9. Our Way #2
Only twenty minutes or so passes before another line of cars rolls down the gravel, and through the spare room window, I watch a group of women hop out from their vehicles.
Emory hasn’t had a single visitor outside of Dinah in the last week, and she hasn’t mentioned friends outside of her sister or the friend Molly mentioned with the bunny named after her husband, so it's nice to see such a huge group of ladies coming to hang out with Emory. Even if the timing is less than ideal.
She rushes out onto the lawn, greeting them with her arms spread unnaturally wide, and not a single woman reciprocates with a hug or any semblance of a friendly greeting.
Emory tucks the front of her shirt in again, fidgets with her hair, points around the lawn and towards the barn, as if giving a verbal tour to the women who look less than impressed or happy to be here.
I know she asked me to stay behind, but everything in her body language screams that Emory is uncomfortable.
She’s been naturally isolated from the rest of the group so that it appears like it's Emory against a pack of wolves. When Asscroft joins her side, slipping his hand around her waist again, and she squirms from beneath his touch, I can’t stop my feet from flying down the hall and onto the porch.
Emory doesn’t need a rescuer. In fact, I’m pretty sure she thinks she doesn’t need anyone at all. But a piece of me believes that—just like those alpaca brownies—though I may not be great for her, I might be exactly what Emory needs right now.
Unfortunately, the way I rush out onto the porch has Emory panicked.
Tears fill her eyes—the first I’ve seen since she wiped them away the other night—and she races to meet me.
“What happened? Is she okay?” Her hands grip both of my arms, bracing herself for bad news, and I’m honestly terrified at what her response will be when Pam does pass.
“Oh, no, no, no. She’s okay, Red. She’s okay.
” So quick to break my promises, I can’t help but pull her closer.
As if my hands have been begging for their chance again, I find myself running gentle strokes up and down Emory’s back, making soothing, shushing sounds like I do for animals that come into the clinic riddled with anxiety.
It only takes a breath or two before she realizes how close we are and leaps away.
“She’s stable and sleeping,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets. “I came out here for you. I thought you might need—”
“Oh. My. Goodness. Who do we have here?” One of the women has broken away from the rest of the gang, trotting on her tiptoes to meet us at the base of the porch steps.
Emory winces, without looking behind, as the brazen woman holds out her hand to shake mine. Before I know it, she’s pulled me into an over-aggressive hug that’s a little too long, even for a Southerner.
When the stranger finally releases me, leaving a cloud of overly sweet perfume in my breathing space, she swats at Emory’s hand like they’re pals. “You little minx. Where have you been hiding him, Emory? You didn’t tell us you were datin’ anybody.”
Emory looks a little like the time in college when I ate a bug for a bet and she couldn’t wipe the disgust from her face for weeks. So an educated guess says, either these women are not exactly friends or the idea of dating me is so repulsive, Emory would rather swallow a live bug. It’s a toss up.
“Me and him?” Emory wiggles her thumb between us with what I think, objectively speaking, is less than tasteful revulsion written on her face. “No. Ew. No. Um… no… he’s my…”
I am the bug.
I adjust my glasses just so I can see her squirm with the very best clarity, then cross my arms, waiting for an explanation as to who I am to Emory these days.
“He is my…” She looks over my shoulder, where I know she wishes she were locked in the bedroom with Pam and not dealing with whoever these people are, but then flicks her eyes to me. “Vet?”
Surprise must flick across my face, because I honestly thought the words contractor, handyman, or enemy might slip from her mouth.
Vet is a considerable win. Especially since twenty minutes ago, she was all but declaring me incompetent and ignoring my professional advice.
I’d like to do a celebratory fist pump but don’t want to get ahead of myself.
“I mean…” Emory stumbles, like she didn’t mean to fold so easily and now she can’t backtrack. “This is my… Jordan. He is a friend…”
My eyes might be three times their normal size right now. Her friend.
“To Molly!” she shouts. “Molly’s friend. Kind of. It’s weird.”
And there goes my confidence.
The crowd around us is getting antsy. There’s some weird whispering happening that makes me super uncomfortable, which reminds me that I came out here to help Emory not make her tumble through mental gymnastics in front of an audience to DTR.
Not that we have a relationship to define in the first place. Of course. Clearly.