Page 82 of Cuffed (Everyday Heroes 1)
Because I know all of these people forgot about me a long time ago. I would bet that if I were to ask someone if they remembered the Reeves girl, they’d probably recall her name was Emily or Emma and have to think real hard about why the name sounded familiar.
Maybe I agreed to come because after the nightmare of last night, I don’t want to be alone tonight. I’m so exhausted that I fear what other dreams will come when I finally let my subconscious crash.
“Emerson?”
I look over to Grant, only to notice that we were already parked along the curb in front of a place I remembered more fondly than my own, the Malone house.
My smile hides my nerves as I take in the exterior. It’s just as I remember it being, but the paint’s newer and the flowers are brighter. There’s a woman’s attention to detail in the colorful pots carefully placed on the stoop, and I can hear the wind chimes tinkle in the breeze as Grant opens the truck’s door.
With a fortifying breath, I get out, but doubt shreds me apart with each and every step up the walkway. As positive as I am that most of Sunnyville doesn’t remember Emmy Reeves with the pigtails and freckles, I am certain that the Malone family does.
I spent years going to psychologists, and every single one of them had the same exact look when they spoke to me. Pity. They all thought I was broken and irreparable. As soon as I convinced my mom I didn’t need to go anymore, I promised myself no one would ever know about my past so that I’d never have to see that look again.
Now, for the first time since I made that promise, I’m willingly walking into a room, knowing full well I just might get that look again.
Grant must sense I’m about to lose my courage because he reaches out and links his fingers through mine, squeezing them in silent reassurance. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even glance my way. He just leads me up the last step as if this is an everyday thing for me.
“Hello?” he calls out as he opens the door, but his voice is drowned out by a cacophony of sound. A loud, baritone bark is echoing around the house, along with the screech of a little kid in what sounds like a tickle war. Laughter reverberates off the walls, and the faint chords of music playing in the backyard competes with the sound of an Indy race on a television no one seems to be watching.
Not only is it complete chaos but also it’s exactly how I remembered it.
I follow Grant through the formal living room and stop when I see Betsy Malone. Her back is to me, and she’s chopping vegetables on the counter I used to steal cookies from. Her hair may be shorter now, but everything else about her appears exactly the same.
“Mom,” Grant says.
“It’s about time you showed up,” she says, but when she looks over and sees me standing in her kitchen, her lips fall lax. “Emmy Reeves. Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel and steps toward me since I’m frozen in place. “Grant said you were gorgeous, but leave it to a man to understate the obvious. My goodness. Get over here, you, and let me hug you.”
Just like that, Betsy has her arms around me and is squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe, but it’s okay because if I breathe the tears that threaten are going to fall. I don’t want them to fall. Not here. Not now. Maybe later, but not now.
Her hand smooths down the back of my hair as if I were still a child, and I just close my eyes and sink into the feeling. It’s like I’ve stepped back in time. The familiarity of her voice and the feeling of her arms provided more comfort than she could have ever fathomed. I know I was stupid for worrying about coming here.
Betsy Malone was my second mother.
This is the closet I’ve felt to being home since long before I never had an actual home to go back to.
“Let me look at you,” she says, squeezing me one more time before stepping back and holding my arms out. When she meets my eyes, there are tears swimming in hers, and I enjoy knowing I’m not the only one who feels this overwhelmed being here again.
“Hi.” My voice breaks with the single word, and it causes her to smile and pull me in for one more quick hug.
“Wine?” She punctuates the word with a decisive nod, most likely to preven
t me from getting uncomfortable. “Wine is definitely what us two women need to combat the five testosterone-laced beings manning the barbecue.”
And as if on cue, there’s a flash of fur followed by a squeal of delight chasing after him. A little boy with sandy blond hair and dirt smudged on his cheek zooms through the kitchen before skidding to a halt and narrowing his eyes at me.
He looks just like the Grant I remember.
The thought knocks me back as I stare at him longer than I should.
“Who’s she?” he asks Betsy.
“That’s Uncle Grant’s friend, Emerson.”
“Cool,” he says as he lifts a foot to continue his mad dash through the house.
“Luke,” she warns, making him stop and causing Grant to chuckle.
With a resigned sigh like I’m ruining his fun, he turns to face me. “Hi, my name is Luke Malone, nice to meet you,” he says in a monotone voice and holds his hand out. He’s absolutely adorable, and I have a feeling he’s also a bit of a hellion. The boy has Malone written all over him, which makes me like him because of and not in spite of it.
