“You don’t have to do this,” Grant says as he pulls down the street I know so well from memory but have lacked the courage to venture back to since I returned to Sunnyville.
I’m not ignorant of the fact that he took the long way through the neighborhood. I am, however, silently relieved not to have to deal with seeing my old house for the first time since I left it twenty years ago.
I risk a glance his way, the anxiety I know visible in my eyes hidden by my sunglasses. “I know.”
I don’t know.
Needing to abate the nerves jittering through me, I slide my clasped hands between my thighs and squeeze my legs together.
Cue the panic.
“My mom is going to be thrilled to have a woman to balance out all the testosterone tonight,” he says and reaches over to squeeze the top of my thigh. He doesn’t remove his hand, though. I appreciate the silent show of support and wonder if he has any idea of the riot of emotions clamoring around inside me.
“It’ll be good to see her,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the houses as we pass.
Sally Glendale’s house is still there and still that awful green color we used to say looked like puke. Then comes Adam Beecham’s house to remind me of the hours we spent on the green transformer box out front playing UNO until the streetlights came on and it was time to go home.
Everything looks the same but so very different from my memories. I bet they’ve all moved out, moved on, and forgotten about the little girl, Emmy Reeves, two streets down who had the unthinkable happen to her.
Did their parents gossip about me for a long time after I left? Did they wonder if I was telling the truth, or did they just think I was making stuff up to get attention from my workaholic mother like little kids often did? Or did they not think of me at all because it was too unpleasant and might ruin the idyllic feeling of their safe neighborhood?
My palms grow sticky as the car slows down. My heart beats faster.
Why did I agree to come?
Because I know all of these people forgot about me a long time ago. I would bet that if I were to ask someone if they remembered the Reeves girl, they’d probably recall her name was Emily or Emma and have to think real hard about why the name sounded familiar.
Maybe I agreed to come because after the nightmare of last night, I don’t want to be alone tonight. I’m so exhausted that I fear what other dreams will come when I finally let my subconscious crash.
“Emerson?”
I look over to Grant, only to notice that we were already parked along the curb in front of a place I remembered more fondly than my own, the Malone house.
My smile hides my nerves as I take in the exterior. It’s just as I remember it being, but the paint’s newer and the flowers are brighter. There’s a woman’s attention to detail in the colorful pots carefully placed on the stoop, and I can hear the wind chimes tinkle in the breeze as Grant opens the truck’s door.
With a fortifying breath, I get out, but doubt shreds me apart with each and every step up the walkway. As positive as I am that most of Sunnyville doesn’t remember Emmy Reeves with the pigtails and freckles, I am certain that the Malone family does.
I spent years going to psychologists, and every single one of them had the same exact look when they spoke to me. Pity. They all thought I was broken and irreparable. As soon as I convinced my mom I didn’t need to go anymore, I promised myself no one would ever know about my past so that I’d never have to see that look again.
Now, for the first time since I made that promise, I’m willingly walking into a room, knowing full well I just might get that look again.
Grant must sense I’m about to lose my courage because he reaches out and links his fingers through mine, squeezing them in silent reassurance. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even glance my way. He just leads me up the last step as if this is an everyday thing for me.
“Hello?” he calls out as he opens the door, but his voice is drowned out by a cacophony of sound. A loud, baritone bark is echoing around the house, along with the screech of a little kid in what sounds like a tickle war. Laughter reverberates off the walls, and the faint chords of music playing in the backyard competes with the sound of an Indy race on a television no one seems to be watching.
Not only is it complete chaos but also it’s exactly how I remembered it.
I follow Grant through the formal living room and stop when I see Betsy Malone. Her back is to me, and she’s chopping vegetables on the counter I used to steal cookies from. Her hair may be shorter now, but everything else about her appears exactly the same.
“Mom,” Grant says.
“It’s about time you showed up,” she says, but when she looks over and sees me standing in her kitchen, her lips fall lax. “Emmy Reeves. Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel and steps toward me since I’m frozen in place. “Grant said you were gorgeous, but leave it to a man to understate the obvious. My goodness. Get over here, you, and let me hug you.”
Just like that, Betsy has her arms around me and is squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe, but it’s okay because if I breathe the tears that threaten are going to fall. I don’t want them to fall. Not here. Not now. Maybe later, but not now.
Her hand smooths down the back of my hair as if I were still a child, and I just close my eyes and sink into the feeling. It’s like I’ve stepped back in time. The familiarity of her voice and the feeling of her arms provided more comfort than she could have ever fathomed. I know I was stupid for worrying about coming here.
Betsy Malone was my second mother.
This is the closet I’ve felt to being home since long before I never had an actual home to go back to.
“Let me look at you,” she says, squeezing me one more time before stepping back and holding my arms out. When she meets my eyes, there are tears swimming in hers, and I enjoy knowing I’m not the only one who feels this overwhelmed being here again.
“Hi.” My voice breaks with the single word, and it causes her to smile and pull me in for one more quick hug.
“Wine?” She punctuates the word with a decisive nod, most likely to prevent me from getting uncomfortable. “Wine is definitely what us two women need to combat the five testosterone-laced beings manning the barbecue.”
And as if on cue, there’s a flash of fur followed by a squeal of delight chasing after him. A little boy with sandy blond hair and dirt smudged on his cheek zooms through the kitchen before skidding to a halt and narrowing his eyes at me.
He looks just like the Grant I remember.
The thought knocks me back as I stare at him longer than I should.
“Who’s she?” he asks Betsy.
“That’s Uncle Grant’s friend, Emerson.”
“Cool,” he says as he lifts a foot to continue his mad dash through the house.
“Luke,” she warns, making him stop and causing Grant to chuckle.
With a resigned sigh like I’m ruining his fun, he turns to face me. “Hi, my name is Luke Malone, nice to meet you,” he says in a monotone voice and holds his hand out. He’s absolutely adorable, and I have a feeling he’s also a bit of a hellion. The boy has Malone written all over him, which makes me like him because of and not in spite of it.
“Very nice to meet you, Luke. Is that your dog?” I shake his hand.
“No. That’s Poppy’s. He’s big and slobbery and nice. His name is Moose and right now, he has one of my Pokémon cards in his mouth, and it’s a Pikachu—a really good one—so I need to go get it back before he eats it.”
Before I can say another word, he zooms out of the kitchen like his pants are on fire, leaving me with the glass of white wine Betsy’s holding out to me and Grant eager to properly introduce me to the rest of the crew.
“See? That right there,” Grant says with a laugh, “is why neither of you two bast—jerks have a girlfriend.”
“This coming from the authority on women,” Grayson says with a roll of his eyes.
My cheeks hurt from smiling so much, which tells me it was the right decision to come here with Grant. It had been against my better judgment, but obviously, I was wrong.
Luke is lying on his back on the grass about twenty feet away from us, Moose curled up next to him and dwarfing the five-year-old in size. The little boy seems to be talking to himself while he makes up stories about the aliens in the stars above him. I smile as I think of how many adventures I had in this backyard. It’s the one place that holds one hundred percent positive memories for me, and that isn’t easy to find.
“How’s your studying going?” Betsy asks Grant, seemingly oblivious to the brief meeting of the eyes between Grant and his father.
“Good. I’m as ready as can be, but you know how it goes, there’s always politics involved,” he replies.
“Just remember, sometimes the high road can mean lying low,” Chief Malone murmurs, piquing my interest.
“Once an asshole, always an asshole,” Grayson chimes in, and I get the sense they are all talking about someone in particular, I just have no idea who. Even more peculiar is Betsy’s lack of a reprimand over Grayson’s comment, since over the course of dinner, most curse words were met with her rebuke.
No one can say this family doesn’t have each other’s backs.
“I have stronger words than that—”
“But you have a lady present,” Betsy interrupts and gives Grant a warning glare.
“Yes, ma’am.” Grant makes a show of looking properly reprimanded, which has his brothers snickering.
“Competition is healthy when going for a promotion,” she says in the most motherly of tones, “even if that competition is a self-serving prick.”
Everyone’s eyes widen as they look back and forth at each other to make sure their mother really just said that before bursting out into laughter over her unexpected comment.
“You have a lady present,” Grant mimics her.
“Yes, well, I’m sure Emmy’s heard those terms before, haven’t you, dear?” She pats my hand and smiles wider.
“So, Emerson,” Chief Malone says. “Grant tells me you are buying Blue Skies out at Miner’s Airfield.”
“I’m trying to,” I say. “After traveling for so long, it’s finally time to put some roots down. It’s been an adjustment staying in one place for this long, but it’s a good change. Blue Skies has been neglected for a while now so I’m enjoying breathing life back into it. Now I just can’t wait to make it mine. Fingers and toes crossed I get loan approval.”
“You always were up for a challenge,” Betsy says as she puts another piece of chocolate cake on my plate without my having to ask. “Eat up. You always loved dessert . . . but jumping out of airplanes? Really?”
There’s something about the way she references how I used to be with such nonchalance that makes it ring in my ears. When Grant mentioned the same thing at Desi’s, it made me uneasy. He was revealing a small part of my past to people unfamiliar with it. But this, Betsy bringing it up in the one place that was my safe haven, feels different to me. It’s almost comforting to know I existed to someone when I was a child and that they remember me. Moving on a whim and living like a gypsy, often doesn’t afford you that feeling.
“Emerson subscribes to the living-safely-is-dangerous theory,” Grant interjects as he bumps his knee against mine beneath the table.
“Well, if you’re with that asshole”—Grady gestures to Grant—“then you definitely like to live dangerously. He isn’t known to be one who sticks around longer than the quick—”
“Grady Malone,” Betsy warns in that tone that brings a smile to my lips. “You know better than to talk that way when someone brings a guest over. Your father and I did not raise unmannerly heathens.”
“Sorry, Mom,” he says with no sincerity before looking at me. “See? Nothing has changed. We still bicker constantly like we did when we were kids. We’re just older and the insults are more brutal.”
That’s the first time our collective past has been put out there in the open, causing an uncomfortable silence. Luckily, I’ve had enough wine that the mention doesn’t trip me up like it might have if I were completely sober.
“Is it sad that I remember that? The names you used to call each other and how when your mom called you by your full name, it meant you really were in trouble,” I say to try to ease the unspoken tension. “Being an only child, I never had to deal with that. The flip side was I couldn’t blame something on someone else either so my mom always knew if I was at fault.”
“How is your mom doing, Emerson?” the chief asks, and Grant tenses beside me.
“She passed away a few years back.”
“Oh, Emmy,” the chief says. “I had no idea. If my eldest would have had proper manners and let me know that, then we would have known not to ask. I’m so very sorry.”
“It’s okay. She was sick for a long time, and now her suffering is over.”
“What made you decide to move back here to Sunnyville?” he continues.
“Blue Skies.”
And possibly your son.
The thought has me lifting my fork and digging into the second piece of cake to clear the startling thought from my mind.
But it’s true. I always knew that if I moved back I’d run into Grant Malone eventually.
Hadn’t I wanted to?
Hadn’t I always looked in every crowd, just in case I saw his face?
“Well, whatever reason it may be, we’re glad to see you again,” Betsy says, breaking the sudden lull in conversation and patting my hand. “It’s like having my daughter back.”
Those simple words are like resin being poured onto the cracks of my heart. A protective shield to ward off whatever lies ahead for it.
There’s a crackling of a police scanner, and I smile at how all of them fall silent while codes are relayed over the radio. Their bodies still, heads all angle in the same mannerism that reflects they are related. Each so similar, yet so different.
“You’re being rude, gentlemen,” Betsy says and meets my eyes. “It’s a full-time job keeping the Malone men in line and away from work when they’re off duty.”
“Shame on us for saving lives,” Grady replies and has us all laughing.
“Always the class clown,” Betsy mutters in jest as she stands up with her plate in her hand.
“Can I help you clean up, Mom?” Grant asks as he scoots his chair back. “Emerson and I need to be getting back.”
“I thought you were off tomorrow,” Grayson says.
“I am, but I sprung this on Emerson without asking, so I’m sure she has other, more pressing things she needs to do.”
Every part of me wants to reject what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter how much I didn’t want to come here, because now I don’t want to leave.
There’s a feeling here I’ve missed for so very long.
A feeling I craved in my childhood that this house—that this family—provided to me.
Security.
That isn’t an easy thing for normal people to find in this world, let alone people with a past like mine. It’s often fleeting and habitually false.
It’s here and now that I’ve found it, I find that I’m scared to lose it.