14. My Sweet Love
MY SWEET LOVE
MYLES SMITH
JORDAN
“I bet those drinks didn’t even have alcohol in them,” Emory says, more to herself than to me, talking under her breath and obviously put out.
Her voice morphs into something snarky and sharp when she mumbles something about art and a mausoleum, but I can’t quite make it all out until she snarls, “I should sneak some of that placenta juice into her next smoothie. See how she likes that.”
Not the sentence I was expecting. I’m not sure I even want to take a guess at what happened at book club.
Honestly, I thought the book club thing was just an excuse not to see me.
If it wasn’t clear that Emory was uncomfortable after last week, it definitely became glaringly so when the Cottens approached me on the street this morning with words of wisdom about purity of heart and body before marriage and pursuing a woman well.
Then a strange anecdote about Veronica and a guy named Logan, who I’m still not sure is a dog or a human.
Mr. Cotten managed to slip his card into my hand while shaking it, offering his services “at a discount, of course.”
His card has, “Life’s a garden, dig it” written across it.
Which I know for a fact is a Joe Dirt quote, not unlike the first card I received for this lucrative business from Mrs. Cotten, which said, “You can’t have no in your heart.
” So I probably won’t be calling him for advice anytime soon.
Especially after he spoke ad nauseum about how he instructed Jack in the art of wooing.
All I know is Jack called an hour ago and said Emory and Dinah needed a designated driver, but that he couldn’t leave because of Lola and a wet diaper.
I’m not sure what a wet diaper has to do with driving, but I didn’t ask for details before finishing up a project at the farm, grabbing the keys to Bill’s truck, and heading over.
The look on Emory’s face when I showed up at the door—and she was all but pushed out onto the stoop without the sister I was also supposed to be driving—told me that she did not expect to see me tonight.
Though it’s probably not fair, and I don’t want to put any sort of pressure on her, I’m grateful for any time spent with Emory.
Even if she won’t look at me and is as far across the bench seat of the truck as possible, I’m content.
Because, by some stroke of crazy fortune, I get to be the one to drive her home.
“Where’s Molly tonight?” I ask, tapping my fingers on the wheel.
Emory scoffs. “With Jack. I bet he’s in on it, too. The traitor.”
“Should I swing by to pick her up? It’s getting late.” And I hate that I haven’t seen her in almost a week. I want to know how she’s doing. To hear about Buttercup and the pigs and even about Theo. As long as it means I’m getting to spend time with her.
Emory’s phone pings. When she checks it, she starts typing out a text like a madwoman, forgetting to answer me. We’re coming up on the intersection to go towards her place or in the opposite direction to downtown Honey Hill where Jack and Dinah live.
“Emory?”
“Hmmm?”
“Should I pick up Molly?”
She crosses her arms, sulking deeper into her seat. “No. Dinah just informed me that my daughter is having a sleepover at her place so…”
The word sleepover clangs around my brain. Just a verbal pinball, ricocheting against every facet of my mind.
“Will you, please, just bring me home?” she asks, voice irritated beyond measure. “I’m so tired.”
We’re silent for an uncomfortable amount of time.
An ample amount of minutes for me to question whether picking up Emory was the right choice.
Wondering if I should say anything to interrupt the quiet between us.
And, most prominently, doing my very best not to let the word sleepover, sleepover, sleepover impede my ability to get her home safely.
Bill drives the same truck he did when I was in highschool, so the windows, heater, and AC don’t work. Therefore, the only sounds between Emory and me are the wind coming in through the open windows and the old engine, miraculously still operating.
It's probably why I swerve and nearly drag us into a ditch when Emory suddenly bursts into laughter, breaking our silence.
I correct my steering. She does me a favor by not mentioning the blunder and instead points at the dead deer on the highway ahead with a “Get Well Soon” balloon strapped to its hind leg.
“What kind of crazy person does that?” she exclaims, laughing while shaking her head. “Like, who takes the time to pick out balloons, fill them with helium, and tie them to roadkill?”
Shrugging, I cling tighter to the wheel. “I think it’s kind of funny.”
More than funny, as a matter of fact.
“Oh, I do, too,” she says admiringly. “Did you know Molly tied one to a rock at Pammy’s grave last week? It said, ‘It’s a Girl.’ The kid is hilarious.”
I feel the heat travel up my neck but don’t answer.
“It was you!” She points at me from across the truck. “You helped her, didn’t you? I can see your blush from over here.”
“I only got the balloon she wanted and brought her out before I left last week… And I don’t blush.”
“You do. You really do. Aiding and abetting a minor…” She tuts and finally looks at me, pinching her lips in a smile. “It’s you, isn’t it? Tying the balloons to all the roadkill…? It feels like you.”
I don’t answer, giving little away aside from a shrug and a close-lipped smile, but I can’t help but feel curious to see how she’ll react.
“A life of crime… tampering with roadkill. Covered in tattoos. Golfing with PTA dads and puppy holding. Who are you, Jordan Love? What happened to the clean-cut, slug-eating med student I knew?”
I pull in front of the house, put the truck in park, and lean my head against the seat before answering. “I’m still that guy,” I say quietly, though I think it lacks conviction.
I remember him, and sometimes I do still feel like that version of myself, but so much has changed. My best friend died. My world shifted. My dreams along with it.
A different career. Various zip codes. A broken engagement. A path I didn’t expect but am more than grateful for. All leading me back here. Home.
“You are, but you’re not.” Emory unstraps and turns, bringing her knees to her chest and feet to rest on the seat.
“I know,” I answer, pulling one of my legs onto the seat and leaning my back against the doorframe. “You’re different, too.”
She nods but still says, “Tell me how.” Her fingers tap one by one against the sides of her legs, and rather than reach out and take hold of them, I let mine trace the stitches in the old leather of the seat.
“You cry less…”
Scoffing, she pauses her fingers. “I cry less? Seriously? In ten years, you think the biggest thing that has changed about me is I’m less emotional?”
“No, Red. I said you cry less, not that you're less emotional.” I know the disbelief in her tone is lighthearted, but I’m in real danger of telling her everything I’ve noticed in the last few weeks, alone, and that level of detail will only confirm that I’ve studied her for far longer.
“You cry less now, and you also laugh less.”
She swallows but doesn’t argue, so I continue, “I think you try to convince yourself that you feel less than you do because more means… more everything. Good and bad.”
She shifts abruptly, reaching for the door handle.
“Wait,” I beg. Even though it’s foolish and gluttonous, I want her in this truck for just a minute longer.
Greedy for any time I’m given. “In ten years, I’d almost convinced myself that you were less magnetic than you are, but it was all a lie.
Because those pieces of you have only grown more intense.
And somehow, you’re completely oblivious, which only makes you more astonishing and insanely more captivating than I let myself remember. ”
“You…” She grabs the handle and pushes the door open, slamming it shut before rushing up the stairs.
Following with my tail between my legs—because no way am I going to leave her while she’s upset, and I’m the idiot who caused it—I shut my own door and only reach the steps before Emory barrels back down them, rearing back her hand to slap me. Again.
I grab her wrist in time, though, stopping the reflex mid-flight. “Please don't, Red.” I more than deserve all of her ire, but she’ll only be angry with herself if she acts on it.
“Why did you leave?” she says through tears. Her hand’s frozen, midair between us like she’s keeping one ready in the chamber for when I release my grip. I slowly drop my hand, proving she won't.
“I… I…” I stutter. She didn't make contact, but the question I can't fully answer stings enough.
“I needed you, Jordan. You were his best friend. I thought you were my friend. And suddenly James was gone and so were you, and I guess I still just don’t understand. Help me understand, please,” she begs.
When I take her wrist in my hand again, pulling her into my chest, she lets me. “I was a coward, Emory.” Her quiet sobs wrack my chest, splitting me wide open. “After that morning…”
On that terrible morning, when Emory called, frantic, after contacting medics and her sister, she was unable to even clearly articulate the words I never thought I’d hear.
“James died. He’s gone,” she’d said. “He’s gone, Jordan. He’s gone.”
The memory of her voice—of Emory repeating those words—on the other side of my phone is the sound that’s replayed in my nightmares for years. It’s the one that I’ll never forget and will always wish I could.
“I couldn’t look you in the eye, Red.” She was so incredibly strong, standing with Dinah at her side, allowing everyone at the memorial to offer their condolences.
Hugs. Tears. Yet she didn’t flinch a single time.
Not when they asked for details, or reassured her that God had a plan, or when they placed their hands on her swollen, pregnant belly and shook their heads as they walked away.
What a shame. He was so young. He’ll never meet his baby girl…
And all I could think was, How dare they talk about my friend as if he were a memory… as if they knew him best… as if he were really and truly gone.
How dare they mention a good plan from God, when I knew the plan was never for a twenty-four-year-old to go to sleep and not wake up.
To not know his child or grow old with his wife.
That wasn’t the God I believed in. It was a tragedy.
He could and would use it, yes—truth my parents reminded me of during countless conversations afterward—but I didn’t understand how it could ever possibly be good.
“I was just so angry and in denial and…” She hugs me tighter.
My arms echo hers until we’re holding each other up.
“I was the weaker of us, Emory. James was… He was so strong. And…” I have to pause when my voice breaks, tears brim, then trail down my cheeks.
“I didn’t think you needed me here when you and Molly…
You should have had him. It was always supposed to be him. ”
“But I did.” Emory’s voice trembles. “I needed my friend. I need you.”
I nod against her head, letting my hands skate up and down her back, shoulders, and then finally over her hair, until they come to rest against her neck, using soft pressure to tilt her face to mine.
“I’m sorry, Red. It isn’t enough. It never will be.
” My thumbs find her cheeks, wiping tears away, only for more to follow.
“My selfishness in not being here for you, not being a good friend to you or James… not knowing your daughter sooner… Those are, and will always be, the biggest regrets of my life.”
She nods, accepting a long overdue apology as more tears fall against my fingers.
“Thank you.” She grasps my wrists, trapping my hands gladly against her cheeks while she ticks her fingers off on my skin, likely not realizing she’s doing so. “I’m glad you’re here now.”
Her fingers calm, but her thumbs move slow circles against the inside of my wrist.
“I’m here because I’m still selfish, Red,” I say and can’t help but draw her a little closer, searching her face for worry.
For distress. For a signal that what I’m feeling isn’t crazy, even if it is completely wrong.
Even if I feel guilt inhabiting every nerve of my body. Because I am here, and James isn’t.
And I want to kiss Emory.
More than I want to practice medicine or ride my motorcycle or make this harsh world a little bit softer with balloons and well wishes.
I want to kiss the woman who makes clothes for her pets but can’t make a meal from scratch.
Who’s capable and strong and more remarkable than she knows.
The woman who wears a mask for everyone else but, thanks to some stroke of providential favor, lets it fall for me.
And I don’t know what kind of man this makes me, but I want to kiss Emory more than I want to continue grieving for my best friend.
I think, maybe, unimaginably, Emory wants to kiss me, too.
Either that, or she can read my thoughts.
Because she draws in a quick breath, eyes locked on mine, and moves only a millimeter closer, but it feels like a mile.
I lean in, thinking of the first time I saw her and the way I dreamed of having my hands in her hair exactly as I’m letting myself do now, tangling them in and bringing her closer.
Remembering how she fell asleep in my arms a week ago, and how I want that to happen again and again.
I’m thinking—dreaming up—a life with her. With her daughter. With their daughter.
I swallow those secret prayers and deny them a little longer, letting my lips fall against her forehead. Her soft sigh, a breath against my throat, and hands trailing down my arms to rest on my chest, a hearty reward.
“Will you stay?” she whispers. I’m ready to promise forever, but Emory’s operating in the here and now. “Tonight. On the couch,” she clarifies. “I don’t want to be alone, and I…”
“I’m not going anywhere, Red,” I promise, kissing her forehead again. Another forbidden boundary broken that will be impossible to rebuild.
“Okay,” she says, taking my hand and slowly, tentatively, leading me up the stairs. “But you have to wear jammies.”