She gives a slight nod, and I draw her to me in a gentle hug, telling myself this is what she needs, but I know deep down I need this just as much.
Finally, she pulls back, her hand releasing from mine with a weary sigh. “I better go paint.”
My base instincts kick in watching her retreating form. I don’t know if it’s wishful thinking or if she’s really doing it, but I think I detect a slight sway to her hips, like she knows exactly where my gaze has landed.
While finishing up in the kitchen, I think through every possibility for how to fix this Principal Ian Stanback situation. Austin’s publicist, Kate, has contacts everywhere. Plus, she could go toe-to-toe with any private investigator out there. Does Singing River’s golden boy have any skeletons that need to be released from their closet? I might have to give Kate a call to have ammunition ready if needed.
Kitchen reset, I grab the shoebox under one arm and make my way through her house, looking for what might be her artroom to tell her goodbye. At the end of the hall, bright light streams from a doorway. What I see when I get to the open door has my steps faltering and my lips parting in awe.
Jo sits on a stool, a large canvas in front of her. She’s pulled her blonde hair up in some sort of twist on the top of her head, exposing her neck to the slope of her shoulder. The sight leaves me momentarily breathless.
How will I live in this town, spend time with her family—ourdaughter—and not have her as mine? The need I have for this woman, who I scarcely know, is so strong it’s as if she’s the sun sparkling through a dense forest, and I find myself helpless, shifting toward her light.
I make it back to the apartment quickly, but I don’t move. Not yet. The shoebox of letters sits in my passenger seat, all but begging to be opened. Unable to wait a minute longer, I pry open the lid. Lifting out the top letter, I unfold it, my eyes sweeping down the page. Her handwriting can only be described as that of an artist, full of loops, words ending on a flourish, and I allow my eyes to trace the way she’s written my name. Seeing my name in her handwriting makes me smile.
Dear Tyler,
If you’re reading this, it means the universe came through for us, against all the odds. It also means you probably have a lot of questions, rightfully so. One of my co-workers told me writing letters might help process all these hormonal emotions I’ve been feeling, so here goes.
My grandparents didn’t talk to me about the birds and the bees. EverythingI learned was through friends, books, or TV shows. Somewhere along the way, I missed the small, yet very important fact that antibiotics can mess with birth control. So, SURPRISE. (Imagine jazz hands here to divert from how serious this topic is) I’m now twelve weeks pregnant.
I’m due February 4, and according to the doctor, our baby is the size of a lime. Tyler, there’s a tiny human-shaped lime growing inside of me, evidence of one perfect night with you. It truly was perfect, wasn’t it? I hope you feel the same.
During the first few weeks I couldn’t keep anything down, but now that I’m in my second trimester, I’m able to eat normal again. And good grief do I crave the craziest things. Apples dipped in a Wendy’s Frosty. Singing River doesn’t have a Wendy’s, so every day when I get off work, I drive thirty minutes to the nearest one. Crazy, right? But the lime wants what the lime wants. I’m not about to argue with him or her.
That brings me to another thing. Once I got used to the idea of having a baby, I was excited. But parenting alone in a city where I knew no one did not sound like my idea of a good time. I moved back in with my grandparents here in Singing River and accepted a job teaching art at the high school. People have been great, though. So far, I haven’t been forced to don the proverbial Scarlet Aor hang my head in shame before Mawmaw’s church congregation.
Despite those tiny mercies, this hasn’t been easy. I don’t miss the looks some people cast in my direction. Most days I feel like everyone looks at me like I’m a dejected puppy. Cute, but not worth the cost of having. One day, while in the throes of a pity party, I admitted this to my grandmother. She reminded me we can do hard things. That’s something she’s always told me. I hope she’s right. Some days I’m not so sure.
All that to say, this is most likely the first of many letters. Wherever you are in the world, I hope you’re doing well. I’m sure you’re out there saving the day like Superman. Or, as I like to say, Clark.
Till next time,
Jo (and our little lime)
P.S. Enjoy the drawing.
There’s so much of the girl I met years ago written here, humor wrapped around each word. Quite possibly deflecting from harder emotions she was carrying at the time. I even detect her anxiety and fear in between the lines.
At the bottom, she’s drawn a green lime with a speech bubble readingHey, Dad!I read over the letter two more times before eventually folding it and placing it back on top of the stack. Several seconds pass while I try to pull myself together. It goes without saying, it wasn’t just one night for her either. Granted, it was for completely different reasons, but still, she wrote letters. That’s got to mean something, right? The first line of this letterechoes a thought that’s been vying for my attention since I first laid eyes on her downtown. The universe came through for us, against all the odds.
Refusing to get my hopes up too soon, I mull over the rest of the letter. If Jo was twelve weeks pregnant at that time, it was probably late summer…August, maybe? Around that time, I was helping Austin navigate a recording contract, watching all his dreams become reality. Meanwhile, Jo’s dreams were crushed.
My mind conjures up all the art and photos hanging on Jo’s walls, an evening spent telling whoops and poops around a dinner table. How hard she’s willing to fight for her art program. No, maybe all those dreams weren’t crushed. Despite whatever she’s been through over the years, the unfiltered joy she feels as a mother shines through. Maybe she learned to form new dreams around a different reality.
This box of letters is a window to Jo’s past and to Abby’s beginning. I’d love to savor them, read one a day, but my hand moves of its own accord, unfolding the next letter.
Dear Tyler,
Our lime has now grown to the size of a mango. Also, she’s a girl. I had my ultrasound this morning. I tucked a copy of it in this letter, you know, in case you ever read this. Or not. Whatever. It’s foolish of me to entertain that possibility.
Anyway, our baby girl is the size of a mango, and she’s now developing fingerprints and growing hair. I think last night I felt her kick, but I can’t be sure. It was the tiniest of flutters. The human body is wild…with its capacity to bring forth new life. My body is quickly changing with this pregnancy, and I’m trying to make peace with it. But you should see my stomach. It looks like a road map with all the stretch marks. But this is just part of being pregnant.
My grandmother taught me to sew last week, and over one weekend we made two pairs of maternity pants. My car’s transmission went out, so I don’t have much money for maternity clothes, but the ones we whipped up are cute! My stitches were all wonky, but Mawmaw saw them and said, “You’ll never notice it on a galloping horse.” Did my grandmother call me a galloping horse? :) This coming weekend we’re attempting maternity tops.
I’m sure you don’t care about my prowess at the sewing machine, so I’ll end for now. Hope you’re doing well out there in the universe.
Josie
