Page 57 of A Lot Like Lavender

“You know the one.” She waves a pretzel bite in the air. “It was flirty but tasteful. A little tight around your curves.”

“Would I have to wear spanks for this particular hot and flirty dress?” I ask, gazing at a basket of buttered pretzel bites and the nacho cheese sauce they're about to take a swim in.

“You’re a grown woman, Em.” Dinah dips her own and says through a mouthful, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

I decide that’s excellent advice. So I inhale the entire basket then chase it down with a placentaless smoothie called Follow Your Bliss from Nature’s Nectar.Because life’s about a healthy balance.

I do all the things all day, but I never call Jordan. I don’t know what’s holding me back. Is it simply the date on the calendar? The twinge of shame I feel that I’m not riddled with guilt at my attraction and growing feelings for another man? Is it because that man is Jordan? Or am I just not as ready as I thought I was?

After a quiet dinner of chicken fingers, french fries, and a microwavable bag of brussel sprouts—because, again, balance—I snuggled with Molly and treated myself to a late night platter of brownies. But hours later, and way past my bedtime, I’m wide awake, staring at that wretched wallpaper on my ceiling and the same thought keeps racing through my mind.

I hate this wallpaper so much.

I am ready.

And I want to kiss Jordan.

Filled with a sense of purpose, I throw on my boots and march to the barn, gathering the ladder, a box cutter, and a paint scraper. I set up the space quickly, starting as close to the bed as the ladder will allow. Then I climb up and, without preamble, begin to cut and peel away the paper that’s been haunting my sleepless nights for too long.

It takes hours, though I quickly lose track of time as I slice through the material that doesn’t want to come off but I can’t tolerate for a moment longer. At some point, I’m pulling so hard and at such strange angles, my biceps andback begin to hurt. My sleep shirt is drenched with sweat, dripping from my face and neck.

But I don’t quit. I can’t.

Because I’m ready.

I’m ready. I’m ready. I’m ready.

It’s the new thought dominating my brain space.I am ready.

Those words consume every movement until I’m exhausted and sobbing but can’t bring myself to pause, because if I do, I know I won’t finish.

It has nothing to do with Jordan or James and everything to do with the purgatory I’ve been trapped in.

The paper has to come off. It has to be today. Tonight. Right now. I can’t abide one more night with it hanging over this bed. Over my life.

“I’m ready,” I whisper, hoarse and depleted into the dim light of my bedroom. Laying on the floor, I’m surrounded by strips of tattered wallpaper and staring at a ceiling that’s now messy and imperfect but no longer a floral, forest green reminder of all the losses I’ve suffered.

I take measure of the sound of my breaths, in from my nose and out from my mouth. Then lick my lips, tasting the salt of tears and sweat there. I feel the hardwood beneath my fingertips and count each digit off against the wood grain. Finally, rolling over with aches and pains coursing through all my nerves, I crawl towards the nightstand where my phone rests and make the call I’ve denied myself all day.

He answers on the first ring.

“Emory?” Jordan’s voice is scratchy with sleep, a reminder that it’s the middle of the night, and I didn’t think to check the time. “You okay? What’s wrong?”

“What tattoo did you get today?”

He’s shuffling around on the other end of theline. I imagine him staring at a ceiling exactly like I am right now. Shirtless, with sleep lines on his face. Maybe his glasses are placed neatly next to a bedside table with a glass of water and a book. Inexplicably, I want to know. Everything.

“What… what's going on? Have you been crying?”

“Yes,” I answer honestly. My voice cracks, but I’m not sad in the slightest. If anything, it’s the opposite. I’m so relieved he picked up the phone—that I’m hearing his voice—that I want to cry all over again.

“Red…” His voice is soft and sweet. I wish he were lying on the floor beside me, holding my hand. Instead, it sounds like he’s walking around his room. “What do you need?”

“I’m sorry I woke you up. I just… I wanted to talk to you. I want to see you.”

“Okay.” He closes a door.

Looking at the time, I wince. It’s after three, and I sound like a lovesick teenager. At least half of that may be true. I wonder how long it would take him to get here if I asked. How selfish does it make me that I obviously care less about his sleep and more about my security?