THIS LOVE
TAYLOR SWIFT
EMORY
I want to kiss Jordan Love today.
It’s a strange thought to wake up to on the tenth anniversary of my husband’s death, but I’m learning, even so many years later, that there’s no rule book for grief or healing. And I think that’s what I’m finally doing. Healing.
Ten years ago, healing looked like simply surviving.
Though it was anything but simple waking up every day when I didn’t want to.
Taking care of myself and my daughter when it felt impossible.
Going for a walk, to the grocery store, to church, or to my therapist. Celebrating holidays and trying not to focus on the one person I wished was there.
Acknowledging the awful landmarks, like today—anniversaries of marriage, of death, kindergarten graduations, and “Daddy and me” activities he will never be a part of—and praying, for those fateful twenty-four hours, that I wouldn’t crumble under the weight that never seemed to leave.
But then, that weight did ease. Day by day.
And it has been doing so for a while, even if I didn’t realize.
It’s not fully gone, and I doubt it ever will be, but rather than suffocating under the pressure of an anvil on my heart, today it’s more like an immovable rock.
Like a solid boulder that will always be present, but I’m beginning to believe I can work around.
In fact, I think I’ll tie a mental balloon around my heart-rock that says, “You Got This,” as a reminder for myself. I can keep going. I have kept going.
Ten years of slow healing, and this is where I’m at: I want to kiss Jordan Love.
Today.
It’s a similar thought to the one I had last night.
After a motorcycle ride until the sun went down beyond the fields, Jordan and I cared for the animals, put them in their stalls, and spoke little as he walked me to the front door.
Rather than follow me into the house, as he has for weeks, Jordan kissed my forehead and wished me a good night.
Then it was, I want to pull Jordan Love into this house and make out with him right now. Preferably on my kitchen counter. And then maybe we can eat egg pockets together.
Apparently, once the seal of dormant, sexual desire has been broken, there’s no turning back. I promptly thanked God for Jordan’s self control and for my daughter, who arrived home almost simultaneously with his exit, giving me a much needed distraction.
But in the cold, hard light of day… as I woke up to that same old, green, funeral home wallpaper on my ceiling, the first thought to flitter through my mind wasn’t, I’m overwhelmingly sad today or, How am I going to keep myself busy to make this hard day go by more quickly?
It was, resoundingly, I want to kiss Jordan Love. Today.
And it has remained so through morning chores, when I remembered how we’d almost kissed on the porch last night. Then, through pancake-making with Molly where I found myself wishing Jordan was there with us, cooking breakfast.
Ideally, shirtless, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Then afterwards, when Molly and I looked through old photo albums, and I shared a few happy memories of James with her, instead of dwelling on the things we don’t have, I thought, I wonder what tattoo Jordan will get today? And… again, I want to kiss him. Badly.
I feel guilty for not feeling guilty. Is that a thing?
Like, surely I shouldn’t be having these particular feelings on such a pinnacle day.
Ten years have passed. Ten years since I lost my husband, and God knows, I’ve mourned that loss every day since.
I’ll forever be mourning, of course, but all I can seem to think about today is the fact that I’m…
happy. Excited. About my life, the possibilities awakening on the farm, and most especially about the man who left two separate bouquets filled with sunflowers, vibrant red spray roses, and blue and purple delphiums on my porch this morning.
Each with a note attached, addressed individually to Molly and me.
Mine said simply, “Here today and always, Red.”
And Molly’s said, “Aces, kid. You have so many people who love you. Including me.”
He loves her. A fact that Molly and I both processed in very different ways. She made him a friendship bracelet before school, and I imagined what it would be like to track Jordan down and thank him with a good old-fashioned makeout.
When the PTA parade arrives at the farm after school drop-off, mapping out our festival, I barely notice the wolves sniffing out dirt on my recent activities. Not even backhanded compliments can bring me down.
Simone says my farm is, “More quaint than she remembered,” and I barely bat an eye.
One of her betas hisses something about how my dark purple silo looks like the eggplant emoji right as we post off where the carnival rides will be placed in a few days, and I merely laugh and tell her my plans to turn that eggplant into a romantic getaway suite next fall.
Bree comments on my “sudden maternal glow,” which I’m positive is an insinuation that I’m expecting a baby with the man I unfortunately announced I’d slept with a month ago.
I merely reply with, “Thanks, girl. I’m using a new moisturizer. I’d be happy to share if you think you’d like to try a new wrinkle cream.”
Which I happen to think is gracious, given the circumstances, but my response admittedly leads to a bit of a middle-of-the-day, intraspecific-conflict split between Bree and Simone’s packs, respectively, and my tiny, but mighty micro-pack of two, Tisha and Trey.
Tisha has grown uncharacteristically rowdy with her proximity to power.
I, for one, will be nominating her to take the presidential role next year.
She bucks up on a few of the other ladies more than once, making crazy threats about sharing secret pie recipes with the town and something about flamingo-ing yards while their families go on overpriced summer vacations.
Both seem silly to me, but those strange, Southern intimidation methods—her own brand of mimicries—actually put a few of the women in their places. Simone even mentions contacting her lawyer, which frankly, I consider a victory.
Coincidentally, You’ve Got Trey—an omega if there ever was one—ends our meeting time overly interested in talking about the one person I’m also interested in seeing today: Jordan Love.
“Did he tell you he shot an eighty-four on Saturday?” Trey’s positively bedazzled. “The course was a par seventy-two. He’s got talent, that guy. Think he’d be interested in playing a partner’s tournament with me over the Fourth?”
It’s hard to tastefully explain to Trey that, at the moment, I’m more concerned with Jordan’s mouth than his golf game, so I merely shrug. Then waving them all off, I make myself busy for totally different reasons than usual on this particular day.
I visit my sister and Lola at Knotty & Nice. Shooting for a more authentic and genuine honesty with Dinah and the people closest to me, I tell her exactly what’s been on my mind all day and receive only the utmost support and enthusiasm.
“You should go on a date. A real one. Not just a motorcycle ride.”
“I liked the motorcycle ride. It was nice.”
“But it wasn’t a date,” she states, pointing one finger at me as she scoops Lola up from her escape route towards the exit. “And you didn’t make out at the end, so I like my plan better.”
A date. I don’t remember the last date I went on. “What would I wear?”
“Something hot. That dress you wore to that thing.”
“Helpful.”
“You know the one.” She waves a pretzel bite in the air. “It was flirty but tasteful. A little tight around your curves.”
“Would I have to wear spanks for this particular hot and flirty dress?” I ask, gazing at a basket of buttered pretzel bites and the nacho cheese sauce they're about to take a swim in.
“You’re a grown woman, Em.” Dinah dips her own and says through a mouthful, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
I decide that’s excellent advice. So I inhale the entire basket then chase it down with a placentaless smoothie called Follow Your Bliss from Nature’s Nectar. Because life’s about a healthy balance.
I do all the things all day, but I never call Jordan.
I don’t know what’s holding me back. Is it simply the date on the calendar?
The twinge of shame I feel that I’m not riddled with guilt at my attraction and growing feelings for another man?
Is it because that man is Jordan? Or am I just not as ready as I thought I was?
After a quiet dinner of chicken fingers, french fries, and a microwavable bag of brussel sprouts—because, again, balance—I snuggled with Molly and treated myself to a late night platter of brownies.
But hours later, and way past my bedtime, I’m wide awake, staring at that wretched wallpaper on my ceiling and the same thought keeps racing through my mind.
I hate this wallpaper so much.
I am ready.
And I want to kiss Jordan.
Filled with a sense of purpose, I throw on my boots and march to the barn, gathering the ladder, a box cutter, and a paint scraper.
I set up the space quickly, starting as close to the bed as the ladder will allow.
Then I climb up and, without preamble, begin to cut and peel away the paper that’s been haunting my sleepless nights for too long.
It takes hours, though I quickly lose track of time as I slice through the material that doesn’t want to come off but I can’t tolerate for a moment longer.
At some point, I’m pulling so hard and at such strange angles, my biceps and back begin to hurt.
My sleep shirt is drenched with sweat, dripping from my face and neck.
But I don’t quit. I can’t.
Because I’m ready.
I’m ready. I’m ready. I’m ready.
It’s the new thought dominating my brain space. I am ready.
Those words consume every movement until I’m exhausted and sobbing but can’t bring myself to pause, because if I do, I know I won’t finish.
It has nothing to do with Jordan or James and everything to do with the purgatory I’ve been trapped in.