Page 45 of A Lot Like Lavender

I nod against her head, letting my hands skate up and down her back, shoulders, and then finally over herhair, until they come to rest against her neck, using soft pressure to tilt her face to mine.

“I’m sorry, Red. It isn’t enough. It never will be.” My thumbs find her cheeks, wiping tears away, only for more to follow. “My selfishness in not being here for you, not being a good friend to you or James… not knowing your daughter sooner… Those are, and will always be, the biggest regrets of my life.”

She nods, accepting a long overdue apology as more tears fall against my fingers.

“Thank you.” She grasps my wrists, trapping my hands gladly against her cheeks while she ticks her fingers off on my skin, likely not realizing she’s doing so. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

Her fingers calm, but her thumbs move slow circles against the inside of my wrist.

“I’m here because I’m still selfish, Red,” I say and can’t help but draw her a little closer, searching her face for worry. For distress. For a signal that what I’m feeling isn’t crazy, even if it is completely wrong. Even if I feel guilt inhabiting every nerve of my body. Because Iamhere, and James isn’t.

And I want to kiss Emory.

More than I want to practice medicine or ride my motorcycle or make this harsh world a little bit softer with balloons and well wishes. I want to kiss the woman who makes clothes for her pets but can’t make a meal from scratch. Who’s capable and strong and more remarkable than she knows. The woman who wears a mask for everyone else but, thanks to some stroke of providential favor, lets it fall for me.

And I don’t know what kind of man this makes me, but I want to kiss Emory more than I want to continue grievingfor my best friend.

I think, maybe, unimaginably, Emory wants to kiss me, too. Either that, or she can read my thoughts. Because she draws in a quick breath, eyes locked on mine, and moves only a millimeter closer, but it feels like a mile. I lean in, thinking of the first time I saw her and the way I dreamed of having my hands in her hair exactly as I’m letting myself do now, tangling them in and bringing her closer. Remembering how she fell asleep in my arms a week ago, and how I want that to happen again and again. I’m thinking—dreaming up—a life with her. With her daughter. Withtheirdaughter.

I swallow those secret prayers and deny them a little longer, letting my lips fall against her forehead. Her soft sigh, a breath against my throat, and hands trailing down my arms to rest on my chest, a hearty reward.

“Will you stay?” she whispers. I’m ready to promise forever, but Emory’s operating in the here and now. “Tonight. On the couch,” she clarifies. “I don’t want to be alone, and I…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Red,” I promise, kissing her forehead again. Another forbidden boundary broken that will be impossible to rebuild.

“Okay,” she says, taking my hand and slowly, tentatively, leading me up the stairs. “But you have to wear jammies.”

15

IMPULSIVE

WILSON PHILLIPS

EMORY

“What kind of detergent do you use?”

Why this is the first question I ask Jordan as I wake up curled against his bare, tattooed chest is beyond me. I have yet to open my eyes but can’t help but smile when I feel the vibration of his chuckle against my face. My bare cheek is touching Jordan’s bare skin, and it’s weird that it isn’t weird at all.

“Good morning, Red. How did you sleep?”

Best night of rest since our last sleepover, thank you very much.

“Oh, just fine… You talk in your sleep,” I lie, then take a long, investigative sniff of his pectoral. “It’s just that you smell like your detergent has seeped right into your pores.”

“Did you just smell me?” He laughs again, grabbing me tight and rolling us over so that I’m pinned beneath all of his glorious weight on the couch we fell asleep on.

“I’m concerned.” I shrug, covering my mouth so he can’t smell my morning breath. “And I need to know.”

“You have a vested interest in my detergent?” Jordan kisses my forehead. Again. Because he has, multiple times, since breaking the seal of affection last night.

My internal alarm—the one that’s been singing Destiny’s Child’s, “Independent Woman” for years—glitches. Now that girl’s in her Mariah Carey era, so deep in a daydream. But let me tell you, itisa sweet,sweetfantasy. Because I’m snuggling with Jordan Love.

Jordan Love who I’ve known for years but haven’t known for just as many. The same man I’ve been bewildered but deeply hurt by. Angry with, and yet, whom I’ve felt more like myself with. I have a schoolgirl,can’t wait to hold his hand and write our names together in my notebookcrushon Jordan Love, and I don’t understand it at all.

It’s sweet, but perplexing.

No matter. The feeling of that kiss on my skin remains, and I melt. Though I’m grateful Jordan hasn’t yet kissed my lips—and not just because I know my breath probably smells like Haven’s placenta soup.