going to write about my mother?”
“Maybe I could write the gruesome details of my car accident,” I offered, and Wren seemed to pale.
“Emerson, I don’t think—”
“What would you write about?” Olivia asked her curiously. “If you had to write a poem, what would you write about?”
Wren downed the rest of her glass.
“Ladies!” Winnie called, interrupting. “Dinner’s ready!”
Winnie did make the best chicken pot pie—golden crust, creamy filling, the works—and tonight she’d served it with roasted carrots and green beans on the side.
I could tell Wren and Olivia were both enjoying it from the way they talked quickly in between mouthfuls so they each could have another scoop.
“This is wonderful, Winnie,” Wren said. “Truly, I don’t think I’ve ever had chicken pot pie this good.”
“Well, they say food is the way to the heart, don’t they?” Winnie replied.
“Are you trying to worm your way into Wren’s heart, Winnie?” Olivia smirked.
“Not any more than you are,” she quipped.
Olivia coughed into her food.
It was so obvious to me that Olivia was into Wren.
The way she lit up around her. Please. She practically melted the other day when Wren complimented her hair.
And Wren wasn’t subtle either—I mean, she was still grieving, sure—but she laughed at Olivia’s worst jokes, and stared at her whenever she wasn’t looking.
It was kind of impressive, really, how two people could be so obviously into each other and still pretend they weren’t.
Why didn’t anyone just say what they felt anymore?
Why all the circling and hint-dropping? Just say it.
You like her. Boom. Done. Revolutionary.
“Have you done any hikes?” Winnie asked, changing the subject.
“Not yet,” Wren replied. “I’ve been quite busy with Gill’s house.”
“Ah, yes, I did hear about this,” she said. “Although if you don’t have time for a hike, there is a lovely lookout up on Everston Overlook, it’s a very scenic drive.”
Wren smiled. “Well, Emerson, maybe the lookout can provide some inspiration for your poem?”
I sunk slightly in my chair.
“I can’t drive,” I said quietly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Wren stuttered. “I didn’t know.”
“I mean, I can drive,” I corrected. “But I just haven’t wanted to since my accident.”
“I see,” Wren said.
“We’re getting there, Emmy,” Winnie said. “If you’d only remember to put some gas in your car!”
I pouted at her in response.
“You could drive my car,” Wren offered.
“What kind of car do you have?” Olivia asked, glancing at me with a grin. “If Emmy’s going to practice, it might need to be a little beat-up.”
“Rude,” I muttered, heaping more green beans onto my plate.
Wren hesitated a moment, then said, “Oh, it’s an old 1960s Cabriolet. A silly decision really, considering Lucy already had a car, and we lived in a brownstone, so there was really no need. But she loved that thing, and I haven’t been able to part with it.”
Olivia blinked. “Wait, a Mercedes-Benz Cabriolet? That’s not just ‘old,’ that’s collector-level.”
Wren moved some of the carrots around on her plate. “I suppose.”
Olivia looked at me and I shrugged. I wouldn’t have the first clue about cars. And then Olivia looked at Winnie, who seemed interested, but she wasn’t really much of a car person either. Come to think of it, I didn’t realize Olivia was.
“Well, you must have been doing well, if you owned a Cabriolet as a second car.”
Wren seemed uncomfortable, as though she knew what the next question would be.
“What did you do in New York anyway?”
Olivia was being such a reporter and completely missed Wren’s discomfort. I reached for my water, shooting Winnie a sidelong glance, attempting to send her a telepathic Do something! message.
“Oh, just the odd things here and there,” Wren replied, avoiding eye contact.
Olivia frowned. “A 1960s Mercedes-Benz Cabriolet is worth a small fortune, easily two hundred grand.”
I choked mid-sip, water shooting down the wrong pipe and spluttering back into my glass. Holy shit.
“If you lived in Manhattan, and owned a brownstone, plus a vintage Mercedes, that doesn’t exactly scream ‘odd jobs’ to me.”
“Olivia,” Winnie interjected gently. “Perhaps Wren isn’t quite ready to talk about her past.”
Olivia looked as though she wanted to say something more, but she closed her mouth.
I don’t think I’d ever seen Olivia back down from any line of questioning.
When I told her once that my doctors had called and wanted to switch my medication, she took the phone from me and grilled them for forty-five minutes on what exactly the medication was and what it would do and whether it was the right thing for me.
Although one thing I did know: Winnie’s schemes were absolutely off the table.