12. Waterfalls
WATERFALLS
TLC
EMORY
Five days have passed since Pam died and I found unexpected comfort lying in the arms of my husband’s best friend.
I’ve done everything possible, for those one hundred and twenty hours, to forget the sound of Jordan’s voice washing over my little girl’s quiet tears the night before.
To erase the vision of them in my kitchen the next morning, the picture of familial domesticity.
The comfort and security I felt acutely, rushing through every nerve in my body at having someone I know so well and—more unexpectedly, trust—take care of us with a homemade meal.
Fresh coffee. Unanticipated laughter after a long, mournful night.
Laundry. Cleaning. Feeding the animals, mucking stalls, deep-diving on ways to throw a fifth-grade festival on private property while also selling that property.
I’ve been good and busy, but nothing works.
As it turns out, no amount of busy work could begin to erase Jordan’s tender care or the sight of his tattooed skin—that I’d somehow, magically mindwiped the night before—on full display in romantic, early-morning light shining through the kitchen window, highlighting every nook and cranny of his sculpted torso and chest. Nothing more than a beacon, guiding my eyes to take their fill.
And let me tell you, Jordan is artwork. The tattoos.
The tan. The lines. The well-worn, faded jeans hanging from his hips.
This was no small glance, either. To my horror, I took a Good. Hard. Look.
I gazed. Partook. Feasted. I ate up every inch of the man’s skin with starved eyes, shocked that I was doing so, but entirely satisfied with the show.
Who does that?
Who lusts after their deceased husband’s best friend?
I can’t even think about the way Jordan’s touch, alone—on my elbow, for goodness’ sake—sent me into a tailspin of disgraceful what ifs.
What if I told him to leave?
What if I told him to stay?
What if I turned around right now and we made out against my kitchen counter?
What if Molly saw us?
And the thought that I can’t ignore or run away from…
What would James do… if he knew?
What if James knew how good it felt to not fall asleep alone?
That when I woke up in the middle of the night—and I usually find myself awake for hours, mind ever-restless and unable to turn off—I’d, instead, nuzzled closer into the warm body that hadn’t gone far in the night and savored the feeling of another man’s arms cocooning me.
Then, waking up alone, believing Jordan had left, I’d felt overwhelming sadness, not of just anyone leaving me behind, but of him—Jordan—gone, which led to me running through the house to find him. Jordan, not James.
In fact, James hadn’t crossed my mind until another man’s fingertips touched my arm, sending shivers across my skin, and there I’d realized that—in the kitchen I had once danced in with my husband—I’d truly felt something for the first time in years.
What if James knew that I can’t stop thinking about his best friend?
About how I’ve fantasized about my hands tangled in his early-morning bedhead of blonde waves.
That I’ve imagined what it would be like to talk to Jordan all night long and to wake up to him in my kitchen exactly like I did last week.
What would James say if he knew I haven’t slept through the night since?
It’s that powerful sense of shame—and a debilitating need to talk to someone about what a traitorous, fickle creature I am—that has me barreling into Dinah’s pretzel shop after school drop off and announcing, without preamble, “I slept with Jordan Love last week.”
I blame my shame spiral for not considering the fact that not only does Dinah run a successful business, but she also hosts a small group of friends every Wednesday morning for breakfast bites, coffee, and chit-chat, while other members of our fine community casually drop in for carry-out orders.
So, my sister, her husband, three of our friends—Chloe, Joey, and Brooke—Charlie, Mr. and Mrs. Cotten, and to my utter humiliation, Dr. Rafferty, all freeze in their respective activities, taking in life-changing information none of them were meant to hear.
And, super. When she whips her perfectly coiffed hair around, I see that my best friend forever, Bree, is here, too.
Cool, cool, cool… cucumbers.
“He did what?” Jack slaps both fists on the counter, where I likely interrupted him complaining about the volume of my sister’s playlist or making out with her—who knows with those two.
Charlie pops a pretzel bite into her mouth and takes a seat at the bar, making herself at home for however this super special storytime is about to play out, but Dinah—sweet Dinah—looks around the room, no doubt calculating my mortification, and shouts, “Everyone out! Shop’s closed.”
She jets around the bar and begins shooing her customers with wild hands, exactly like I do with the chickens when they won’t leave the coop. “Come back later. Come on, you too, Charlie. Up. Up up. Shoo. Go on now. Get.”
There’s a collective groan of dissent, and I definitely don’t want these people here, but I also feel like I should clear the air before I allow any of them into the wild world of Honey Hill and the gossip mill subsequently begins to churn.
Throwing myself in front of the door, a human blockade to the outside world, I yell in a shrill attempt at clarity, “We slept!”
A couple of eyebrow-raising, sure-ya-did glances around the room tell me I’ve done nothing to convince them.
Dinah talks a whole lot about her romance books and how the male main characters are always growling.
When Jack releases an animalistic rumble from his chest and mutters, low and scary, something like, “Polly, Lola laughs, and Chipper snuggles,” like they’re his safe words, I think I finally understand what she means.
He doesn’t stick around, though. Instead, kissing my sister’s cheek, he stomps back to his shop, where he will likely rage-create the beautiful flower arrangements he’s so gifted at.
“Just slept!” I shriek again, doubling down. And why can’t I lower my voice? “All night. Basically just a really long nap. Nothing more. Fully-clothed. Sort of,” I add, because I’m no liar and apparently have no filter on my oversharing mouth.
And great, now I’m thinking about Jordan’s chest again. The look in Dinah’s eyes tells me she is, too, and is just biding her time to ask about all the tattoos she’s so curious about.
Mrs. Cotten giggles and slaps her husband in the chest for attention.
“This is exactly like season one when Veronica helps Logan look for his mother, who we all know is dead, but she’s there for him.
And they spend all that time together. Remember, sweetheart?
” This situation looks exactly zero percent like a Veronica Mars episode, but Mr. Cotten doesn’t seem to care about the relevance and kisses his wife square on the lips like she just solved Logan’s mom’s murder and he couldn’t agree more.
“Only, Dr. Love has tats. Did you know that’s what kids call them?” Mrs. Cotten continues, squeezing her husband's arm and dragging him towards the door. “He’s so handsome and a doctor. Our Veronica just loves him so much. We’re rooting for ya, honey.”
The door dings behind them and Jordan’s mother, whom I can never look in the eye again, slaps a ten dollar bill on the counter as payment for her order then a twenty into Charlie’s outstretched hand. “Really thought I had you this time, Charlotte.”
Don’t know what that’s about, but Charlie is more than pleased as she slips the crisp twenty into her pocket. “I trust you’ll never doubt my wisdom again.”
“I think we better head out, too.” Dr. Rafferty takes pity on me, pulling Charlie along with her, though not before she stops to grab my hand and give it a firm squeeze.
“Give yourself some grace, girlie,” Charlie says, following Jordan’s mom out, calling back over her shoulder, “And next time ya can’t sleep, ya don’t need a man.
You can use some valerian root and ylang ylang.
I’ll make ya a roller and drop it by the house later.
Free of charge… on the grounds that I feel bad for ya, and ya look worn slap out. ”
The door opens, jingling the bell as they hit the pavement, then slams shut in their wake. It’s crazy, though, because the more people exit, the smaller the room seems to become.
“She gave me that roller when I couldn’t sleep during my pregnancy,” Dinah says, pulling out a stool and taking a seat. “Smells like a stale locker room. I’d take the man in a heartbeat.”
“Especially that man.” Joey points at the front window where Jordan’s presently being accosted on the street by the Cottens.
I can only imagine the tea they’re spilling, but even if they aren’t, he’ll surely notice the grown women now smushing their faces to the window of Knotty & Nice to get a better peek at him.
“Joey!” I screech, hoping to redirect the group. “You’re here! In Georgia. That’s so fun. I didn’t know you were coming home.”
She’s been living in DC for the last couple of years after getting a college internship in sports medicine with the DC Warriors, the local hockey team.
Now seems like a great time to catch up and get every last detail out of her.
I whistle a few quick times, snapping my fingers.
It’s what I do when I need the alpacas to come in from the field, but it doesn’t seem to be working for my friends.
Come on, girls. Here we go. Right over here.
“She’s here for Bonnie’s graduation stuff,” her eldest sister, Chloe, says, ignoring my alpaca calls in favor of the action on Main Street. “Don’t deflect.”
“Oh my gosh”—Brooke sighs appreciatively—“look at that head of hair. Are you kidding me?”
You should see it first thing in the morning is what I don’t say.