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My fingers graze the hard plastic clip. I tug it out and sit back before I do something crazy. This girl didn’t climb into my truck to be assaulted.
“Here,” I say gruffly. “Buckle up.”
“You too, buttercup.”
“What?”
“You said, ‘buckle up,’ and I said, ‘you too, buttercup.’”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I nod and buckle my own damn seatbelt. I know she said she walked to the motel from the bus station, but if she told me her unicorn was parked behind the motel, I just might believe her.
I fire up the truck and take a left onto the highway. We’re not going far; just to Friendly’s. It’s not like I can’t afford better, but I’m not trying to impress her. This isn’t a date. I’m going to feed her and drop her off at her motel.
During the ten-minute drive, Emily entertains herself by looking out the windows and giving me a play-by-play commentary on everything we pass. She makes note of the Walmart, the half-empty shopping mall, the Verizon store, and the adult sex shop. She sees Rita’s and yelps as I’m turning into Friendly’s parking lot. I nearly jump the curb.
“Sorry.” She grimaces, although her eyes still sparkle. “I got excited. I’ve always wanted to go to a Rita’s.”
Another guy would offer to take her. I’m not that guy. I’m still not sure why I’m taking her to Friendly’s. I park and climb out, but by the time I come around to open her door, Emily’s already hopped out. Just as well. Reminding myself—again—that this isn’t a date, I jam my hands into the front pockets of my pants to keep from touching her back as we cross the parking lot. I open the door to the restaurant, but she’s no longer beside me.
Instead, she’s standing at the edge of the sidewalk, taking pictures of an oversized container filled with daisies. Pink and purple petunias spill over the sides. I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia. My mother’s garden in Virginia was a riot of color from April through October. It’s then that I realize the floral scent I noticed earlier, combined with subtle whiffs of vanilla, is jasmine. The garden behind our house had an arbor that was covered with confederate jasmine. Probably still has one, although I wouldn’t know. Haven’t talked to my parents in years.
When she’s finished, Emily skips over to me. “Sorry, but they’re so pretty, I needed to take a picture.” She shows me her phone. “I love daisies. They’re my favorite. Someday, I’m going to plant tons of them so I can cut them and put them in every room in my house.”
“On your farm, right?” I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic, but I’ve been jaded for so long, it’s my go-to mechanism.
The wattage of her smile never dims, but I catch a flash of sadness behind her eyes.
“Exactly.” She shrugs. “I have dreams, Jack. Big ones. Other than the few things jammed in a suitcase I found at Goodwill, they’re all I have. And I’m okay with that. I left my former life behind and chose myself a new one. That new life comes with a whole new set of dreams.”
It’s been a long time since someone put me in my place, yet this five-foot-nothing wisp of sunshine does it with ease. If we were sitting, I might be squirming in my seat.
“There’s nothing wrong with having dreams, Jack.”
I can’t help but snort.
“Yeah, right.”
Her eyes narrow and her face scrunches. She studies me harder. Enough that it’s almost uncomfortable, but she struck a nerve.
“What if you never get that farm, Emily? Then what? Or what if you finally buy yourself a dozen acres of land, plant your flowers and your vegetables, put up that white picket fence, raise a fuck-ton of animals? But then there’s a drought and nothing grows. And the animals get sick, and the vet bills are astronomical, and you have no choice but to put them down so they won’t suffer. The taxes come due on the farm, but you can’t pay them, so you’re forced to pack up your shit in your second-hand suitcase and take the bus because that old, pink pickup with your name painted on the door won’t start.
“Then what, Emily?” I practically spit out her name. “Huh?”
The hostess chooses that moment to appear and, after giving me an icy once-over, leads us to a booth in the back, far away from the other diners.
I snatch the menu off the table. I stare at the pages, but I’m too wound up to see anything.
Emily slides into the booth across from me and brightly thanks the hostess while I count to a hundred in my head. This is what I get for trying to be a nice guy—a lecture on dreams. I had big dreams too. So big that when they imploded, they took me and everything around me down with them.
We sit in silence. I’m up to the mid-eighties when a finger with chipped pink nail polish hooks and lowers my menu. Emily leans in closer. Her face is serious, her eyes wet and glassy. Of course I hurt her feelings. It’s what I do—hurt people.
This was a mistake.
I drop the menu and am about to pull out my wallet and give her money for an Uber so I can get the fuck out of here, but she speaks and virtually knocks me on my ass.
“Who did this to you, Jack? Who hurt you so badly that they stripped your dreams from you and left you empty?” Her eyes fill, and I’m speechless. She’s not upset with me. She’s upsetwithme. A dainty hand covers my rough, red, scarred one and squeezes. She doesn’t have a clue what I’ve been through. Usually, anyone who’s in my presence for more than a minute or two knows I’m a mean, angry sonofabitch and steers clear.
But no one, not even my parents, has bothered to concern themselves with how my world falling apart destroyed me. How it hurt me, changed me.
