Simple

by Toler, B N

  Confused, I slowed down. “Stop where?”

  “Here,” she snapped, and I immediately hit the brakes. She opened her door and climbed out the second the truck stopped moving.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Thanks for the ride, Cole, but I’ve got it from here,” she said dismissively as she grabbed her guitar case. It was close to eleven and we’d stopped just outside of the Ho-Bo, the only bar in town.

  “This is a bar, Emalee. You’re underage.”

  She rolled her eyes and shut the door. Through the open passenger window she said, “I’ve got a fake I.D.” Then, with a wave much like I’d given to Colleen, she added, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  When she took off inside the bar, I remained in the street for a moment staring at the entrance. She was almost 18. An adult really. If she wanted to traipse in to some honky-tonk by herself who was I to worry about it? I wasn’t her father or her boyfriend. Hell, I wasn’t really even a friend. We were acquaintances. Acquaintances didn’t worry about each other. That’s just not the way it worked.

  Fuck.

  I couldn’t just drive away, but I couldn’t let her know I’d hung around, so I turned down a side street and parked in the shadows where I could keep an eye on her when she came out, just to make sure she actually did have a ride home. Ten minutes later she emerged, holding her guitar case under one arm and trying to support her father with the other as he drunkenly staggered along beside her, her voice carrying across the mostly vacant lot.

  “Come on, Daddy,” she encouraged through gritted teeth as she held him up. “We’re almost to the car.”

  My palms itched with the need to help, but that was a bad idea on so many levels. They managed a few clumsy steps before her father fell forward onto all fours. He was shit-faced. Emalee set her case down, throwing furtive glances in every direction, obviously hoping no one was nearby to witness. She couldn’t see me from where I was parked across the street.

  Tugging at one of his arms she grunted, “We have to get up, Dad. You just have to make it a few more feet.”

  He may have been on his hands and knees, and not a complete blob on the concrete, but it didn’t look like he would be able to get up without some help, and little Emalee needed to be a linebacker to do it.

  “It’s not your place, Cole,” I said aloud as I gripped the steering wheel in a last-ditch effort to stay out of it. Shaking my head at myself, I slid out of the truck and jogged over to them.

  Emalee’s brows furrowed in confusion at the sight of me. “You’re still here?”

  “Let’s get him up and to the car,” I said, ignoring her question as I bent to grab her father under the arm and lift him to his feet. I could tell she wanted to press me for an answer, but she was more concerned with the urgency of getting her father to their vehicle before anyone saw him too drunk to stand. Together, we hoisted him up as he babbled incoherently.

  Did he just thank a bee?

  “Can you understand him?” I asked her.

  “No,” she grunted, her voice strained as she struggled to keep her father on his feet.

  We managed to get him to the car and laid him down in the backseat. After making sure his limbs were safely inside, she shut the door and glanced at me.

  “Twice in one night,” she mused with a shake of her head.

  I tilted my head. “What?”

  “You came to my rescue twice in one night,” she clarified. “Thank you.” Glancing back at the car, she added, “He doesn’t normally do this.” An indentation formed between her brows. “Not that I know of anyway.”

  “So he left you there tonight to come to a bar?”

  Her gaze dropped. “He didn’t say where he was going, just that he’d be back before I went on. Something must’ve happened.”

  I clenched my fist. Her father had left her alone at the festival to perform so he could get drunk. It made my stomach knot to think what might have happened if I hadn’t been there when that asshole creep was harassing her. I wanted to open the car door and punch her father one time good and hard. He was probably too drunk to feel it, but he’d feel it in the morning.

  “Are you good to drive him home?” I finally managed after an awkward moment.

  She bobbed her head. “Thanks, Cole.”

  “Oh, your guitar,” I remembered. It was still sitting where she’d left it when her father fell. I retrieved it for her quickly and maneuvered it into the passenger seat.

  As she slid behind the wheel it dawned on me that she’d had a really terrible night. “Hey,” I said, leaning down to meet her eyes. “Tonight. You were really good.” I gave a weak smile. “Mom’ll get a kick out of knowing you played Tanya.”

  Her features perked up as she started the car. “You think so?”

  “That song brings back a lot of good memories. She used to sing it to my dad to cheer him up after a hard day.” I smiled sadly as I remembered them dancing in the kitchen. “She’s always been a song bird, too. That’s why it was a shock to us when she called you that—that was his nickname for her. He always said she had the voice of an angel; that she was his siren, his weakness.” They’d been two of the most uncomplicated, no frills people I’d ever known, but their love was something to be admired. Even when they’d argued, the love was still there.

  Emalee’s eyes moved over my face, studying me. I hadn’t meant to say so much, I’d only meant to make her night a little less shitty, but there I was letting all my once-happy memories spill out.

  “I wish I could’ve heard her before…” she paused and looked away, feeling bad for what she’d almost said.

  “I know it made her think of him and better times when you sang it with her the other day. I…” I paused and cleared my throat. “We really appreciate it, Em.”

  Her brows lifted slightly. “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the first time you’ve ever called me Em. You’ve always called me Emalee. Only my friends and family call me that.” She gave a half-hearted coy smile. “I guess that means we’re friends now.”

  I dropped my gaze. It hadn’t been intentional; her nickname had just come out. I met her gaze again and said, “Be careful driving home, Em.”

  She stared at me for a long moment then quickly looked away as she shifted into reverse. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I shut the passenger door and patted the window once. As she drove off I mumbled, “You just couldn’t listen to yourself. Just couldn’t listen. And now you care about her, you idiot.”

  Dressed in one of Nana’s silk robes and slippers, my mother followed me outside and over to the car after I arrived home and explained to her what had happened.

  My father was more or less squished in the backseat. He was a big man, and his arms and legs were folded awkwardly around him so he could fit. At the sight of him, she crossed her arms and took a step back toward the house. “Leave him, Em.”

  My mouth fell open in shock. “We can’t leave him out here all night,” I protested. “He’s crammed in there like a sardine, and it’s hot as hell out here.”

  She gave me a tight smile and shook her head. “I’m sorry he put you in this position.” Without another word she spun around and went back inside. I let out an exhausted breath. It had been a trying night and all I wanted to do was go to bed.

  I felt bad leaving him out there, but I couldn’t carry him in by myself; he was three times my weight. I shook him a few more times and called his name, but he didn’t stir. “Sorry, Daddy,” I whispered. I rolled the windows down and shut the doors, offering a silent prayer that he wouldn’t die of heatstroke in his sleep, a wave of defeat enveloping me as I went inside.

  “‘Jackson,’ by Johnny Cash,” Constance slurred, and I immediately started strumming the tune and belted it out. Visiting with Cole’s mother after the events of the night before was a welcome distraction, and with the drama brewing at home, I was doing everything I could to stay busy.

  Ha. Ha. Ha.
/>   Even as her device laughed robotically, she let out a squeaky laugh of her own.

  Constance liked to test me and my musical knowledge. She’d tell me the name of a song to play, and if I didn’t know it, I had to play a song of her choosing. Since I loved singing more than anything, I think I enjoyed the game more than she did. Constance had insisted I play her old guitar so I wouldn’t have to strap mine on my back to bike over on the days I visited. I’d sit on the end of her bed, or in the chair beside it, playing her guitar for hours.

  Truth be told, I didn’t do much for Constance other than provide entertainment. Joe was in and out doing things for her, and eventually her in-home nurse Annie returned so I was spared any real care-taking responsibilities.

  “You know, Constance, you look all sweet and innocent, but you mean business when it comes to games,” I chuckled.

  Ha. Ha. Ha.

  It had taken me some time to adjust to not seeing Constance’s emotions in her expressions. Most people’s true emotions showed in their expressions, even if the words they spoke indicated otherwise, but with Constance, that wasn’t an option. For the most part the words—robotic and flat from her device, or drawn-out and slurred when she managed to speak herself—were all I had to rely on, but sometimes I could see her joy reflected in her eyes. ALS had made her body a wall doing it’s damnedest to keep anything from coming out, but the eyes were a window in. It shattered my heart, but at the same time made me feel so special to know I could bring her even the smallest amount of happiness.

  Joe rolled into the room and smirked. He wasn’t the friendliest person, but I think he was starting to like me. Or at the very least, getting used to me. “What’s this?” he asked, picking up the notebook I’d been using to jot down Constance’s and my all-time favorite movie quotes.

  I dramatically announced, “Your mother and I are quite the movie enthusiasts, dear Joe. Why, I don’t think there have ever been two such ladies that were so enamored with the art of moving pictures. Inside that notebook you will find pages and pages of the most beautiful and poetic lines ever spoken on the silver screen.”

  “The Quotebook,” he read from the cover before he glanced at me, one of his brows arched.

  I shrugged. “Yeah, you get it? Notebook…quotebook.”

  “Yeah, it’s my legs that don’t work Emalee, my brain is still firing on all cylinders.”

  I widened my eyes, a little shocked by his candor and that he’d mentioned his legs. Not wanting him to know he’d thrown me, I hurried on, “Your mom came up with the title.” I glanced back at Constance and winked. “Which is brilliant.”

  She laughed again.

  In the midst of our musical shenanigans, we’d watched the movies I’d brought her, and I’d developed a serious love for the classics. There was something about black and white film that captured my heart, and I swooned over the dreamy male leads and their deep voices. I’d decided to start writing down our favorite quotes so I wouldn’t forget them.

  When Constance laughed, Joe smiled. A real genuine smile that reached all the way to his eyes. Joe Kepner actually smiled.

  “So handsome when your face does that thing it’s doing right there,” I said as I pointed at him. “What’s that called when the muscles in your face lift your mouth?” I squinted, feigning deep thought.

  His smile immediately fell. I glanced at Constance, who was staring at her son with a mother’s adoration, before looking back to Joe. “Don’t worry, Joe Kepner. I won’t tell anyone that under that broody persona, you’re actually a big marshmallow who loves his mama and has a smile that could get any girl in town.”

  He looked up to the ceiling as if praying for patience to deal with my over-the-top personality. The only one that seemed to openly enjoy my boisterous personality was Bailor. We were pretty much birds of a feather—more like peacocks, the two of us proudly flaunting our brilliant fanned out feathers of color.

  Flipping open the quotebook, Joe sifted through a few pages before stopping. “Why are some written in red and some in blue?”

  “Constance’s are in red, mine are blue.” For some reason I had felt it important to differentiate which ones she favored and which ones I favored.

  “I can only imagine what quips you picked,” Joe said sarcastically.

  “I picked some good ones,” I said confidently.

  He cleared his throat and lifted one brow, then in a professor-like voice said, “That little speech right there sounds like the crackle of confederate money.”

  “Holiday Inn,” I said with a laugh, noting the movie it was from.

  Joe snickered. “I guess that’s one way to tell someone they’re full of it.”

  I perked up and beamed at Constance. “Did you hear that? He almost laughed.” I clapped my hands obnoxiously before balling my fists up and closing my eyes as if anxiously awaiting something. “I’m so close. So close.”

  Again, his expression fell into his Mr. Serious I don’t know what joy is look. “So close to what?”

  “One day, Joe, I’m going to get it,” I promised. “I’m going to get you to laugh.”

  He shot me a look that conveyed he was unphased by my promise before he cut a glance to his mother and quirked one side of his mouth up. “Well, let’s see which ones you liked, Ma.”

  “What are y’all up to in here,” Cole asked as he entered the room. He was dirty and sweaty, and I had to fight myself to not stare at him.

  Trying. To. Make. Joe. Laugh. Constance told him.

  “Oh,” Cole nodded, his lip doing the Elvis-curl again. “Taking on the impossible. That’s pretty ambitious for a Saturday, ladies.”

  Constance let out her squeaky laugh.

  We all chuckled…except for Joe, but I could tell he wanted to, even if Cole had made a joke at his expense.

  “I’m about to read some of our dear mother’s favorite classic movie quotes from the ‘quotebook,’” he explained to Cole while mocking our notebook title.

  Cole crossed his arms, seemingly interested. Heat crept across my cheeks as our gazes kept finding one another’s, only to immediately tear them away.

  Joe flipped a few pages until he found red writing. “Dying’s a lot like being in love,” he paused, his lashes moving frantically as he blinked. “You can’t imagine it until it’s right on top of you.”

  The room went silent as Joe stared at the page, unmoving. After a moment he flipped it closed and dropped it on the table where he’d found it. Clearing his throat, he said, “Glad you ladies are enjoying the movies.” Cole had to take a quick step back to clear the way as Joe quickly maneuvered out of the room.

  Cole dropped his head. “I just came in to get some tea. I better get back out there.” He left just as quickly as Joe. When I looked at Constance my heart broke as a tear trickled down her cheek.

  Grabbing a tissue, I wiped her face. “Shopworn Angel,” I said softly. It was a movie about a man, played by Jimmy Stewart, going off to war and most likely his death. It was a beautiful movie quote, but the words were deep, especially in this house, where it felt as if all of the Kepner men were at war—with themselves and each other—and death felt like it was on top of everything and everyone.

  The days droned on, a continuous loop of the same. Wake up. Work all day. Watch my mother die. And of course, deal with Emalee. And by deal with, I mean try not to stare at her. Try not to make her laugh whenever I saw her. Try not to think about her.

  It seemed every time I turned around, there she was. Even if she wasn’t actually in sight, just knowing she was in our home was enough to keep me constantly glancing at the house.

  I.

  Hated.

  It.

  That morning, she’d showed up on her bike wearing a white cotton dress. Her hair was in a ponytail, and it was the first time I’d ever seen her without makeup. Faint freckles speckled her cheeks and nose, and when she saw me, she rode over and circled around me on her bike.

  “Well if it isn’t Cole Kepner, I’
ll be,” she said in an exaggerated southern accent.

  I snorted a laugh as I turned with her, the eye of her tornado. “Guess what?” she prompted.

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow is my birthday.”

  I perked up. “So, tomorrow is the big day. Eighteen.” I shook my head. “To be so young again,” I jested.

  Her smile made my blood rush. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want for my birthday?”

  I rolled my eyes, hoping she couldn’t see the effect she was having on me; how dizzy she was making me and that it had nothing to do with her circling me. I threw my hands up. “Sure,” I said attempting to sound like I really didn’t care. “Tell me.”

  She hit the brakes and planted her feet on the ground still straddling the bike. Her vixen gaze fixed on mine, locking me in.

  “A kiss.”

  I thought I might combust right then and there as heat rushed my body. My eyes immediately fell to her mouth as I licked my lips, my body already in motion to give her the gift she requested.

  “Hey, Em!” Bailor called as he left the barn causing Emalee to snap her head back.

  She turned back to me and grinned when she saw my mouth hanging open like an idiot. Smacking my shoulder, she laughed, “Just kidding, Cole.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t have a stroke.”

  She whipped the bike around and rode over to Bailor, her ponytail drifting in the breeze. “What’s up, Bailor?”

  The two chatted as she leaned her bike against the tree and walked in the house. I let my head fall back, a growl erupting from me. It was getting damn near impossible to be around her. “Just a couple more months,” I told myself. I decided I’d have to adjust how I interacted with her. I clearly couldn’t humor her; she enjoyed trying to get a rise out of me way too much. I knew she liked me; I could tell. She always tried to find a reason to be around me and touch me. I needed to close off to her, for both of our sakes.

  That afternoon when she came outside to leave, dark clouds billowed in the sky a short distance away. As she walked her bike out from the tree, she looked up at the impending storm, uncertainty in her expression. There was no way she could ride home before the rain hit.