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“Hey, Emery?” Aunt Quinn’s voice rings from upstairs. “I have a quick question. Can you come up here?”
“You can’t just yell it?” My brow furrows as my friends follow me to the stairs.
“Nope,” she calls out.
My aunt stands against the bathroom door, in her towel, a devilish smirk on her lips. “I have been really reserved about your personal time.” She speaks slowly. “But I am going to need details about how those appeared on the mirror.”
My gut falls to my feet as Savannah pokes her head in the steamy bathroom, dropping her jaw. I don’t need to look to know I forgot to clean my handprints.
“What have you been up to since Vegas?” Savannah turns to me as Hallie looks back and forth, trying to piece things together. “I wish I didn’t have to leave so soon. You better start talking, Em.”
Scrunching my face, I realize I’m caught. “I’m so stupid.” I run my hand through my hair. “How did I forget about the handprints?”
“You were lost in the moment of making the handprints.” Hallie grins as her green eyes twinkle. “Good for you and Ian,” she assumes.
“Quiet.” I shut my eyes, wishing this wasn’t happening.
“I bet you weren’t,” Savannah teases. “Do your neighbors know his name now, too?”
“He was exaggerating about the other time.” I cross my arms, internally swearing about letting that slip.
“Other time?” My aunt’s voice pitches, and Hallie gives me a look I’ve never seen.
“When? Why didn’t you tell me?” Hallie begins to sulk.
“After the hospital party, but I can’t continue something that’s bound to fail.” Taking a deep breath through my nose, my chest compresses at the thought of not seeing him again. “I’m heading back to Aspen in three days.”
Savannah shakes her head. “He’s such a great guy. I think he’s worth you trying to make it work.”
“Why don’t you have him?”What the hell is wrong with me?
“I need to get to class.” Savannah holds my stare. “And he sees you, Emery.”
“Exactly,” Hallie states. “I called that years ago.”
“He accepts you more than Logan ever showed he cared about me.” Savannah’s cheeks suck in. “And we were anactualcouple.”
“She’s too scared,” my aunt cuts in. “Emery likes keeping her heart solid like a statue, so if she loses someone again, she can pretend it doesn’t hurt.”
“I am not scared,” I defend. Sex aside, I like who I am with him. The thought suffocates me, knowing my countdown to seeing him on a normal basis is almost over. I need to figure out my shit and start therapy or something when I get back home. Even if I don’t have Ian, maybe then I’ll have part of me back.
“You are. I’m done with tip-toeing around.” Aunt Quinn holds the top of her towel, looking down at me. “I’m not saying to run into a guy’s arms, but it’s not healthy the way you’re dealing with all this crap.”
“We love you, Emery.” Savannah cups my face, her smile as bright as the sun. “It hurts to acknowledge pain. We’ve been over this. But once you do, life becomes beautiful again.” Her watch beeps. “I have to head out, but please let someone be there for you.”
I watch her leave and stay quiet, not knowing what to say. I’ve upset Hallie, my aunt is losing faith in me, and Savannah has been a rollercoaster with her nurturing and slapping me in the face––much like someone else I know. My aunt excuses herself to change, and Hallie just stares with a sad smile.
“Why did Savannah know about you and Ian hooking up and I didn’t?”
I give in, explaining everything and why there was tension in Vegas as my aunt comes back dressed, and we head downstairs.
“I’m really not hungry.” Hallie and my aunt blink as they head to the table with plates of food. Anxiety kicks in, spinning my thoughts. The alcohol cabinet lures my attention, wanting to not feel. It would be so easy to just down some whiskey along with these feelings. But I’m not that person anymore. “I need some air.” I bolt out of the house, needing to feel lighter with the open sky above.
My knotted gut plummets as mature trees line the driveway. But I welcome it. For a moment, time stands still. I smile to myself as my throat grows tight. Our property has only aged with the few happy memories I have to hold on to. Closing my eyes, I’m six years old again. I hear my father’s echo, telling me not to pass the last tree on my bicycle. My tiny blue handprint vandalizes a white pillar on the porch. I anticipated my mother to yell at that moment, but she called me a creative little bug. The squeeze of my heart hurts, yearning to hear her heartfelt laughter ring through my ears. The porch swing now sits dormant, collecting leaves instead of memories. Its glory days held hours of my parents and I listening to evening crickets and watching lightning bugs illuminate the humid nights of South Carolina. But those times faded like the paint on my old bicycle still leaning against the house.
What I wouldn’t give to be a child again.
To hear their voices.
