22. Emory
EMORY
I’m standing outside Holey Moley, waiting for my date, shifting my weight like I had too many sweet teas.
I still get a small, embarrassing thrill calling Jake Wheeler my date. I’m not labeling anything. Couple, dating, emotionally complicated. I’m also not spiraling about it.
Look at me. Emotional evolution.
It’s the last summer movie night on The Green. They’re playing Grease.
I’ve promised myself I will not sing.
I almost believe my lie.
I can absolutely belt Hopelessly Devoted, especially after wine, and I’ve already had one. For confidence. Or poor judgment. We’ll see. “Good evening, Hank,” someone says behind me. Then, as an afterthought, “Jake.”
I turn.
There they are.
Hank is fully committed to the T-Bird aesthetic. Black bandana. Chest out. Bottom teeth smiling. Cheeks flapping. I’m matching his theme in a pink bandana, pink shorts, and a white top.
Jake, meanwhile, has made no effort whatsoever. Faded tee, shorts, boat shoes. The stretch of that shirt is doing things to me that should probably require a permit though.
He’s carrying a blanket and hoodie under one arm and a tote bag with Hank’s name on it over his shoulder. The bag appears to weigh forty pounds.
“What’s in there?” I ask.
“Water bowl. Cooling towel. Backup bandana. Toys. Snacks. Backup snacks.”
“Are your clothes for the occasion in there too?”
He glances down at himself. “I’m wearing clothes.”
“The theme is Grease.”
“I’m aware.”
“And?”
“And I’m wearing clothes.”
I sigh dramatically. Hank snorts in solidarity.
As we cross toward The Green, Jake shifts everything to one arm and reaches for my hand. “This okay?”
His hand is warm. Strong. Very Jake. “Better than okay.”
The Green is already filling up. The enormous white screen glows at the water’s edge. String lights from Dock Lights and Late Nights still hang between the oaks, swaying a little in the breeze.
Walt is popping popcorn. Frank is at the doughnut table, handing out pink boxes with one hand and eating with the other. Miss Hattie has her cart nearby, and even from here, I can smell the hot dogs. Willard sits on his bench.
No French Fry in sight, which is worse. It means that seagull is lurking somewhere.
Jake spreads the blanket in the middle of the crowd and kneels to get Hank settled with his water bowl and toys. “Want anything?” he asks. “Popcorn? Drink?”
“Cherry Coke with extra cherries. Buttered popcorn. Doughnut holes, if Frank hasn’t eaten them all.”
“On it.”
I watch him move through the crowd, easy and unhurried, stopping to talk to people along the way.
A retired couple and their glow-stick-wearing golden retriever.
Mrs. Kravitz, who leans in to whisper something that makes Jake laugh and shake his head.
A toddler who wants a picture with him and Hank’s tote bag, for reasons known only to toddlers.
I cannot stop smiling.
“You look happy,” Bethany says, appearing at my shoulder.
“You’re here.”
“Jake gave everyone the night off. Said if we tried to work through this, the town would riot.”
“Join us,” I say immediately. “There’s plenty of room.”
She glances toward the path and shakes her head. “Thank you, but I’m meeting someone. Can’t seem to find him.”
Before I can ask who, Frank yells, “DOUGHNUT SHORTAGE!” like we’re entering a state of emergency.
Three elderly women surge forward with surprising speed. I’m fairly certain one uses her cane to bat someone out of her way.
Bethany crouches to greet Hank. He accepts, then immediately requests more. “It’s good to see you two together,” she says, standing.
“Hank and I do make a cute couple.”
She laughs. “You know what I mean.”
I do.
“Coffee this week. I mean it.”
“Me too.”
She slips back into the crowd just as Jake returns, arms full.
“One Cherry Coke,” he says, handing it over. “Walt personally added the extra cherries.”
I take a long sip. Ahhh. Heaven. I raise the cup toward Walt as a silent thank you. He gives me a two-finger salute.
“Buttered popcorn,” Jake says, setting the tub down. “And doughnut holes. I got there before Frank finished them, but it was close.”
“You’re my hero.”
As he sits beside me, Hank waddles over to inspect everything. Jake produces a cookie with the practiced ease of a man who carries dog treats like other people carry wallets. “Here you go, bud.”
The string lights flicker twice. People scramble to chairs and blankets. The Green goes quiet, and Sandy and Danny appear onscreen. I get goosebumps.
Within thirty seconds, Granny is reciting the lines.
Not quietly.
Not correctly.
And with interpretive gestures.
Jake slides in behind me, and I lean back against him without thinking. His arms come around me naturally, like we’ve done this a hundred times. He presses a kiss into my hair. It feels... right.
At the end of Summer Nights, he leans close.
“I don’t want this to just be another summer.”
I wrap my fingers tighter around his. He lifts our hands and presses his lips to my knuckles.
I hum along to Sandra Dee, probably not as quietly as I think. Jake is humming too. I feel it against my back more than I hear it. He would swear under oath he does not know the lyrics.
Hank has been snoring for at least twenty minutes. Three blankets over, Mr. Humphrey is asleep with his mouth open. Two blankets ahead, a couple is arguing about whether Grease 2 is a feminist movie. Thelma Robinson is commenting on the size of Danny’s package during Greased Lightnin’.
Granny is still reciting lines incorrectly, but now loudly correcting herself.
At some point, the breeze picks up and I steal Jake’s hoodie without asking. He reaches down and fixes the hood where it’s turned inside out.
“You look good in my hoodie,” he says quietly near my ear.
I look good in your jersey too. Have for years.
I don’t say it. But I’m smiling as I think it.
I glance toward Willard’s bench. Walt is just walking away from it, coffee cup in hand. A quiet visit. A quiet exchange.
What are those two running?
On screen, it’s the carnival. They’re all making promises about staying together forever.
I hook my pinky with Jake’s.
No words. Just the old promise made new.
Just as the car lifts off into the sky, French Fry drops out of ours like an avian assassin and pecks Hank directly on the butt.
Hank launches without warning.
One second, he’s a snoring potato.
The next, he is airborne.
People scramble. Popcorn and buckets go flying. Someone squeals. A child applauds.
Jake is on his feet, yelling, “Hank!” with the same intensity he probably used in a stadium.
French Fry pulls up at the last second.
Hank can’t stop. He plows into the movie screen at full bulldog velocity.
The entire structure collapses in dramatic, canvas-flapping chaos.
Behind it—
Mayor Marybeth Wilkinson and an unidentified man.
His head is under her dress in a configuration requiring absolutely no clarification.
Against the fountain.
A flash goes off. Mrs. Kravitz got a photo.
Silence.
Then pandemonium.
“OH MY GOD.”
“IS HE—“
“MARYBETH!”
Within seconds, phone screens light up across The Green. The town group chat just hit DEFCON 1 while Miss Hattie is shouting, “This is better than cable!”
Jake returns with Hank tucked against his chest, still arfing at the sky like justice has not been served. “Buddy,” Jake says. “Let it go.”
Hank refuses.
“For the record, French Fry pecked him on the butt,” I inform Jake.
I pull Hank’s wrinkled face toward me and kiss his forehead repeatedly. “I think you should kick his ass.”
“Don’t encourage him.”
“I will absolutely encourage him. That mother flocker assaulted him.”
Jake looks at me. Then at Hank. Then back at me, shaking his head, smiling.
He still has a full armload of offended bulldog, so I gather our things. As we reach the shell path—
Beep! Beep! A scooter goes whizzing by.
Granny.
Miss Hattie’s on the handlebars with both arms waving like the wacky inflatable tube men you see on corners. “Woohoo! Faster, Maddy, FASTER!”
Jake and I stop dead. “Are they drunk?” he asks.
“I believe they are.”
We look at each other and lose it. Full-body laughter. The kind that doubles you over and steals your breath. Then—
Crash.
Electric scooter meets trash can.
“Whoopsie daisy,” Miss Hattie slurs.
Granny’s voice floats back, completely unbothered. “I meant to do that.”
Jake presses his face into my hair, still laughing so hard he can barely breathe.
I lean into him, heart full and wildly misbehaving.
Even with canvas and scandal collapsing around us, it feels like home.