13. Little Bit Better
LITTLE BIT BETTER
CALEB HEARN & ROSIE
EMORY
They should call themselves Free Carbs and Conversation.
Honestly, book club is kind of the best.
Especially if you count the fact that I’m actively avoiding a man and a difficult conversation. And if you ignore the fact that the mother of that particular man is also in attendance tonight. Which I am.
So burying myself in a vat of butter and bread while learning Irish step dance has been a decent distraction.
The instructor of our little tutorial tonight is none other than Haven, the owner of Molly’s favorite juice bar in town, Nature’s Nectar, and one half of the couple Charlie refers to as the hippies.
Haven surprised us all tonight by showing up in a traditional, Celtic dress, knee-length stockings, and a no-nonsense attitude.
“You have to accept the heartbeat of the rhythm with your spirit first, then your body will follow,” Haven instructs, hopping from toe to toe.
“My body’s rejecting it, girlie.” Charlie has been skeptical of Haven and her husband, Ocean, since they arrived in town, but I think making direct eye contact as Haven does a jig with an Irish rock band playing over the speakers has been the nail in the coffin for any future friendship. And honestly, I kind of get it.
I’ve been paired with Dr. Rafferty for the majority of our dance lesson, which feels like a bit of a cruel joke.
We’ve talked about form and calf muscle strains and the Riverdance guy that had the grace of an Irish angel but have blessedly avoided the fact that I know, that she knows, that I’ve seen the upper half of her son’s naked body and, to her knowledge, at least enjoyed some aspect of it.
The author of the book of the month, a local girl in bright yellow glasses—who’s sweating through a T-shirt I’m obsessed with that reads, “Free and Feral” and has a racoon in full military gear printed on it—looks like she was roped into visiting H3B2 tonight without the full scope of the group’s activities.
She’s been a good sport, though, dancing toe to toe with my sister, who is—as any woman would be, given a momentary reprieve from their toddler—having the night of her life.
Charlie fans her face with a paperback copy of the romantic suspense book no one has discussed tonight and announces she needs another cocktail.
Haven pauses the music and her twinkle toes, not a single bit of perspiration masking her natural glow.
“Oh, Charlotte”—she pauses Charlie in her tracks, and I have to hold back my laughter—“I do hope you’ll try the wellness shots I brought for the festivities.
I know how much you value health, especially with your essential oils.
Ocean and I use your ylang ylang and sandalwood in our bedroom.
That blend creates excellent pheromones and a welcoming atmosphere for our essences to converge. ”
Charlie actually gags, then growls—apparently not an action only reserved for fictional, male main characters.
Brooke is delighted with this update, immediately picking up her phone and likely texting her husband, who’s a baseball player currently on the road but entirely obsessed with the quirkiness that is Ocean and Haven and their ten or so model children.
“Those shots look like you’ve been soaking the essences of your socks in hot dog water.” Charlie grimaces at the drinks and raises a cocktail glass to her reddened face instead.
Feral author is captivated by this exchange, almost as if she’ll be adding it to a book after she eventually escapes this night.
Deciding to give Haven, who never seems very put out by Charlie’s crankiness, a little encouragement, I lift one of her glasses from the tray and take a sip.
“Of course, it isn’t weiner water. We don’t eat mixed meat in our home, Charlotte,” Haven informs.
Dinah does a spit take of the drink she’s sipping, and it better be non-alcoholic, because she’s my ride outta here.
“They’re actually a sophisticated blend of lemongrass, cayenne pepper, and ground placenta.”
I spit the contents back into the glass and wipe my tongue down with my fingernails. THIS—drinking placenta from an unknown source—is Dante’s fourth circle. I’m never coming back to book club.
Dinah pats me on the back, giggling behind her hand. I quickly consider drinking a shot glass filled with bleach.
“I think that’s my cue to leave. You ready?” Jack volunteered to watch both the girls, so we rode together, and I think I’ve spent just enough time to make my excuse for Jordan legit. “I’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”
“Oh, already?” She looks so disappointed, I almost fold. “But we haven’t even gotten to discussion yet, and I drank two cocktails. I don’t think I should drive.”
I just knew she was too silly to be sober.
“We never get to discussion,” Chloe says. “We barely make it past snacks.”
“Well, we did discuss that motorcycle romance, didn’t we?” Dr. Rafferty says, mischief in her smile. “I had Bill rent one for the weekend after that. I let him take me for a drive as… What do they call it?”
“His bookbag,” Mrs. Cotten answers proudly.
“Backpack, Mrs. Cotten,” Joey says, tucking her feet underneath her as she takes a seat on the couch.
Mrs. Cotten nods her head. “That’s what I said. Backpack. My Michael had a motorcycle once. But he sold it on account of my vertigo, so we used the money to buy a hot tub instead. My, oh my, he sure was handsome on it, though.”
“You know who else is handsome on a motorcycle? A certain vet I know. Glasses. Tattoos. Denim.” Dinah’s patience has lasted for almost ten hours, which is the equivalent of ten years in nosey-little-sister-land.
I’m honestly impressed she’s lasted this long but all the more anxious to leave this clubhouse and get home to my girl.
The rest of the girls hoot and holler, obviously just as excited that the subject of Jordan has finally been broached.
“Ladies, ladies…” Dr. Rafferty puts her hands out, pacifying the wild women of Honey Hill. “We shouldn’t put our sweet Emory on the spot like this. Let’s discuss the book.”
Feral author looks so relieved, but I fear she’s about to be greatly disappointed. Dr. Rafferty pats the seat next to her for me to sit then winks at Charlie. I tentatively sit, but it feels like a trap.
Charlie settles in, holding the closed novel in her lap, and starts discussion off with a bang.
“I especially enjoyed how the heroine had been through so much hardship in her young life, then was raising a daughter on her own, but she was open to the idea of a romance with a strapping, successful, swoony young man who showed obvious interest.”
So much alliteration. My annoyance has reached its peak.
Brooke hums her agreement. “Totally agree. He woos her so well. And how he loves her little girl…”
The rest of the group sighs. At this point, the only reason I think they may still be talking about the book is the fact that the author only looks mildly confused.
“She tries to deny it for a while, though, right?” Dinah says too loudly.
I pop from my seat and take the drink from her hands, setting it on the coffee table.
She pouts briefly but acts as if she’s writing a book review aloud. “It’s really a story about unexpected love after grief, loss, and incredibly difficult circumstances. That redemption can be found in the darkest of places. It’s gritty and messy, but beautiful.”
My sister’s eyes find mine, brows raising as she waits for me to respond, but I will not give her the satisfaction. The rest of the group quiets, until it’s too much for them to take.
Mrs. Cotten is the first to crack. “Oh, come on, honey. Just tell us a little something. Have ya kissed yet?”
My stomach drops. Have I kissed Jordan? No. I can’t get past the overwhelming confusion and shame of my attraction, thank you very much.
Tapping my fingers on my legs, I try to think through escape routes. Maybe I could phone a friend to get me out of here. Except all of my friends are snuggled up in this teeny-tiny room.
Dr. Rafferty grabs my antsy hand. “Listen, Emory. I don’t have to know everything going on between you and my son to know that you’re beating yourself up right now, and I can’t have that.”
“Don’t even bother arguing about it, girlie,” Charlie adds. “We’re not your mama or your kin or anything that gives us the authority to advise you, but we are two women who’ve lost our husbands.”
I’ve never heard her whole story, but I do know Charlie’s husband left her to raise two boys on her own. And Jordan’s mother’s story is much like my own. A young widow. A single mom. An exclusive club neither of us ever wanted to be in.
“Just remember, when you’re ready,” Dr. Rafferty says, kissing my cheek, “we’re here, and we both know what it means to try to keep on livin’ while still loving a man who’s never coming back.”
I’m speechless. Unable to say a single word that won’t shatter the facade of control I’ve claimed for too many years.
Because I do love my husband. I always will.
But I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have him here.
To laugh, to be touched, to be loved. And just a few, small, but monumental hours spent with Jordan have me doing everything I can to temper down the chase for those feelings.
Terrified of how badly I want them and of whom I want them with.
“How did you… do it? Let yourself—”
“Love someone? Get married? Move on?” Dr. Rafferty says, and the whole room leans in. Feral author whips out a notebook and begins scribbling notes.
I nod.
“Well”—Dr. Rafferty sighs, holding my hand a bit tighter—“I didn’t have feelings for my late husband’s best friend, I’ll give ya that.”
The author’s jaw drops. Her next story just got a whole lot juicier.
“After he died, I didn’t think I’d ever get married again. Promised myself I wouldn’t, actually.”
Charlie quietly chuckles at my side but doesn’t interrupt Jordan’s mom. The rest of the women cling to every word.