Speak From The Heart: a small town romance

by L. B. Dunbar

  She doesn’t look at me but takes a long drink of the wine I’d offered her earlier. I brought the bottle especially for her.

  Why wouldn’t someone pick her? I’d pick her a million times over.

  “It’s because you’re pushy,” I tease, hoping to break the tension. Instantly, I realize it was a poor choice of words.

  “I never push anyone into relationships with me. In fact, I’m typically the first to walk away.” She sits straighter, speaking like it’s a badge of honor, but then realizes what she said. My wife left me. “Only that really doesn’t happen often.” She swallows like there’s something she isn’t saying, and I don’t ask. I don’t want to know her dating history.

  “Never been in love then?” The words taste bitter as I ask. I don’t want to consider her loving someone who left her, but with all the love she seems to give, I can’t believe someone didn’t grab at it.

  Are you willing to grab at that? my heart asks, and the immediate answer is no way. I’ll never fall in love again.

  Then another thought occurs. Might be too late for that statement, pal.

  My eyes trace the lines of her face. The sweetness of her cheeks. The rosy pink to her lips. The brilliance to her blue eyes. But it’s more than her beauty. She’s taming the Beast within me. I’m rough, and I know it. I’m protective and closed off because of Katie, but Emily has opened the door, just a bit, just enough that light has begun to seep in, and I’m curious when I should be cautious. I can’t fall in love with her.

  “Can’t say it’s truly happened, no.” She’s back to staring at the firepit, and I hate the tension surrounding us. The night feels off, when all I wanted was to just relax with her, bring her into the fold of my family since she’s missing most of hers. She’s mentioned her sister, Grace, and Grace’s impending delivery. It must be hard to be away from her best friend. Tom is mine. Gavin Scott used to be. And I admit it was difficult to be away from those friendships for so long. Now I’m back near Tom, working with him every day.

  Reaching for her hand, I lift it to my lips and press a lingering kiss to her knuckles. I don’t want to fight with her.

  “So tell me something else about yourself, Emily Post of Chicago. What’s your favorite movie?” If I can’t have her heart, because I can’t give her mine, I can at least learn a little more about her. Playing twenty questions seems to be the way to do it.

  + + +

  The night wears on, and I admit I can’t shake the funk from earlier. I think about Gabe and the fact he hit on her, and her mention of never being picked and not falling in love. I’m all twisted up over this woman, and I end up drinking too much. It’s a given I can’t drive home. I’ll likely crash at Tom’s since he has room, and Katie loves to spend the night here.

  When Emily hints it’s time for her to leave, I walk her out to her car. I’m supposed to go to her place tomorrow and discuss the sink. I’ve found some options, but I’m starting to think a full kitchen renovation might suit the house better. I don’t like the possibility she might sell or even rent. If she can design the place the way she wants, she might stay.

  Right, dude. Like she’ll stay because she loves a new kitchen sink.

  It’s worth a shot, but I’m not really in the frame of mind to think such things as I walk her out to the street.

  “Wow, it’s so dark here,” she marvels, looking up at the sky. “No streetlights to lead the way.”

  “No bright lights for my big city girl,” I tease, tugging her to me, settling her between my spread legs as I lean back against her driver’s side door, blocking her entrance. I want to tug her into the back seat and fuck her six ways to Sunday, erasing any thoughts of Gabe and the assholes who didn’t love her and then restore the afterglow of last night. However, I have had too much to drink.

  She leans against me, arms tucked between us, so her chest doesn’t fall against mine. It’s defensive, and I’d call her out on it if she wasn’t playing with the collar of my T-shirt, stroking her fingers along the neckline. It feels nice. I like when she touches me. She isn’t afraid to go for what she wants. I don’t need to be king of the bedroom, so I have no problem bowing to a queen.

  “You smell like mosquito spray,” I whisper, nuzzling my nose into her neck, trying to inhale her real scent of rain showers and sunshine. The scent overwhelmed me when I had her in my truck the day I picked her up with her groceries, and it hasn’t left my senses.

  “You doused me in it,” she says, referring to the repellent.

  “Oh, yeah. I think I missed a spot.” I press a kiss to her neck, and she tilts her head to give me better access. I like how she responds to me.

  “I also think I missed one here,” I say, reaching for the collar of her dress and tugging it to the side, nipping just below her throat. While most people had on jeans or shorts tonight, Emily showed up in a dress. The floral print is too colorful, but it’s all her. She’s brightness.

  “And here,” I whisper, leaning in for her lips.

  Suddenly, a high-pitched voice screeches, “What is this?”

  Fuck.

  I turn my head with Emily still between my legs.

  “Jess?” The female comes into view, but I don’t need to see her to know who it is.

  “Sami,” I reply, choking on her name. I’ve told her I no longer want to keep hooking up, that we could still be friends but no longer with benefits. She clearly didn’t get the memo and called the other night to meet up.

  “Is this why you couldn’t come over the other night?” She eyes Emily, who’s trying to wiggle from my grasp. Suddenly, my own limbs feel heavy as if all I’ve had to drink slams into me at once.

  I hold tight to Emily’s hips as she tries to step away. “No,” I command her.

  “I think I should go,” she whispers, her head ducking.

  Sami has no boundaries, and she saunters right up to my side while I’m still holding Emily. Only Emily gives me a firm shove, breaking our connection. She stumbles back.

  “No,” I respond, reaching for her, but she takes another step away, giving Sami the leverage she wants. Sami slips in front me, pressing her body to mine and blocking out Emily.

  “Jess.” My former lover grips my face, so I’m forced to look into the dark eyes of a woman I’ve spent too much time with over the last year. “It’s me. You don’t need that.”

  When her head tilts, I know she means Emily. She’s so wrong, though.

  I hear Emily mutter, “It’s always the next girl.”

  No, no, this is not that!

  I push at Sami’s hips, hoping to move her off me and away from Emily. Only Sami does what Sami does, and her lips land on mine. In the time it takes me to spin and fight Sami off me, Emily has slipped into her car. The engine starts, and the doors lock. I push Sami back and reach for Emily’s window, flattening my palm against the glass.

  My heart screams, don’t leave, but I haven’t given her a reason to stay.

  This is a shit storm, and it’s all my fault.

  Rule 14

  Love is more than a four-letter word.

  [Emily]

  The next morning, I decide to take out my irritation on the ugly, overgrown, no-good dying bushes in the backyard. With earbuds in and music blaring to drown out my thoughts, I vigorously saw at the base of the first juniper shrub. I use a mix of hacking and slicing to remove the offending bush. My arms are sore, but I enjoy the burn. I yearn for the ache in my chest to disappear.

  Earlier this morning, I’d found a letter next to a small container with daisies just outside Nana’s screened-in porch.

  Emily,

  I’m sorry. It’s not what it seemed, and yet those are the weakest of words. You drove off before I could explain myself, defend myself.

  You talk about fairy tales, then make me believe in them. Tell me, how can the underdog win in these stories?

  It’s hard to believe in happily ever after when the future looks cloudy and the past is a shitstorm of regret, but I know
one thing I’ll never regret is the chance you’ve given me and my baby girl.

  I pick you.

  He picks me. I feel mocked by his words. He didn’t pick me when someone else’s lips were plastered to his.

  This is why I’m not good relationship material. I expect monogamy, and that just doesn’t seem to be a thing.

  Still, I can admit the note was kind of sweet, as were the daisies, and I know I overanalyzed the symbolism of three flowers in the glass jar, thinking they represented Jess, Katie, and me. There is no three of us, though. There’s them and me. I know my place—and it’s not here.

  I throw my all into hacking at the base of the bush. It’s almost as bad as pulling weeds, which I finished doing weeks ago, and the garden looks pretty decent except for these shrubs. I have other concerns, like painting the inside of the house, but today, I need sunshine and to dispel all this pent-up energy.

  Did the other night mean nothing to him? He brought me the radio. He made love to me on the couch. Was it all a game to him? More sympathy because I lost Nana?

  I don’t need sympathy sex.

  A final whack at the bush’s base delivers the blow I need before I give the lower trunk a hard kick, and the upper portion of the bush falls over. I stare at the hole I’ve created and realize the roots remain encased in the soil, and unfortunately, those roots are entwined with the roots of the bush next to it. I pick up the old rusty spade I found in the garage and stab unsuccessfully at the earth. I don’t consider myself out of shape, but this type of physical labor is beyond my strength. However, anger fuels me onward until something tickles my arm, and I almost jab myself in the foot with the shovel. I brusquely brush at my skin, thinking a bug landed on me, only to look up and discover the man next to me.

  “Jesus,” I snap, tugging a bud from my ear.

  “No, Jess.” He laughs but humor fails me. Instantly, I turn away from him, returning to my unproductive work on the ancient roots.

  “Let me help you,” he offers, his voice lowering.

  “I got it,” I mutter, jabbing at the dirt only to have the shovel vibrate again.

  “Efficient. I get it,” he huffs. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” His voice rises as do his arms. “She came at me too quickly for me to stop it, but you saw me push her away. You saw me. Why would you leave like that?”

  “I don’t need to be caught in the middle!” I holler back at him, peering at him over my shoulder. “I don’t need this.” I want to yell, I don’t need you! but that would be a betrayal of my heart.

  “Emily, please. We aren’t together.”

  “You’re right, we aren’t,” I snap, turning to face him.

  His jaw clenches as he glares at me. “I meant Sami and me. I told you I broke it off.”

  “And why would you do that, Jess, when you know I’m the temporary one?” My heart sinks at the admission. I’m the one who will leave.

  Might.

  Should.

  I can’t stay.

  He stares at me, his face falling into an expression I can’t read.

  “Did you read the note I left you?” his terse voice questions.

  “Yes, I did.” I pick you. But does he really?

  Jess crosses his arms and looks off toward the Mueller’s house. “This is why I don’t date,” he mutters.

  I gasp. “Because you’d have to make a choice?”

  “Because women are so infuriating.” He throws his arms out wide and slaps his hands to his thighs.

  “It was just sex, right?” I toss out, feeling sick to my stomach. The look on his face is indescribable, but I’d say murderous might be a good adjective.

  “It wasn’t that great. Isn’t that what you’ll say next?” he hisses, reminding me of how I tried to dismiss our first kiss.

  No, that’s not what I think of the best sex I’ve ever had, but I’m not admitting anything to him.

  He kissed another woman in front of me!

  Did he really kiss her back, Emily? The question has been haunting me all night. He’s wrong. Men are the infuriating gender.

  “None of this matters, Jess. I have stuff to do around here.” In an attempt to dismiss him, I thrust the spade edge at the dirt. I don’t even make a dent in the earth.

  Jess steps up to me and brings his fingers to my chin. He tips my head so I’m forced to look at him. “Of course it matters. You matter to me.”

  Not really a glowing declaration, I decide and tug my chin free.

  “Why are you here?” I ask, still irritated with him.

  “I’m here about the sink, remember? You need to replace the whole thing to fix the faucet.”

  I still, resting my forearm on the shovel handle, placing my forehead against my sweaty skin. I can’t take any more repairs to this place.

  “How much will something like that cost?”

  “I have a few options for you, but really, you should just gut that kitchen and update the entire room. Make it to your liking.”

  “I don’t need to like the kitchen,” I retort, looking up at him.

  “Why not? It’s yours.” I’d already told him about the fifty-fifty inheritance and how Grace and I needed to decide how to split things down the middle, so he knows it isn’t exactly mine.

  “I’ve decided to sell,” I blurt out although I really haven’t decided anything, and I’m crestfallen by what I’ve just said.

  Jess turns away from me again, narrowing his eyes at the Mueller’s backyard. His jaw works double-time, his finely edged cheeks clenching.

  “And that’s plan A,” he mutters under his breath.

  “There doesn’t seem to be a plan B.”

  We remain standing in silence until he reaches for the shovel from under my arm. He turns to the stump, and with four sharp thrusts, he unearths a good chunk of the thick root system. He uses the shovel to loosen the gnarled wood enough so that he can grab onto it with his hands. With a tug from his muscled arms, he removes the stump and tosses it into the yard behind us.

  “I can do the rest of them for you,” he mutters.

  I stare at him, but he doesn’t look up at me. “You don’t need to do that.”

  He nods, but I can tell he disagrees. His jaw still clenches. He has something to say, but he won’t.

  And for the first time, I’m out of words myself.

  + + +

  Jess and I work in silence for a good portion of the day. By the time we finish, I have a pile of old bushes by the street and a gaping, empty expanse along the back stretch of Nana’s property. It’s too open, and I decide I need a decorative wrought-iron fence to edge the yard and add some character. I say these things aloud, and Jess recommends a place to pick out the fencing. Then he says he can install it for me in two days. I shouldn’t agree to his offer, but I do. I need him because I’m running out of time again.

  Next week will be my final week here. I’ve already been put on an assignment for a story in Naperville, a southwest suburb of Chicago. I could argue the placement, but I don’t have the strength to tackle my boss and his directives. The underlying tone of the email I received suggested a finality to the decision.

  Be there or else.

  The longer I stay here, the more my thoughts have been flooded with memories of Nana. Her house holds a story in every corner. I think of the pile of articles I found in her dresser drawer upstairs, now safely stored in a plastic bin for future reading. Something still nudges at me whenever I consider her column. I chalk it up to how she did what she wanted to do, wrote what she wanted to write, and how she did it from here—her beloved home.

  I’m going to miss this place.

  “Have you considered maybe the paper isn’t the best place for you anymore?” Grace questions when I speak to her after a shower later that day.

  “I’m just waiting on my big break,” I tell her, no longer confident in what that break might be or when it will come.

  Still holding out for the future. The one that leads us into the unknown. Nana�
��s words haunt me.

  “Let me ask you something else. You’ve always been one to chase your dreams. But how long do you chase before the dream needs to change? How long do you wait, letting all the other great stories pass you by while you’re still holding out for the big break?” Grace pauses, taking a deep breath. “Have you ever considered your best story is your life, Em? And that you aren’t really living it?”

  Her words ring similar to Nana’s advice. Live for now.

  “Of course I’m living my life,” I snark. I work hard for the paper. I’m focused, determined. I’ll get where I want to go someday, but the words gnaw at me.

  Someday.

  Someday, I’ll get the column I want.

  Someday, I’ll be the girl who gets picked.

  Jess said he picked you.

  I dismiss the thought, telling myself it’s not the same thing, especially given he did it in response to last night. Sami squeezing herself between us was kind of intense.

  “Sure, sweetie,” Grace mocks. “And how’s it really working out for you?”

  “I don’t want to fight with you, Grace.” I exhale. I want my sister with me, but I understand why she can’t be. She’s off living her fairy-tale life, living her dream, unlike me.

  “I don’t want to fight with you either. Take a break tonight. Isn’t there some festival coming up soon?”

  “Yeah, remember Harbor Days?” I smile fondly, thinking back to the years we attended as teens and rode the carnival rides and stuffed our faces with sugary concession stand treats. We had good times here, ones I’d forgotten about until lately.

  “Go uptown. Take yourself out to dinner.”

  I don’t really want to go to town, but I don’t want to cook either. After we share our love with one another and hang up the phone, I decide I’ll just take a quick walk to the pizza place and grab something to go.

  As I near the corner of Main Street, I see the street is blockaded and bustling with activity.