32. Brooks #2
“All right, that’s enough,” Dotty says, standing up from her folding chair with the assistance of a cane.
She points the tip of the rubber stopper straight at my nose.
“Brooks Lawson, you are disrupting the focus of this circle. We are trying to prepare forty winter scarves for the county children’s home, and your massive, thick-headed presence is ruining the atmosphere. Get out.”
“I’m staying,” I say, not moving an inch.
“You are not staying,” Bernice orders, her voice rising. “You don’t knit, you don’t purl, and your attitude is entirely toxic to the creative process. Go back to your garage.”
I don’t look at Bernice.
I keep my eyes on Ember, who is watching me with her head tilted, her lips pressing together as if she’s trying to calculate exactly how crazy I’ve actually gone.
I reach into my pocket, pull out the yellow legal pad, and slide a black pen out of my uniform sleeve. I sit down on the empty, cold metal folding chair directly across from her.
I look up at the circle of old women.
“I’m taking the minutes for the safety committee,” I announce. “Proceed.”
Hazel lets out a loud, dramatic groan, dropping her head into her hands. “He’s like Kevin the goat. You can’t push him away once he decides to stay.”
“He’s a nuisance,” Dotty agrees, sitting back down with a scowl. “Ember, ignore him. He doesn’t know anything about wool.”
The knitting starts up again, but the rhythm is tense, the needles clicking like a cage full of crickets.
I sit there for twenty minutes, my yellow pad balanced on my knee, writing down absolutely nothing while I watch Ember’s fingers.
She pulls a fresh loop of yellow yarn through the needle, her fingers tangling in the fringe, and she lets out a small, frustrated breath through her teeth.
She yanks the thread to tighten it, but her hand slips, and the entire metal needle slides right out of the yellow wool, leaving forty loose, unraveled loops hanging in the air like a row of falling dominoes.
The whole thing deflates into a massive, tangled knot in her lap.
Ember stares down at the yellow ruin of her scarf, her shoulders dropping, her fingers still holding the empty aluminum needle.
For a second, she looks like she’s about to cry, her lower lip trembling just a fraction.
“You know,” I say, “if you’re trying to impress me with your knot-tying skills, you’re doing a hell of a job.”
Ember’s head snaps up, her eyes wide.
“I’m serious,” I continue. “I’ve seen some pretty complicated tangles on the job, but that right there? That’s horrible. You’ve got at least three separate systems failures in that pile.”
I nod toward the mess. “If you let me anywhere near that, I’m going to need a hard hat and a pair of industrial shears. Honestly, it’s impressive.”
A sharp, sudden snort escapes her nose, followed by a reluctant, jerky exhale that sounds a lot like a laugh she’s trying to swallow.
“It’s a design choice. It’s supposed to be… abstract.”
“Right,” I say, risking a small, lopsided smile. “Abstract.”
The grandmas stop their needles, all of them looking from Ember to me with expressions that suggest they’re trying to figure out if they should be annoyed or smug.
Ember looks down at the tangled yellow mess in her lap.
“You are such an idiot, Brooks,” she whispers.
“I’ve been trying to tell you that.”
She doesn’t look back up at me. She starts picking at the loose yellow threads, her movements gentler now.
? ? ?
I drop Sophie off at Nana’s house for dinner, not giving her an explanation beyond a promise that I’ll be back before bedtime, and I drive toward our road.
I pull into my driveway, kill the lights, and step out into the quiet evening.
The farmhouse is dark except for the single, warm yellow light over the kitchen island.
I walk across the lawn, the distance between our properties disappearing with every step.
I reach her porch. I knock gently, push the screen door open and step inside, the wood clicking shut behind me with a familiar, easy sound.
Ember turns around from the counter, her mug halfway to her mouth. She sets the ceramic cup down on the marble, her eyes tracking my movement as I walk into the kitchen, my boots leaving a damp track on her clean floorboards.
“The floor was clean,” she says.
“I’ll mop it,” I say, stopping exactly two feet away from her.
I look down at her face. The flour-dusted pencil is gone, her curls hanging loose around her shoulders, looking soft against the gray wool of her sweater.
“What are you doing here, Brooks?”
“I’m not a statue, Ember,” I say, my voice rough.
“I’m a man who spent five years being terrified that if I let myself look at someone the way I look at you, the universe would find a way to punish me for it.
I thought keeping my life small meant keeping Sophie safe.
I thought keeping you away meant I wouldn’t have to face the fact that this job can break a house in half. ”
I reach out my hand, my fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before I press my palm flat against the wood of the counter right next to her hip, boxing her in just enough that she can feel the heat radiating off my uniform.
“But I was wrong,” I whisper. “The house is already broken, Ember. It’s been broken since Friday because you aren’t in it.
I don’t want a risk-free life if it means I have to watch you look through me like I’m a stranger.
I want the mess. I want the yellow porch.
I want the glitter in the living room. I want you. ”
Ember stares up at me, her breath hitching, her lips parting slightly as she listens to the words. She looks at my hand on the counter, then back up to my face.
“Not the easy version. Not the cheerful version. You, specifically. Loud mouth. Glitter. Chaos. All of it,” I continue. “I want the parts of you that take up space.”
She folds her arms tightly across her chest, using her own elbows as a barrier between us.
“That’s a very good speech, Brooks,” she says. “But you don’t get to just decide you’re ready now and expect me to have no memory of how easy it was for you to leave me.”
I feel the sting of her words right in my gut, but I don’t draw back. I stay exactly where I am, keeping the space tight between us, showing her I can handle the heat she’s throwing back at me.
“I don’t expect you to forget it,” I say, my voice dropping lower, holding her gaze without blinking.
“I know I have to earn it back. I know I have to show you every single day that I’m not going to run when things get hard.
I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight, Ember.
I’m just telling you that I’m standing here, and I’m going to keep standing here. ”
Ember looks down at my boots, then back up to my eyes, her expression unreadable. She takes a slow, deep breath, her shoulders rising under the gray wool.
“I’m going to finish my tea now,” she says, though she doesn’t move to pick up the mug.
“Okay,” I say.
I take my hand off the counter, stepping back just enough to give her the room she’s asking for, but I don’t go toward the door.
I walk over to the small wooden chair by her kitchen table, pull it out, and sit down. I lean my back against the frame, fold my arms, and just watch her.
Ember watches me sit, her eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise, but she doesn’t tell me to leave. She just turns back to the counter, picks up her ceramic mug with both hands, and takes a slow sip, her eyes staring out into the dark through the glass.