When we were kids, my sister and I would ride our bikes for miles, taking in the glimmers of sunshine peeking through oak trees down our street—the humid heat beating down on our windblown faces. Racing to the nearest pond and making mud cakes with red dirt and sticks. Borrowing—er,stealing—our dad’s vintage Chevy pickup and speeding through cow pastures on the outskirts of town, practically flying through the roof when we ran over embankments we didn’t see coming. Laughing so hard it was practically impossible to keep from spilling the truth of what really happened to the front fender. Oklahoma was home sweet home to me for most of my life, and after going off to college, I had every intention of coming back.
Staying halfway across the country never even crossed my mind until I was engaged.
Ugh,was engaged.
“I’m feeling fine.Soecstatic.”
Her eye roll response is so strong next to me it practically reverberates in my ears.
“Really, I feel fine.” I don’t. “It feels good to be back.”
It doesn’t. But I keep that to myself.
She smiles at me as she pulls onto the road, glancing in her rearview mirror at the boys who have resorted to kicking each other. Thank God, they aren’t kicking me.
Emma whips her hair over her shoulder and adjusts her mirror, looking like she belongs in an ad for the car we're riding in. She stands three inches taller, with long limbs and supermodel-like features without any cosmetic enhancements. Her rich brown hair is always smooth and frizz-free, giving no indication that she has two rascals climbing all over her everyday. And she almost always looks put together, whether it’s at the park, at her job, or in the middle of a spin class, the woman embodies gracefulness. As for me . . . my hair requires daily washes, my skin needs monthly detox facials, and my attire? Well let’s just say I teeter the line of a presentable member of society and homeless person daily. There is no in-between.
Emma is just as beautiful inside as she is on the outside too, which can be infuriating to some people. She was the person who rescued me from the altar when Liam announced to me, and my entire family, that he didn't love me anymore. She did what any elegant and graceful person would do, of course . . . flipping him the bird as she ushered me back down the aisle. She is a fiery force to be reckoned with at times and I feel sheepish knowing I might not have the guts to truly back her up the way she does me.
“So that’s what you’re wearing, huh?” She eyes me up and down as she drives, messing with the radio and simultaneously parenting the goblins.
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, curious if her tone is hinting at a compliment or insult.
“You look fantastic!” she assures me. “New York really sculpted you into a classy young lady. I am very impressed with this getup,” she says, motioning to my wide-legged dress pants. “Can I borrow those?”
We both laugh knowing they will quickly change from pants to early 2000s gauchos if she wears them. Turning my attention to the visor, I smooth out my hair and adjust the angle for one last look of my outfit.
“Quit that,” she says like she’s reading my mind.
“What?” I shut the mirror and adjust the air vent on my side.
“Picking yourself apart—letting your mind run amuck.”
I exhale, trying not to listen to her as she says, “Not that anything I say is going to change how you see yourself”—she shrugs—“but I think you look great and Glendale is lucky to have you.”
Glendale. As in Glendale High School.
My new place of work for the next few months, smack dab in the middle of Oklahoma.
It was a culture shock coming back from New York—a place with millions of people, congested streets stretching from one end of the sun to the other, and subways filled to the brim with people, packed in like little sardines just praying to squeeze out of the sliding door and land on a platform packed with more sardines pushing their way into the can you just escaped.
It sounds awful, but I think I miss it.
I miss being swarmed with so much hustle and bustle you don’t even have one moment of quiet to let your mind wander. This place was too quiet, and since being back my mind hadn’tstoppedwandering.
Glendale is a full forty-five minute car ride from Emma’s house. And while I appreciated her driving, being accompanied by my twin nephews makes for a torturous ride. I would take navigating the subway system at four in the morning over this any day. It’s not that I hate my nephews. I love them. I do. I just feel a slight detachment to them. Maybe it’s because they look more like their dad than Emma. Or that they’re loud and snotty. Or it’s just the fact that children can be the worst. I love my nephews—a biological extension of my sweet sister—wholeheartedly, but in any other sense, not a fan.
Five-year-olds and I don’t mesh well. Sure, we can tolerate each other, but we definitely thrive better when separated.
Preparing for the effects the rest of this car ride will have on my head, I swallow two ibuprofen pills and chase them with a swig of iced coffee.
“You’re going to kill your liver,” Emma says as she takes one of her way too expensive bottles of essential oils out of her center console, rolling it on her wrists. I assume it’s some flippy-dippy hippie stuff you find inside a unicorn’s rectum. That is the only justification for the amount of money she spends on it.
“You’re going to killmyliver with that wretched stench you roll all over yourself.”
The smell is a combination of old leather and citrus, and it practically singes my nose hairs as she waves her hand in my face. The motion wafts the smell even more forcefully into my olfactory nerves. I gag dramatically to accentuate the overpowering impact the oil stench has on me as she pulls onto the highway.
I lean my head back against the seat, watching other cars whizz past us as if we are at a stand still. I glance over at the speedometer and see Emma going ten under the speed limit.
