Page 33 of A Lot Like Lavender

“My Pop plays cards with me sometimes. He says aces are the best hand to start with, but I don’t really know what that means.”

“It means, if you’re holding the aces, you’re extra lucky.”

She nods, shrugs, then looks away and down the hall towards the closed spare room. “Is she?”

“Yeah, kiddo. She is.” Kneeling down, I bring myself to Molly’s eye level and nearly fall apart when she throws herself into my arms. Comforting her comes as naturally as breathing. Rubbing soothing circles against her back, shushing her ear, baking brownies… giving her the entire world. I think I’d do anything if it meant I could take some of the pain away from her little, trembling body. “I’m sorry, Little Red. I’m so sorry.”

My hand, rubbing circles on her back, freezes when Molly whispers, “Ace.” She clings tighter to the hug around my neck, her tears slowing. “I’m extra lucky that you’re here with us now, Dr. Doolittle. Maybe that should be my nickname. Ace.”

“It’s perfect,” I manage, my voice cracking. I’m unsure that I’ll ever be able to use that particular moniker again, but I add in a whisper. “I’m the lucky one, though.”

I can’t say how long I stay there, kneeling on Emory’s kitchen floor, holding my best friend’s daughter in my arms and mourning the dichotomy of wishing things could be different for her and thanking God I get to be the one here with her and her mom now. Even just like this. As their friend.

Eventually, I peel myself from Molly’s tight hug andcreate a space for her to sit on the counter while I make a proper breakfast. From what I can tell, Molly and Emory live on a balanced diet of cereal, frozen fried foods—corndogs, chicken nuggets, mozzarella sticks—chocolate, and a daily smoothie from the hippie juice place in town. But thanks to the yard full of chickens she has outside, Emory has an abundance of eggs. She should be selling them, given the fact that I think their only use in this house is in the baked brownies Emory makes for her and Molly and, of course, dying livestock.

It isn’t long before I’ve foraged the refrigerator for vegetables, a feat worthy of miracle status, and I’ve made three, well-fortified omelets. Molly kicks her feet contentedly from the counter while she eats her omelet, a new food experience I’m imagining, since she asked if she should pick it up and eat it like a pizza. She asks for chocolate milk, and I oblige, only after she agrees to drink a glass of water first and eat one of the kids’ vitamins I found on the countertop, which for whatever reason feels important.

I already made a few, very early morning phone calls to Jack and Griffin Lovett, who I reconnected with last night, letting them know that Pam did pass and our plan to get her out of this house needs to happen as early as possible. So I’m scarfing down my own breakfast and readying to head outside for farm chores when we hear Emory racing down the hallway.

Still in the baggy clothes she donned last night, she seems frantic as she comes around the corner and finds Molly and me in the kitchen.

“You’re still here,” she states, and it sounds like she wishes I wasn’t. Though her eyes slowly scan my torso and chest, landing on the pair of aces exactly like her daughter’s did. Something I never intended for her to see.

“Uh,” I run my hand through my hair, unsure of how to broach what happened last night or if I even should, and more than wishing I wasn’t half naked in her kitchen. “Yeah, sorry. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She comes closer, but only to hug Molly, kissing her forehead and whispering in her ear. Molly nods in affirmation to whatever secret conversation they’re having, before jumping off the counter and hugging me.

“See ya later, Ace,” she says, and my heart drops. Even after last night, never in a million years did I think I’d hear that nickname used again. Not by James’ daughter and especially not for me. “Thank you for the egg pocket.”

Emory bristles, no doubt remembering all the times I called JamesAce, and immediately turns her back on me in favor of cleaning the dishes piled in the sink.

“Let me do that. You should eat.” I slip my hands into the sink and try to take over. “There’s coffee and an omelet with cheese and vegetables.”

She ignores me, scrubbing the frying pan and blocking me from helping.

“I know you don’t like to eat your veggies, but I think they’re hidden pretty well and?—”

“I don’t eat breakfast. Thanks, anyway.” Grabbing a nearby towel, Emory steps away, drying the pan and pouring a new cup of coffee, though there’s one filled by the pot.

I’m not sure how to navigate this. Whether she’s embarrassed or angry or sad. It’s hard to say when I thought we mended something last night, but it’s clear she doesn’t want me here in the light of day.

“Emory…” I lower my voice but keep my distance so she doesn’t feel cornered in her own space. “About last night…”

“I thought you left.” She takes a sip of her coffee, back still turned to me. “I woke up and… never mind.”

You’re still here.

Her first words this morning, racing into the kitchen. Did she really think I’d leave her and Molly after yesterday? After last night…

But then the memory of climbing on my motorcycle after James’ funeral and taking off with no destination in sight bolts through my brain.

“I’m sorry, Red.” I know I shouldn’t, but I take a few steps towards her, slowly bringing one hand up to graze her arm. I’m having a harder and harder time maintaining any sense of self-control when it comes to creating distance from Emory, and no matter how much I loathe myself after, it feels like I’m powerless to do less. “I’m sorry you woke up alone, but I meant what I said. I’m not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t move, like she can’t quite believe I’m touching her either. This is new, unfamiliar ground, where I had the privilege of comforting her for a night but am not so foolish as to think her moment of weakness will repeat itself. Yet I can’t help but reach out for her. One tiny touch, and I’m an addict, swearing I’ll never do it again but falling prey so quickly when given another opportunity.

No matter how much time passes, I will always be the guy in class, watching Emory’s every move and praying for my moment to talk to her. To touch her. And my timing will always be wrong.

She doesn’t swat me away or fight or say anything. Instead, “Don’t go chasing waterfalls” blares from the pocket of her sweatpants. She turns it off quickly, swipes a hand beneath both of her eyes, then rushes past me without another word.