Page 43 of A Lot Like Lavender

MY SWEET LOVE

MYLES SMITH

JORDAN

“I bet those drinks didn’t even have alcohol in them,” Emory says, more to herself than to me, talking under her breath and obviously put out. Her voice morphs into something snarky and sharp when she mumbles something about art and a mausoleum, but I can’t quite make it all out until she snarls, “I should sneak some of that placenta juice into her next smoothie. See how she likes that.”

Not the sentence I was expecting. I’m not sure I even want to take a guess at what happened at book club.

Honestly, I thought the book club thing was just an excuse not to see me. If it wasn’t clear that Emory was uncomfortable after last week, it definitely became glaringly so when the Cottens approached me on the street this morning with words of wisdom about purity of heart and body before marriage and pursuing a woman well. Then a strange anecdote about Veronica and a guy named Logan, who I’m still not sure is a dog or a human. Mr. Cottenmanaged to slip his card into my hand while shaking it, offering his services “at a discount, of course.”

His card has, “Life’s a garden, dig it” written across it. Which I know for a fact is aJoe Dirtquote, not unlike the first card I received for this lucrative business from Mrs. Cotten, which said, “You can’t have no in your heart.” So I probably won’t be calling him for advice anytime soon. Especially after he spoke ad nauseum about how he instructed Jack in the art of wooing.

All I know is Jack called an hour ago and said Emory and Dinah needed a designated driver, but that he couldn’t leave because of Lola and a wet diaper. I’m not sure what a wet diaper has to do with driving, but I didn’t ask for details before finishing up a project at the farm, grabbing the keys to Bill’s truck, and heading over. The look on Emory’s face when I showed up at the door—and she was all but pushed out onto the stoop without the sister I was also supposed to be driving—told me that she did not expect to see me tonight.

Though it’s probably not fair, and I don’t want to put any sort of pressure on her, I’m grateful for any time spent with Emory. Even if she won’t look at me and is as far across the bench seat of the truck as possible, I’m content. Because, by some stroke of crazy fortune, I get to be the one to drive her home.

“Where’s Molly tonight?” I ask, tapping my fingers on the wheel.

Emory scoffs. “With Jack. I bet he’s in on it, too. The traitor.”

“Should I swing by to pick her up? It’s getting late.” And I hate that I haven’t seen her in almost a week. I want to know how she’s doing. To hear about Buttercup and thepigs and even about Theo. As long as it means I’m getting to spend time with her.

Emory’s phone pings. When she checks it, she starts typing out a text like a madwoman, forgetting to answer me. We’re coming up on the intersection to go towards her place or in the opposite direction to downtown Honey Hill where Jack and Dinah live.

“Emory?”

“Hmmm?”

“Should I pick up Molly?”

She crosses her arms, sulking deeper into her seat. “No. Dinah just informed me thatmy daughteris having a sleepover at her place so…”

The wordsleepoverclangs around my brain. Just a verbal pinball, ricocheting against every facet of my mind.

“Will you, please, just bring me home?” she asks, voice irritated beyond measure. “I’m so tired.”

We’re silent for an uncomfortable amount of time. An ample amount of minutes for me to question whether picking up Emory was the right choice. Wondering if I should say anything to interrupt the quiet between us. And, most prominently, doing my very best not to let the wordsleepover, sleepover, sleepoverimpede my ability to get her home safely.

Bill drives the same truck he did when I was in highschool, so the windows, heater, and AC don’t work. Therefore, the only sounds between Emory and me are the wind coming in through the open windows and the old engine, miraculously still operating.

It's probably why I swerve and nearly drag us into a ditch when Emory suddenly bursts into laughter, breaking our silence. I correct my steering. She does me a favor by not mentioning the blunder and instead points at the deaddeer on the highway ahead with a “Get Well Soon” balloon strapped to its hind leg.

“What kind of crazy person does that?” she exclaims, laughing while shaking her head. “Like, who takes the time to pick out balloons, fill them with helium, and tie them to roadkill?”

Shrugging, I cling tighter to the wheel. “I think it’s kind of funny.”

More than funny, as a matter of fact.

“Oh, I do, too,” she says admiringly. “Did you know Molly tied one to a rock at Pammy’s grave last week? It said, ‘It’s a Girl.’ The kid is hilarious.”

I feel the heat travel up my neck but don’t answer.

“It was you!” She points at me from across the truck. “You helped her, didn’t you? I can see your blush from over here.”

“I only got the balloon she wanted and brought her out before I left last week… And I don’t blush.”

“You do. You really do. Aiding and abetting a minor…” She tuts and finally looks at me, pinching her lips in a smile. “It’s you, isn’t it? Tying the balloons to all the roadkill…? It feels like you.”