Page 9 of A Lot Like Lavender

When I let my gaze travel from the pasture to the front porch, I findherwaiting on the top step. Arms crossed. Lips pinched. Hair just as fiery red as it always was, perfectly matching the spirit of the girl I’ve never forgotten.

“Hey, Red.”

For a minute I think she might not recognize me. Years have passed, and though she looks just as beautiful as ever, I know I’ve changed. But Emory wordlessly stomps down the full length of the grand, wooden staircase, never once taking her eyes off me or releasing the grip of her arms.

“It’s been a while,” I mutter like an absolute buffoon, shoving my hands into my pockets.

Understatement of the century, Jordan.

I think I might be in for the scolding of my life—long overdue—until Emory’s perfectly clean tennis shoes land nearly toe to toe with my black riding boots, she stands a little taller as if bracing herself, and then slaps the cheek I did not shave before arriving.

“Don’t you ever call me Red again,” she growls before turning on her heel and stomping back towards the house, leaving the screen door shaking in her wake when she slams it shut behind her.

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JIMMY CLIFTON

EMORY

“I slapped Jordan Love on Wednesday,” I tell Dinah as I sit on her living room couch, entertaining Lola while Dinah prepares those carbs I’ve been so desperate for. Lola smiles, her toddler dimples popping so deep I want to eat her cheeks up—in a totally normal, favorite auntie sort of way. When she claps her chubby, little hands together with expert precision, I just know she’s a baby genius.

And she’s obviously applauding my life choices.

“Wait, what?” Dinah pauses as she plates our pretzels. “Back up.”

“Well, IsawJordan Love on Wednesday. When he showed up. At my house. On my lawn.” I tap Lola’s adorable little nose and hand her the toy she continues to drop on the floor so that I’ll retrieve it. Which I do happily over and over again like a schmuck. My voice turns into something bright and cheery that I know will make Lola smile. “Then I slapped him… Yes, I did, Lola bear.”

Hard. But that detail isn’t pertinent right now.

“Whoa,” Dinah says in a stupor, obviously mystified by her big sister’s surprising strength and upstanding dignity. “Good for you.”

I’m suddenly so thankful I decided to confess to her. She—and her tiny little clone—are giving me the exact correct response to this news. Gasps and applause included.

“That’s…” Dinah continues, popping a pretzel in her mouth, and staring into space. “That’s… insane.”

“Meh.” I shrug like the news that Jordan showed up on my doorstep after ten years—and that I said hello with the palm of my hand—is nothing more to me than a bit of late, Friday afternoon gossip.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Are you going to hold those pretzels hostage over there, or do I get one?” I simply refuse to dive into this without warm, freshly-baked, soft, buttery dough as compensation. Dinah throws a bite across the living room, and though I valiantly attempt to catch it in my mouth like a champion, it smacks me in the forehead before falling into the sliver of space between my chest and the collar of my shirt. So now there’s a dribble of butter in the sweet spot between my boobs, but no way am I letting this pretzel go to waste. Not today. I dig it out of my bra and inhale it in one savory bite.

“You’re an animal,” Dinah says with a pretty interesting amount of judgement for someone I’ve watched clean off a pacifier with her mouth before giving it to her baby on more than one occasion.

I lick the butter from every single one of my fingers. “You have terrible aim.”

“And you’re avoiding my question.” She throws another pretzel, hitting the wall behind me then snorting when it slops the floor and Lola-toddler waddles to retrieve it. “Come on, Em. When was the last time you saw Jordan?”

“I haven’t seen him in ten years.”

Since my husband’s funeral, to be exact.

“Woof. What a dog.” Dinah takes pity on me and carries the plate to the living room, placing it directly on my lap before picking up Lola just as Jack comes through the door.

“Hey, ladies.” He kisses my sister like he wasn’t just up here an hour ago when I walked in on them making out against the kitchen counter. He’s far less embarrassed now, though, greeting his clingy cat, Chipper, and blowing a raspberry against Lola’s neck, earning her squeals of delight. My heart tightens, an outsider looking in on their domestic, familial bliss.

“I’m sorry, Em. That’s so hard,” Dinah says after greeting Jack, pasting an almost comical frown on her face, which her daughter adores.