Page 55 of A Lot Like Lavender

I slap my thigh right where my first anniversary tattoo is hidden under my jeans. “I’ll show it to you later,” I say, cheeky, and love the snort she makes before covering her mouth with her hand. “I got the symbols, not the words, on the first anniversary. A bear. A beet. And a Battle Star Galactica emblem.”

“And tomorrow? What tattoo are you getting then?”

I’m not ready to tell her. Mostly because I know she isn’t ready to hear it. So I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and let my thumb run along her cheek. “How ‘bout I show you after?”

Biting her lip, Emory nods quietly. She’s looking at me again like she wants to kiss me, and I’ve got to come up with a plan, or I’m going to do exactly that.

“Do you think you’d take me?”

“For a tattoo?”

She shakes her head, looking over my shoulder. “For a ride. Like?—”

Like we used to. Like we did when we were just friendsand she was my best friend’s girl, whom I simply couldn’t say no to.

The girl I still can’t say no to. “Sure, Red. Let’s go for a ride.”

She actually bounces, her excitement and joy doing things to me I didn’t expect. Crazy things like imagining all the ways I could make her happy. How I could make her smile exactly like she is right now, everyday. Forever.

Weaving our fingers together, I lead her a few steps to the door. “Well, ya can’t go barefoot, beautiful. Go throw on a pair of shoes and meet me outside.”

“You aren’t coming in?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at me as she slips into her farm boots.

“Not tonight, Red.” If I did, I’d never leave.

In no time at all, Emory has donned a leather jacket and my helmet and has her arms wrapped around my waist as we ride my bike around the curved roads of the farm. The sun’s setting. The breeze against my face and running through my hair are the fresh reminder I needed of why I’m here. Why being whatever Emory needs me to be is the most important thing I can do.

I reach back, letting one hand slowly slide up the length of her leg until it rests on her thigh, while the other stays on the handlebar, as we cruise down the lanes I know so well. When I think maybe we’ve been out late enough, and that I should turn us back towards the house, I feel Emory’s leg tighten beneath my fingers as she lifts her hands from my waist. I can see her in the rearview mirrors, arms outstretched, fully trusting that I won’t let her fall. That I’ll keep her steady.

I almost wish she wasn’t wearing a helmet so I could see her red hair blowing behind her. The wind hitting her cheeks and leaving them perfectly pink. All the better to seeher eyes light with excitement and to know whether she’s smiling or somber.

It doesn’t really make a difference, though, because like this, Emory reminds me less of the girl I once knew who followed the rules and lived every moment of her life with intensity and emotion and more like the woman I’m sure I’m in love with now. The one who’s been shaped by circumstances she didn’t ask for and has survived. Who’s stronger than she even realizes, more beautiful than I can articulate, and more captivating for every single day that I simply get to be in her presence.

Emory’s completely alive. Like this, she looks wild and untamed.

She looks free.

17

THIS LOVE

TAYLOR SWIFT

EMORY

I want to kiss Jordan Love today.

It’s a strange thought to wake up to on the tenth anniversary of my husband’s death, but I’m learning, even so many years later, that there’s no rule book for grief or healing. And I think that’s what I’m finally doing. Healing.

Ten years ago, healing looked like simply surviving. Though it was anything but simple waking up every day when I didn’t want to. Taking care of myself and my daughter when it felt impossible. Going for a walk, to the grocery store, to church, or to my therapist. Celebrating holidays and trying not to focus on the one person I wished was there. Acknowledging the awful landmarks, like today—anniversaries of marriage, of death, kindergarten graduations, and “Daddy and me”activities he will never be a part of—and praying, for those fateful twenty-four hours, that I wouldn’t crumble under the weight that never seemed to leave.

But then, that weight did ease. Day by day. And it has been doing so for a while, even if I didn’t realize. It’s not fully gone, and I doubt it ever will be, but rather than suffocating under the pressure of an anvil on my heart, today it’s more like an immovable rock. Like a solid boulder that will always be present, but I’m beginning to believe I can work around. In fact, I think I’ll tie a mental balloon around my heart-rock that says, “You Got This,” as a reminder for myself. I can keep going. I have kept going.

Ten years of slow healing, and this is where I’m at:I want to kiss Jordan Love.

Today.

It’s a similar thought to the one I had last night. After a motorcycle ride until the sun went down beyond the fields, Jordan and I cared for the animals, put them in their stalls, and spoke little as he walked me to the front door. Rather than follow me into the house, as he has for weeks, Jordan kissed my forehead and wished me a good night.