Page 82 of Even After This
My niece, curled up in a ball at the opposite end of the couch, lifts her head off the giant cushion. “So, is there orange juice in the house or not?” She peers at me, one eye closed.
“Yes. There is no need for someone else to go for orange juice.” My pulse quickens with my escalating frustration.
“Everyone needs a little orange juice, Aunt Meredith.” Taylor sits up, puffing his chest out as he stretches. “Especially before a big undertaking...”
I lose the rest of Taylor’s thought as his words echo in my head. The tips of my fingers touch my mouth, and I close my eyes.Everyone needsa little orange juice. Especially before a big undertaking.
Flashes of the last four years play a montage of information Harlan should know. An accident so horrendous in nature, it warranted a week of news coverage. Debilitating depression. Massive migraines. A secret suicide watch. Being carried out of the house. Treatment facility. Recovery. Unequipped friends abandoning our relationship. Not wanting to leave the house. A few years of baby steps. Some breaths of fresh air. Awkward, intentional functioning.
And one day, a search for more that led me to Colorado Springs.
A peace descends on my mountain of questions like pouring rain, washing away my anxious thoughts. I’m not scared of him knowing any of those details.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” I murmur. “Maybe I do need some orange juice.”
Tell him, Molly.
Tell him everything. Buy the Costco-sized jug of orange juice. Get the apple. The grape. The pomegranate. Purchase it all.
And bring him home to me.
“Okay, I’m really confused.” Taylor wipes sleep from his eyes. “I would like some orange juice. Do you have any here at the house?”
“Sure, sweetie. I’ll pour you some.” Entering the kitchen, I remind myself what is true about Harlan. He can deal with obstinate grief, he communicates he likes me, and he’s here. If he wanted an excuse not to pursue me, he could have taken it—he’s had several.
After I deliver the drinks, complete the cinnamon rolls, and clean up, there’s nothing left to do. Pacing, I pull on a hangnail until I hear the front door open, followed by greetings.
Harlan strides into the room and sets a grocery bag on the counter.
“You get the orange juice you wanted?” I wring my hands, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
He stills and studies me. “I already had the orange juice I wanted.”
A beat passes. “Do you know we’re not talking about a breakfast drink?”
Harlan’s deep chuckle fills the kitchen. “Yeah, sweetheart. Come here.” His long, muscular arm reaches out, and he tugs me into a solid embrace. “Chad Tarkington really did a number on you guys.”
“You have no idea.” I snuggle in deeper, my face resting in the crook of his neck. How can someone who has not taken a post-workout shower smell so completely marvelous?
“You okay?” He gives me a squeeze.
My bravado from earlier has left the building, and I ask in a small voice, “Did she scare you away?”
“No. She filled in some gaps of your story.” His voice catches.
“Did she scare you away?” I repeat my fear on a whisper.
He pulls back and cups my face. “She confirmed what I already knew. You’ve had enough anguish for a lifetime.”
Not knowing where the conversation is headed but wanting to appear brave, I swallow back tears. I’m unable to form words, so I just nod.
“I don’t want to add to your pain.” He releases my face andslides his hands to my shoulders. “Molly doesn’t want me to hurt you. But I’m a step ahead of her. I’m terrified of hurting you.”
I offer a fake smile. “You’re in a tough position.”
“I’m falling in love with a strong, brave, and funny woman. Have I mentioned beautiful?”
Falling in love. Falling in love? My heart pounds. It’s like it knows it needs to tell me to pay attention, to hold the gravity of the conversation with the giddy feelings his words cause while coming to grips with my own feelings.
