Page 19 of A Lot Like Lavender

Spiderman? Never thought much about him. My brain is still caught on the wordboyfriendcoming out of James’ daughter’s mouth. I don’t like that.

“Sure. Sure. He’s great.” I literally have never cared less about Spiderman. “But who’s this Theo kid? He kind to you? Come from a nice family? Does he love Jesus and football and…” I clearly don’t know the right questions to ask, but something inside of me needs to know every detail Molly will provide—and, yeah, whether he has any tattoos.

I wonder what the laws are on running a background check on a minor?

Molly perks up, smiling wide and flitting her eyelashes likethere’s something stuck in them. Man, this girl stuff starts young apparently. “Theodore Lovett. Theo for short. He’s twelve years old. That’s two years older than me.”

Cool. So, probably anoon the tattoo thing.

“Lovett? Do you know his dad’s name?”

“Mr. Griffin. He’s real nice. So is Theo’s mama, Mrs. Caroline. Sometimes we do crafts together, and she lets me use as many sparkles as I want. But we have to keep the sparkles, and especially the scissors, away from Oli. That’s Theo’s little brother. Mrs. Caroline is serious about who uses her scissors.”

I can’t help but smile. I played ball with Griffin and his brothers in high school. We were on different teams, of course, but small towns tend to commingle. I remember them sort of being trouble makers back then, but it sounds like Griffin has settled down with a wife and a family. It’s crazy how time changes everything. It doesn’t mean I’ll trust his kid with Molly, but at least I know where this Theo character comes from.

“Theo has dark brown hair and beautiful eyes, and we’re gonna get married one day,” Molly announces with a flip of her hair.

I think I need to sit down. Buttercup must feel my stress levels rising, because she moves up my chest, nibbling just the slightest bit against the collar of my shirt. The emotional support I’m currently receiving from this tiny mammal cannot be overstated.

“Hey,” Molly says, twisting the bottom hem of her shirt in her hands. “I’m real sorry about touching your tattoos last night. Mama always says that when we see stuff we really like… like handsome boys… we can look for a minute, appreciate what the good Lord made, and then look away. And definitely never touch. Not that I think you’re handsome. You’re too old. No offense.”

“None taken.”

She seems satisfied, sucking in a quick breath before continuing her monologue, “And I do really like your tattoos. They’re pretty, but I shouldn’t have stared so long. Or poked them.”

“I don’t mind, Little Red. Not at all.” I put my fist out for a bump, which she reciprocates and then picks up my hammer. “We’re pals.”

And not a single person has ever described my tattoos as pretty. I think I might like Molly to have a nice conversation with Mrs. Cotten about their aesthetics at some point.

“Cool cucumbers.” Molly’s momentary uncertainty disappears. “Can I help you with your project?”

I hand her a nail and point to the next piece I intend on mending. “Sure. We’re fixin’ this old porch, so I need you to hold the nail between your thumb and your pointer like this.” I demonstrate, one-handed, mindful of the rabbit still nibbling away at my shirt. “And then choke up on the hammer a bit, holding it near the head before ya take aim.”

“Like a bat!”

“That’s right. You’re a natural.”

Molly gives the nail a tentative tap. Not enough to push it through, but it does manage to bend the nailhead at an unnatural angle. Before I can encourage her to try again, she rips the nail out with her fingers, grabs a spare from the pile at my side, and tries again. Her face adorably contorts with concentration when she hits the nail a bit harder and manages to push through the wood more than before.

“Like that?” she asks proudly, her crooked smile so much like James’ my chest feels like it might crack in two.

“Yeah, Red.” I give her errant bun a little tug. “You did great.”

The screen door suddenly screeches again. I make a mental note to oil it for Emory later. But when she steps out, dressed in a pajama set of her own with Molly’s face printed all over it, hair mussed wildly like her daughter’s, eyes bright green but still hazy with sleep, and legs astonishingly bare, my brain glitches. I’m staring, and though I keep reminding myself of what the nine-year-old just told me about appreciating the good Lord’s handiwork and looking away, God help me, I can’t.

Emory is beautiful. She always has been.

But something about grown woman Emory, bathed in morning light, looking a little vulnerable and also a little put out—like she’d enjoy slapping me again for being out here on her porch—has me viewing her in ways I should not be viewing her.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw Emory. Her red hair was much longer back then, pulled into a pony tail that touched her shoulder blades. She took pages of notes during our first biology lecture, listening so intently to the professor she didn’t notice the guy seated a row behind—me—studying her rather than the lesson.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

Red.

I assumed she was a freshman just with the fact that she took time to dress up for class instead of wearing pajama pants and sweatshirts like the rest of us. Not to mention the bright-eyed, excited look about her—especially for an eight a.m., Friday seminar. Yet her focus was unmatched, and she wasn’t afraid to ask questions in the huge lecture hall. The girl I calledRedin my mind, because I was too nervous to interact with her.

For weeks, I looked forward to that class, where my mystery girl would twist that long, fiery red hair between her fingers, oblivious to the spellbinding effect it was having on me—a poor, pre-med student, ready to fail biology, and throw it all away for the chance to talk to her—nearly bringing me to my knees each and every week.