7. I Will Wait #2
The screen door suddenly screeches again.
I make a mental note to oil it for Emory later.
But when she steps out, dressed in a pajama set of her own with Molly’s face printed all over it, hair mussed wildly like her daughter’s, eyes bright green but still hazy with sleep, and legs astonishingly bare, my brain glitches.
I’m staring, and though I keep reminding myself of what the nine-year-old just told me about appreciating the good Lord’s handiwork and looking away, God help me, I can’t.
Emory is beautiful. She always has been.
But something about grown woman Emory, bathed in morning light, looking a little vulnerable and also a little put out—like she’d enjoy slapping me again for being out here on her porch—has me viewing her in ways I should not be viewing her.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw Emory.
Her red hair was much longer back then, pulled into a pony tail that touched her shoulder blades.
She took pages of notes during our first biology lecture, listening so intently to the professor she didn’t notice the guy seated a row behind—me—studying her rather than the lesson.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.
Red.
I assumed she was a freshman just with the fact that she took time to dress up for class instead of wearing pajama pants and sweatshirts like the rest of us.
Not to mention the bright-eyed, excited look about her—especially for an eight a.m., Friday seminar.
Yet her focus was unmatched, and she wasn’t afraid to ask questions in the huge lecture hall.
The girl I called Red in my mind, because I was too nervous to interact with her.
For weeks, I looked forward to that class, where my mystery girl would twist that long, fiery red hair between her fingers, oblivious to the spellbinding effect it was having on me—a poor, pre-med student, ready to fail biology, and throw it all away for the chance to talk to her—nearly bringing me to my knees each and every week.
I had to know her. To speak to her. To test her name on my lips and learn everything a person could about a perfect stranger.
It took the entirety of the semester for me to gather the courage to approach her.
So when the last week of class came, I jumped to my feet—ignoring my clueless best friend at my side—in pursuit of one goal.
But just as I reached out to tap her shoulder, hand shaking and head convinced I’d experienced something akin to love at first sight, James beat me to it.
“You’re beautiful,” he’d said, without even introducing himself. Like he, too, couldn’t wait another minute to tell Emory what every guy in the room knew was a universal truth.
Had he seen her all along? Had he lost sleep thinking about how to strike up a conversation or had he only noticed her that morning?
When she’d pulled her hair into a loose bun at the base of her neck and took so many notes she’d had to stop to stretch her hand.
When she’d smiled, like she knew a secret, as the professor discussed a summer internship through the zoology department, and she’d folded the info pamphlet neatly and hid it away in the back pocket of her jeans.
It didn’t matter.
My mystery girl, my Red, brushed James’ compliment away with the wave of her hand—painfully delighted—before twisting her fingers in that red hair again and introducing herself.
I walked away, and she was his.
James and Emory were together from that moment on. A combo. A team. Their names forever conjoined in sentences as if they were one and the same.
James’ dreams became hers, and Emory’s his, and I had the privilege of calling them both my closest friends.
Of helping them find a piece of land to settle on.
Starting the farm and building the barn I slept in last night.
I stood next to James as he married the woman of his dreams, never once letting myself imagine what could have been, because they were perfect for each other.
James was the best man I’d ever known, and he loved his wife more than anything.
And that’s the thought that pulls me back to my senses.
Emory is still his wife.
I shake off the momentary lapse in judgement and hand Buttercup back to her owner, quickly replacing the rabbit for the nail and a hammer, and my ease from a moment ago with a bitter sense of betrayal, a heavy weight bearing down my back.
So much so that I can’t bring myself to look Emory in the eye when she questions my presence.
“What are you doing here so early?”
“I noticed these steps were looking a little worse for wear when I was here the other day. Thought I’d take care of them real quick this morning before checking in on Pam, and then I’ll be outta your hair.
” I hammer a nail in one stroke and move to the next, wiping an unexpected trail of sweat from my brow.
Bill offered his nail gun, but I’m glad I didn’t take him up on it.
Even after all the time I spent on the three “Cs” all night, at this moment, with the shame of so carelessly perusing my best friend’s wife, it feels pretty dang good to hit something.
To pour all the pent up feelings I've been wrestling with all week into this project. I need some sleep or a long ride on my bike. “I’ll be finished up in no time.”
In my peripheral, I see Emory’s bare feet—toes painted every shade of the rainbow—shifting weight back and forth as Buttercup hops freely around her. “Molly, could you please go take care of Fezz and Inpigo? They need to eat and be brought out to their pen for the day.”
“But Mama, we’re fixin’ the porch,” Molly whines, throwing both hands out towards our work. Then quickly echoes, holding her hand out for a nail and the hammer with determination in her eyes. “Should be finished in no time.”
When she successfully nails it down through the wood, the rush of pride I feel almost helps me forget what I’m actually here for today and the impossible discussion I need to have with Emory.
“Thanks for the help, Little Red,” I say, unable to stop myself from tugging her little bun again. “Why don’t you go do what your mom needs you to do, and then maybe you can help me with another project later.”
I’ve made a mental to-do list around here that I intend to see through. Even if it means another sleepless night in that barn, which is where I plan to be anyhow.
Though she rolls her eyes at the interruption, Molly puts her knuckles out for me to bump.
“Teamwork makes the dream work, Doc. Don’t finish without me.
” She skips up the stairs, only stopping to scoop up Buttercup and give Emory a quick hug before passing by.
“Love you, Mom. Oh, and you have zit cream on your chin.”
Though it’s a bad idea, I can’t resist glancing up to see Emory quickly slap her hand over her chin as her cheeks grow perfectly pink. She snorts into her hand.
“Cute.” I laugh with her. “Your cheeks match those jammies of yours now.”