“Coffee is brewing,” Branda continues. “How do you take it?”
“Black,” I respond, and because I think she will appreciate the lame joke, I add, “like my soul.”
A slow grin creeps across her face. “I like you, Esme.” Then she bounces back into the kitchen. Literally. It’s as if she’s walking on those old Moon Shoes.
“I don’t want to worry you,” Ashton whispers, leaning closer to me so that I can hear him. “But I’m 99 percent sure Branda is going to do everything within that five-foot-two frame of hers to get you and Noah back together after we find him.”
I choke on an exasperated breath, coughing a few times before gaining my composure.That’s what I get for immediately bonding with someone,I grimly think to myself. But would it be so bad? I was attracted to Ashton when I met him. I swoon over Noah’s looks according to my novel, and, well, he looks like Ashton, too. Also according to my novel, I immediately bonded with Noah. Maybe I will again? Maybe we will still have some connection that withstood the test of my memory?
And now you’re just allowing your whimsical, romantic side to take over. Save it for the novels, Esme. Real life isn’t a romance book.
“Esme!” Link appears from the hallway, and I turn to smile at him. An elderly lady with a gray bun atop her head and a shimmering gold shirt highlighted by her white dress pants stands beside Ashton’s dad. “This is my mother, Lois. She’s excited to meet you.”
“Hush, boy,” Lois says in a no-nonsense voice, briefly whacking Link in the leg with her bejeweled cane. “I can speak for myself. Now, stand up, girl. I want to look at you.”
Scrambling to my feet to accommodate the daunting woman, I make a move toward her, but I accidentally step on the edge of my skirt. The sudden slickness of the fabric under my foot against the hardwood floor sends me careening backward until I’m sprawled on top of Ashton’s lap. One of his knees jabs into the middle of my back while the other rests underneath my upper thigh. My head is lolling against the armchair of the couch, and above me, a mug of tea held in a firm grasp floats across my vision.
“Thanks for not spilling the scalding liquid on me,” I say through a groan masquerading as a laugh. “Those are some cat-like reflexes you’ve got there.”
Ashton’s amused face comes into view as I lie there contemplating if facing Lois is something I am capable of doing now. “Do I also have a body like a pillow?”
“No,” I state without thought. “Your body is like a—” I pause, remembering where I am and who I’m with. This man isnotNoah, and regardless of the slight attraction I once harbored for Ashton, it’s no longer present. Ashton is, however, quickly becoming a confidant. A friend. And friends don’t comment on the chiseled, perfectly sculpted condition of another friend’s body. Embarrassment blossoms through my veins, and I slowly close my eyes. In a whisper I pray Lois is too old to hear, I say, “You can just pour that tea on me now. I’d like an excuse to leave and save a morsel of my dignity.”
“Dignity is overrated, girl. Now are you going to keep using my grandson—the wrong one, mind you—as a lawn chair or are you going to get up and let me get a good look at you?” Lois’s words are sharp, but not unkind. She’s just like Grannie Bertha—blunt, truthful, and sarcastic in the best of ways. And for some reason, I really want to impress this woman.
She’s got that energy that demands respect and cooperation.
Get off my brother’s lap,Noah growls.
As I start to haul myself up, Ashton uses his free hand to act as leverage against my back. Within awkwardly silent seconds punctuated with my heavy breaths, I’m back on my feet and lifting my skirt, walking with renewed confidence toward the thin, mouthy woman. I’m a good half a foot taller than she is, but her steely gaze makes me feel like I’m nothing more than a toddler. Still, I drop my skirt, square my shoulders, and jut out my hand. “Hello, I’m Esme Jenkins. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Ashton—and, er, Noah, in the past it seems, spokehighly of you.” I vaguely recall a moment in my book where the characters discuss their families, and Noah’s character loved his grandmother deeply.
I’m surmising it was a real conversation.
“Hmph.” Lois and her bejeweled cane walk three circles around me as she eyes me up and down, occasionally grunting or harrumphing. Finally, she stops in front of me, looks me dead in the eyes, and gives me the biggest dentured smile. “It’s so good to meet you, sugar. When Ashton said he’d found you and that it seemed you were gaining your memory back, I told that boy he’d better bring you to meet me. Noah spoke so highly about you in his text messages and writings, and now that he’s run off, you’ll be the one to bring him back to us.”
The loading wheel above my head spins and spins as I reconcile the doting woman with the one who circled me like a vulture moments earlier.
“Well, go on now. Say something.” Lois pokes me in the thigh with the bottom of her cane.
I clear my throat and say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m sorry you lost him because of me.”
“Nonsense, girl.” Lois pokes me again, but then Link gently lowers the cane and tosses me an apologetic smile. “The Good Lord has a reason for everything. And my grandson is acting how he feels he needs to in order to cope with his darkness.”
I open my mouth to apologize for being the source of his pain, but Lois cuts me off with a whack of her cane against my thigh. “And don’t you apologize for his depression. You are not the source of that, either.”
Overwhelm sets in as this seemingly loving family looks at me with hope and expectancy in their eyes as if I’m their savior, as if I am the only one who can bring Noah—a man I don’t remember, or, well, barely remember I guess—back to them. My brain isspinning and my chest is tightening, my breaths coming short and labored.
“Will you all, uh, give us a minute,” Ashton says, and I barely register him placing his hand on my back and pushing me somewhere that’s not the living room full of hopeful Prewitts.
“Five things, Esme,” Ashton says.
I look around our new location. It’s a room full of trophies, sports jerseys, and childhood photos. Like a memorial room of sorts. “You and Noah playing football,” I say, noting a framed photograph hanging on the wall. “Soccer trophies. The smell of burnt rubber.” I scrunch my nose, and Ashton laughs.
“That’s the workout mats in the room next door. Dad just had them recut.”
I nod, the pressure in my chest easing. Ashton presses his hand into my lower back, stabilizing me. “Two more things, Esme.”
“A chill.” I shiver, looking up to find the source of the suddenly cool air. “The condensing vent.”
