Chapter 11 #2
“Yes,” Emerson replied. “Write a letter to her, and to the children you lost. But also write a letter to the children you’ve got here. Tell them what is really in your heart. I think that’s a better way for your ‘journey to start,’ ” she said, adding air quotes to the last words.
Everyone was silent. For a moment, I thought Julian was going to get defensive. But he didn’t. He leaned back in his chair.
“You always surprise me, kid,” he said, and truthfully, Emerson surprised me too.
The hour melted away, filled with excited chatter about the poetry evening, what food could be served, how to create a stage—Bobby suggested fairy lights—and who in town could moderate the event. Henry said he would do it, but Rita suggested the mayor, which seemed a little grandiose.
Winnie suddenly stood, swaying slightly before gripping the back of her chair. She pressed a hand to her temple.
“I think I’m going to call it a night,” she said.
Emerson frowned. “You okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache.” She waved a hand. “Weather’s getting colder, probably just the flu.” She slipped into her coat. “I’ll see you soon,” she said, patting Emerson’s shoulder, before heading out.
Emerson watched her go, chewing her lip.
“What’s wrong?” Olivia asked.
“My mom’s working late again, and Winnie usually takes me home.” Emerson glanced at me. “I came with her, and so I don’t have my bike; she must have forgotten because she’s not feeling well.”
“I can drop you off at home,” I offered.
Olivia looked at me. “Well, maybe we can both drop her home and then you can drop me back at my car?”
I was confused.
“Well, you know, with you being new and everything.”
Still confused.
“She’s either implying that you’re some lunatic that’s going to kidnap me and chop me up into little pieces, or that she wants some time alone with you after you drop me off.” Emerson smirked. “Or that you need directions and wouldn’t possibly have Google Maps.”
Olivia and I simultaneously turned bright red.
“Thank you, Emerson,” Olivia replied. “I’ll remember not to do anything nice for you ever again.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I mean, I can assure you I am not going to chop Emerson up into little pieces, and I actually don’t need to rely on Google Maps in a town so small, but we can all go. It’s no problem.”
I couldn’t hide my smile, and I noticed the corners of Olivia’s mouth turned up at the same time.
The days were growing cooler, turning the nights even colder, with leaves crunching underfoot and a hint of moss and damp soil drifting through the evening breeze. I unlocked the car door and pulled the front seat forward.
“You’ll have to climb in,” I said to Olivia.
She stepped closer, brushing past me to slide into the back. Her hand skimmed my hip, the scent of bergamot trailing behind her. She smelled like a Sunday morning—bright, soft, and lingering. I swallowed and climbed into the front seat, my heart ticking a little faster.
“This car is actually so fire,” Emerson said, settling into the passenger side.
“Thank you,” I replied lightly. They didn’t need to know that just two days ago the back seat had been overflowing with take-out cartons, crumpled receipts, and the faint smell of soy sauce that seemed to haunt me.
Some burst of energy earlier today had forced me to clean it, lemon-scented detailer, a vacuum, the works.
Maybe it was my idea of moving forward. Or maybe it was the thought that if I wanted to offer someone else space, I had to start by making some for myself.
Emerson glanced out the window, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her jacket. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over this fear of driving again,” she said. “It makes me feel so stupid.”
“It took me a while to drive after mine too,” I replied, and it felt strange to say that out loud. I had always thought of the accident as Lucy’s accident, because she had died and I had not…but I had been in the car too.
“It’s so weird,” she murmured. “One minute I was on the road, and the next I was flying. I don’t even know how I lived.”
“But you did,” Olivia said from the back seat. “You’re still here.”
Emerson glanced over at me. “I’m sorry about your fiancée,” she said quietly.
I nodded, my chest tightening. “I’m sorry about your accident,” I replied. “And that you now fear driving. I’m sorry about your mom too,” I added, meeting Olivia’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
Emerson looked down at her hands. “You know, my ex, Brady, he didn’t really get it. None of my friends did either. They tried, but…they’ve never really lost anyone or anything. Not like this. It’s like grief is this…weird, unofficial, shitty club.”
“It really is,” Olivia agreed. “And nobody truly understands until they’ve been through it themselves. That’s the worst part. And maybe the best part too, when you find people who actually get it.”
“It does have its perks,” I said with a faint smile. “Like, maybe you can practice driving again in this car?”
Emerson’s eye widened. “Are you serious?”
I shrugged. “Why not?”
“We could both help you,” I added, and I glanced back at Olivia again. “You know, so Olivia can make sure I don’t chop you up into tiny pieces.”
Olivia’s gaze met mine once more, her olive green eyes warm and steady, catching the moonlight in a way that made it impossible to look away. A small smile curled on her lips, and my heart tipped off balance, desire threading through me in places I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time.
“It’s probably best I chaperone,” she agreed.
The sunrise was beautiful the next day, light spilling between the houses like golden paint.
Everston was barely awake as I pulled my car onto the empty streets.
Emerson only lived four miles away. I pulled into her driveway and waited patiently for her to emerge.
Her front door opened, and a ginger cat came hurtling out into the driveway, disappearing into the neighbor’s bushes.
Emerson yelled something inaudible after the feline before opening the car door.
“Are we thinking bagels?” she asked.
I checked the time on the car’s dash. “It’s six a.m.,” I replied.
“And? Do you not like bagels at six a.m.?”
“No, no,” I said. “Bagels would be nice.”
There was a knock on the window—it was Olivia.
“Of course, she’s, like, late for everything else, but not when it involves you,” Emerson grinned dryly.
I shushed her, leaned across, and unlocked the car so Olivia could slide into the back seat. Emerson didn’t even get out—just shoved the passenger seat forward and smushed herself against the dashboard.
Olivia grumbled as she climbed in. “You couldn’t just get out?”
“What?” Emerson said, completely unbothered. “It’s cold out there.”
Olivia sighed as she got herself situated in the back seat. “I thought you were driving,” she said to Emerson.
“That is still up for debate,” I replied.
“There’s no way I can drive this car right away,” Emerson said.
“Well, we don’t have to today,” I said. “The plan was to drive and see where the highway took us.”
“The plan was to drive at the crack of dawn because there would be no traffic and Emerson would feel better,” Olivia objected.
I glared at her in the rearview mirror.
“I can’t drive this car period. If I crash it, there’s, like, no way I could pay you back.”
“I have insurance. But how about we just start with bagels?” I said.
“And coffee,” Olivia added.
The morning slipped away from us as we drove the scenic route.
The evergreen trees carpeted the valley as we navigated the bends around the mountains, Olivia sharing stories of her time in college.
Emerson was calm, unfazed by the roads. Along the roadside, the wildflowers were an array of colors—asters, sunflowers, and goldenrod—and a hawk flew somewhere above us.
We stopped for an early lunch in Norvale, and dipped in and out of shops.
Emerson insisted on stopping by the bookstore, and we became lost among the shelves for at least half an hour.
“I got something for you guys,” Emerson said, as we piled back into the car.
“As a thank you for helping me, but also, I figure you probably need some inspiration for poetry night.” She leaned down to grab something out of her tote bag.
“Like, because we can’t all be good at writing poetry like me. ”
I knew what was in the bag before she had even pulled them all the way out.
I had spent days deliberating on the color of the cover, the font of the title, the feel of the pages.
It was one of the first poetry collections I’d ever written, years ago, back when the world still felt whole.
For so long, all anyone ever wanted to talk about was The Lost Archives.
It was strange—but also oddly comforting—that something I’d written in the beginning of my career could still reach someone like Emerson.
Before the six-figure book deals and the intense deadlines, there had been poetry, and so much of it had been about Lucy.
I’d always hoped to return to poetry, but when she died, I’d shelved the thought, literally and figuratively.
And yet, somehow, it had found me again in Everston.
Emerson handed each of us a copy of Hope for Tomorrow.
“You didn’t have to do that! But it’s beautiful,” Olivia said.
“Thank you, Emmy,” I barely managed. I didn’t need to look at the book; I knew every page, every sentence, every word.
I turned on the ignition and pulled out into the street to return to Everston.
“Have you read this one?” Olivia asked.
“Obviously,” Emerson said. “It’s, like, one of my favorites. I just ordered three of her other books too.”
“B.W. Paisley,” Olivia read aloud. The way it sounded on her lips was enough for me to have to wind down the window. The air whipped into the car and through my hair.
“Great name for a writer,” she said absentmindedly.
Emerson cleared her throat and read. “You are so far away now; as though we are in different lifetimes—split between the stars. I close my eyes and find forever with you.”
The car continued its journey through the winding mountain roads. My eyes remained fixed ahead, as the wildflowers continued to dot the roadside. The view was breathtaking, and yet my mind was racing as fast as my pounding heart.
“Do you think she, like, always wanted to be a writer?” Emerson said. Her question lingered between us.
Olivia flicked through the pages in the back seat.
“She probably wanted to be one hundred things before she became a writer.”
“Yes, probably,” I said. My chest felt heavy with the weight of my secret.
“But, like, imagine she never became a writer, or a poet,” Emerson said. “And there was never this book, or any others she had written.”
Olivia grinned, distracted by a happy memory. “I used to love to bake.” She smiled. “All kinds of things, in my Easy-Bake Oven.”
I laughed. “Sounds scrumptious.”
“What’s an Easy-Bake Oven?” Emerson asked.
“Never mind,” Olivia and I said in unison.
“So, anyway, I’ve been thinking that if the gymnastics scholarship doesn’t work out, maybe I could, you know, study poetry?” Emerson said, tentatively.
“That’s a great idea!” Olivia replied. “I mean, who loves poetry more than you, Em?”
Emerson’s eyes sparkled. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “I could totally see you running a poetry workshop at the library one day. Henry would be thrilled.”
Henry really would. Hosting a poetry workshop would probably make Henry’s entire year.
“Everyone has to start somewhere,” I added.
“Even B.W. Paisley,” Emerson said. “Maybe she wanted to be a gymnast!”
“Or perhaps,” I said, as the mountains stood tall in front of us, “she wanted to be a pirate.”
It was only then, as I was laughing along, and watching the road blur past, that I realized it was the first time in almost a year that I’d been on the road and not thought about Lucy.