by Jaci J
“Okay,” I sniffle into his flannelled covered chest. “I’ll call you every day.”
“Okay, babe,” he agrees wearily.
Kissing my forehead he lingers. “I love you,” he says, his voice pained and hoarse.
“I love you.” I pour every ounce of emotion I have into those three words. He nods his head stiffly and backs away from me. The space between us cold and empty.
Something my mama always said comes to mind. “Falling in love for the first time will be one of the greatest feelings on Earth, but when it ends, it will be the worst feeling on Earth.” She wasn’t lying.
I feel crippled.
Swiping at my eyes, I wipe away the tears collecting. I take a deep breath and try to hold it together. “I’ll see you soon, Zac.”
He smiles sadly and steps further away.
Crawling into my Jeep I wave, and he waves back. “Bye, Em.”
I did call him, and I wrote him. I really tried, but it was never the same. Things had changed between us drastically after that day. Daily phone calls slid into missed calls and voicemails after a few weeks. Over the period of six months, it became emails here and there, then those emails turned into one last letter a year later. That was it. Me and Zac ceased to exist, our lives no longer intertwined, and our hearts forever altered.
It’s something I’ll never truly get over.
Footsteps in the gravel pull me away from the painful memories. Watching my mom walk up, her eyes are full of pity, and she’s wearing a sad smile.
“Come here, baby.” I go to her, and she pulls me into a comforting hug.
“He hates me,” I mutter, feeling sorry for myself. It was easier to deal with how he felt when I didn’t have to be around it.
“Give it time,” she says as she releases me. “He’s always loved you, you know that, but he’s still hurt.” I want to tell her that he’s not the only one, but hell, I am the one who left him. I don’t have a right to expect him to welcome me with open arms, but I want to smack some sense into the man. I mean, it’s been ten years now. Doesn’t our history before I left count for anything? I want to tell her I wish I’d never left, but I don’t bother. Even now, I’m not sure anyone really understands why I had to do it.
“Yeah, Mom. I’ll try,” I concede, keeping everything inside.
My dad walks up next to my mom and pulls me into a quick hug, kissing me on the top of my head. “Night, Emmy-Lou.”
“Night, Dad.”
I make plans to see Mom in the morning, and plan to have a dinner date with her and Dad on Sunday.
I watch them go, feeling mentally and emotionally drained.
~~~~~~
“Are you sure you’re okay out here, honey?”
The Moore’s have graciously agreed to let me stay in their garage apartment rent free until I can find my own place and settle back into small town living. I tried to pay, but they refused. Moving back into my parents’ house was out of the damn question. I love them, but no. I already feel like a failure, and moving in with them would only confirm what I’m sure everyone is saying.
Laughing softly at Julia’s sweet worry, I nod my head. “Yes, I’m great. I appreciate you lettin’ me stay here.”
Staying here isn’t ideal either, but my choices were limited. My parents’ place was out of the question. The highway motel with its residential cockroaches was just gross. My car was an option, but the Moore’s offered this place and I jumped on it. It may not be the perfect situation, given they are Zac’s parent’s, but I’m thankful for it.
“Really, I’m good.”
She lingers at the door, smiling weakly at me. “I feel funny havin’ you stay in the garage.”
“It’s a garage/apartment conversion,” I correct her. It’s a lot nicer than some of the places I’ve resided in over the years.
“If you get cold, hungry, or lonely, please come inside.”
Julia has to be the nicest woman, aside from my mom, that I have ever met. Warm eyes and a contagious smile, you know that Zac takes after her. She’s lovely, and she’s as sweet as she is pretty.
“I’ll be okay. Promise,” I assure her.
“I want you to know, Emerson, that you’re always welcome at our house,” she exclaims. “You know that, right?” I may have burned that bridge all those years ago, but Julia would never turn her back on me. I don’t deserve her kindness after the way I left her son, but that’s Mrs. Moore; kind, caring, and forgiving.
“I do. Thank you, Mrs.… “
“Julia,” she interrupts. “Always Julia.” At one time, I thought I’d be calling her Mom. How wrong was I.
“Thank you, Julia. Good night.”
“Night, honey.” She turns and walks out the door, closing it softly behind her.
Left alone for the first time since I came back, I sit down on the small futon—the futon that’s been up here since high school. At least some things never change. Everyone else has done a one-eighty it seems.
I flop back on it.
Riverside, my hometown, is small town, USA. It’s a place where nothing good happens after midnight, shutting down once the streetlights come on. Everything is closed on Sundays until church is over, and Friday nights you can find the entire community at the stadium. All the fun happens out in the woods, in a field, or the bed of a pickup truck. It’s a place made up of families and close friends. It’s a town that people rarely leave, and if they do, they almost always end up spending the rest of their lives here.
Riverside is still at a complete standstill. It’s a time warp, I swear. Vera’s shop at the corner still sells outdated designs, overalls, and scrunchies. The bulbs of Swanson’s Grocery Store sign still only reads ‘Wan’s Ocery.’ The bowling alley needs a paint job, and the car lot down the road is still selling the same fifteen rusty buckets it had when I got my license years ago.
It’s the people that have changed, such as graying hair and aging smiles, new and old relationships, new neighbors and old friends. Everyone is exactly the same, yet so different at the same time.
It’s beyond weird.
Pulling off the small blanket thrown over the back of the futon, I curl up and attempt to sleep, something I know I’m going to have a hell of a time achieving, but I give it a go anyway.
One day down, the rest of my life to go.
~~~~~~
There is nothing like the sunset over the Pacific Ocean. I’ve been all over this big, wide world, and I’ve yet to find anything like it. There’s just something special about the ones here in Riverside. Maybe it’s because of my homesickness, or maybe it’s favoritism, but the sunsets here on the West Coast rival them all.
Nothing but oranges and pinks can be seen for miles. Vibrant colors exploding from the ocean take over the soft white clouds, illuminating the sky for miles in every direction, casting a magical glow on the world.
It’s beautiful.
It’s home.
It reminds me of Zac.
Walking down the stairs of what is, hopefully, my temporary residence, I watch the sunset on my second full night back in Riverside.
The sun falls, disappearing below the ocean, leaving the sun a beautiful shade of pink.
Tonight it’s clear and hot, the heat lingering from this afternoon’s heat wave of ninety plus. The air is thick and warm, fighting against the inevitable marine air that always seems to find its way back on shore, bringing the gray and cool air with it.
I spent my day unpacking boxes inside, dying of a heat stroke, all in the name of avoiding the Riverside rumor mill. I’ve heard it all since I rolled back into town, my mom relaying it to me like a sportscaster, giving me play-by-plays. I’ve heard that I’m back here from a stint in rehab, recovering from drugs, an eating disorder, and a drinking problem. I’ve heard one of my many marriages ended, leaving me broke and homeless. I even heard that a brush with the law sent me running.
The truth?
Ten years of chasing a one in a million kind of career wore me
out. I spent years running after a dream that chewed me up and spit me out in the end.
Music, my first love, followed closely by Zac let me down. Or maybe I let myself down chasing something so unattainable.
I spent ten years with my guitar strapped to my chest and a dream pumping through my heart only to have it drop me on my ass years later when I just couldn’t find my place in the small tight-knit world of music.
I had mild success, yet barely made enough money to live and retire on writing songs for other artists, but it was nothing like the dream I had growing up. I wanted stardom, my name in flashing lights, singing on stage in front of millions, and lifelong success, but it never found me. Or maybe I never found it.
A few years ago I let the weight of my failure sour my dream. I became tired, and a bit bitter towards my love of music. I spent the last two years of my life feeling defeated and embarrassed, sewing up loose ends before letting it go.
I gave up.
I couldn’t do it anymore.
I decided to pack it in and called it quits. So, here I am, back after ten long years. Not only did I lose Zac, but I lost my love for my music too.
With a bitter taste left in my mouth from the loss of my loves, I drown the flavor in wine. What else is a girl to do? Wine is the fixer of all broken things.
Watching the sunset, I drink and try to enjoy the sound of nature around me. The frogs down at the creek, the Williams’ hound barking like mad down the road, someone mowing their lawn, and the sound of the wind in the trees; it’s all music to my homesick ears.
I let what is home lull me, appreciating the familiar sounds.
The Moore’s place sits on twenty acres of land; land that runs out to the left of the house. My parents’ house is next to theirs on the right, two hundred yards or so apart. There are a few houses on the other side of the street. Between both places is a small dirt road, which at this moment has a cloud of dust and gravel coming from the tires of a big black Chevy headed right for me.
Ah, hell.
I need more wine for this.
“What the fuck is she doin’?” I mutter inside my empty truck.
Slowing down, I squint out the windshield at her.
Really, what is she doin’?
I just wanted to swing by, pick up a part for tomorrow and head home. I don’t want a goddamn detour, but that’s exactly what I’m getting.
Rolling down the dirt road at fifteen, I reach a hand out the window and wave at Mr. Davidson, who is waving from his riding lawnmower as I pass.
Letting my truck roll to a stop, I pull up alongside Emerson a few seconds later.
Walking down the dirt road in between her parents’ and my parents’ place, she’s carrying a box of wine, and of course she’s missing her shoes. Looking out onto the field, she looks sad and I try like hell not to care why that is, but I do. I fucking care, and I hate that I still care about the woman.
It’s not even been twenty-four hours and she’s already causing me hell. But what’s new? That wild heart of hers has always been the best part of her.
I stick my head out and holler, “Are you drunk?” She doesn’t flinch.
Why the hell else would she be out here, carting around a box of wine?
Her head whips around, nose wrinkled and eyes squinted. She sways, but catches herself.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Sure as shit.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Emerson turns away from me and I notice what she’s wearing.
I pause for a single second, swallowing hard.
“Is that my jersey?” I ask her, coming to a complete stop. Throwing it in park, I reach out and snatch the sleeve of my old jersey, pulling her back towards the truck to get a better look.
On her back, in old peeling letters is Moore 84. It’s four sizes too big, hanging down her bare legs to mid-thigh.
“Was,” she mutters, resituating the box up under her arm as she leans her ass up against the old cedar fence post after pulling free of my hold.
“Was what?” I ask her, confused. Em is facing me and nothing is on her face. Not one single fucking emotion, while I feel like I’m drowning all over again. Drowning in these horrible fucking memories of the best times of my life.
“Your jersey. It was yours. Now—,” she hiccups, “—it’s mine. But if you’re askin’ if it’s the one you gave me junior year, then the answer would be yes.”
That thing is old; older than dirt. It’s possible she stole it, or I could have given it to her like she claims, but either way, I snap, “Why the fuck are you wearin’ it now?”
“I always wear it.” She says it like I should know. Her words hit me hard. She kept a little piece of me with her after all this time. I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.
She gives me that look where she raises her brow and purses her lips. It’s the same look she always gave me when I was about to do something stupid, like the time I jumped off the garage roof and into the pool, breaking my leg.
“Oh.” That’s the only thing I can come up with. It’s fucking old and faded, telling me it’s gotten good use over the years. I don’t really have much else to say, because really, seeing her wearing it reminds me of the girl I fell in love with so many years ago, and I’m really not interested in revisiting those memories.
We look at each other, not saying anything. I enjoy that feeling for just a minute before she opens her mouth and offers, “Wanna have a drink with me?” Pulling the box from under her arm, she offers it to me.
I’m not sure what she’s doing out here in the middle of the road, drinking, but I can’t just leave her here. Even if I really fucking want to, even if I should.
What do I have to lose anyways? She’s already taken everything that’s ever been important to me. My sanity, my heart, my youth. What more is there?
“Sure. Why the fuck not.” As soon as I say it I know I’ll regret it, but I reach across the passenger seat, clearing it off and popping the door open for her. “Get in. I’ll drive us up the road.”
She climbs in and sits down, and my sinuses are instantly assaulted with the sweet twang of wine and soft scent of orchids. The memories hit me like a punch to the face…
Two in the morning, asleep in bed, when the sound of my window opening wakes me. Cracking an eye open, I watch a tangled mess of blonde curls pop in, followed by a body covered in nothing but a big white T-shirt. She stumbles in, making a huge racket.
“Zac,” she whispers loudly, the wood floor creaking under her. “Hi.” That time, she damn near shouts when I sit up and swing my legs to the side of the bed, facing her.
“Em, the fuck you doin’?” It’s been nine days since I’d seen her and I’m not going to lie, even at two in the morning, I’m fucking happy to see her.
I’ve missed her so goddamn much.
Once she straightens, she’s on me. Her smell hits me and I miss her even more. In my lap, she wraps her long legs around my waist and hangs on. Hands in my hair, she smashes her lips to mine, kissing me hard.
“I missed you,” she moans into my mouth, lips all over mine.
“Em, babe.” She won’t let me get a word in, but talking goes out the window when she starts grinding herself against me.
I promised my mom I’d respect her rules when she set them a few years ago. Eighteen or not, she told me no sex under her roof, but I’m breaking that rule tonight.
I fucking missed my girl.
I did a lot of shit I shouldn’t have done where Emerson was concerned. I broke a lot of rules and lost a lot of myself, and I have a feeling that tonight will be no different.
~~~~~~
“Stop doin’ that,” I mutter, not bothering to look her way. Looking past her, I watch the tall grass swaying in the wind out in the open field, trying to ignore her.
It’s not working.
Sitting on my parents’ porch, I let Emerson drink and sing to me, or sing at me, I guess. She’s drunk, and I�
��m too fucking stupid to leave. Should have gone home an hour ago, but here I am, listening to her like it’s the last time I’ll ever hear her voice, hanging on every little word that falls from those pretty lips of hers.
I missed the sound of her soft voice, being near her. Across from me she’s perched on the porch railing, humming a quiet tune while her feet tap to music only she can hear in her head.
I hate the song she’s humming.
“What? Sing the classics?” she chuckles, shaking her head like I’m fucking crazy.
“Sing shit that sucks,” I clarify.
“I’ll be your crying shoulder…” she sings softly, smiling at me.
“Emerson,” I warn her, pleading with my voice, but she ignores me. She sways slowly, humming parts and singing the others. She’s happy. She’s completely fucking oblivious to how this shit is eating me alive. Being here with her again hurts in the worst, and the best way possible.
I haven’t spent the last ten years of my life completely ruined because of her, but I did spend the first few lost and heartbroken. Her leaving changed me. I was never the same after she left, not even to this day. I moved on, but never completely recovered.
“I’ll be loves suicide.
And I’ll be better when I’m older…”
Jesus, she’s a fucking mess. Her hair is a wild and tangled bunch of chaos sitting on top of her head in a knotted nest of curls. Her feet are dirty and her legs are bare. There are black smudges under her eyes and an ugly bruise on her shin. She could be mistaken for a homeless person, and yet she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. No one compares, and it feels fucking wrong to feel that way about her after all this time.
“I’ll be the greatest fan of your life…”
“Shit,” I tease around my beer, trying to ease the tension I’m drowning in.
“You got a problem with my singin’?” she asks, leveling me with a look that says she’ll hit me if I say anything other than no.
“No. The song, it’s shit.”
“Hey,” she huffs out, offended. “I’ll Be does not suck.” She’s right, it doesn’t. It sucks that it reminds me of her. Everything reminds me of her, though.
