Shelby
Ican count on my hands the number of times I have done something stupid and reckless. I am that friend, the one that gets everyone home safe after a night out partying. I have schedules and planners, and there are very few things that are out of my control. Well, except Brody. He throws me a curveball every single day. And after Drew, my planning and organizing became even more incessant.
But what I did last weekend and how I behaved, well, was completely out of character. I wish I could blame alcohol, but the two glasses of wine I had at the baby shower had run their course and didn’t count.
Sure. Ember was kind to Brody, but all the guys are. They treat him like their own kid. He is showered with love by so many people. But there’s something about Ember, those dark eyes that make me want to know the stories they hold, the cool way he carries himself, and that aloofness that is ever-present. And then there is the way he looks at me like I’m a gift he wants to unwrap. Playing pool and laughing with him made me feel – I don’t know,normal.
I haven’t seen him around town, and I am glad for it. I guess it would be awkward. Grady, on the other hand, is on my case about whether Ember is bugging me. He has turned into my father suddenly, and if it persists, I’ll have to have a word with Dyl. What is the harm in some meaningless flirting anyway? I mean, it isn’t like he didn’t have his time in the limelight.
“Ouch.” I slam the kettle on the counter, having singed my finger with hot water from my overflowing cup of coffee. Maybe it’s a sign. I sigh deeply, getting some burn shield to rub on the sting. I clean up the mess and start on Brody’s breakfast. On Saturday’s we have pancakes and bacon with syrup. Not the healthiest of breakfasts, but it’s something we have done since Drew passed. I have tried to make new traditions to add to the old, so not everything is laced with sadness.
There’s a farmers market in town today, and Brody is supposed to meet Lucas there. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do while the boys are playing, but if it means getting out in the sunshine and having him connect with people his own age, that is enough. I can probably read a book in the shade.
I hear him racing down the staircase and smile when he barrels into the kitchen.
“Pancakes,” he shouts as he takes his place at the table. “Thank you, Mom.”
“Yes, it is,” I reply, flopping two onto his plate, handing him the syrup, and draining the fat from the bacon. I let him drench his pancake in syrup then place two crispy bacon strips on the pancake.
“This is so good.” He moans in satisfaction.
“You always say that, monster.” I cock an eyebrow.
“It’s ’cause it is.” He laughs, shoving a mouthful.
I laugh and cut into mine. It is good. The sweet and savory always work together.
After breakfast, he loads the dishwasher. I give him half an hour to get ready and disappear into my room to do the same.
I sink into the warm bath the way I do every month before the farmers market. I slip into the water until I am completely submerged. The only thing I can hear is the sound of my heartbeat as I hold my breath for as long as I can. I come up for air, then do it again.
It isn’t that I don’t like the market. I do. It was why we started going to it every month. Drew even convinced me to sell cupcakes there once. It was such a hit, I sold the recipe to a convenience store. They still carry the brand, but when Drew died, I sold over the rights because every royalty check reminded me of him. You may think that’s pretty dumb, an unemployed widow, turning down income. It just felt burdensome. I would see his smile the first time we received it. He even framed that one on the wall in the kitchen.
The market feels like exposure. I walk out there, and everybody looks at me like Drew’s poor widow. Some old friends come up and chat, but it is awkward, and I have to laugh far louder than I care to. There is always someone getting engaged, shopping for their wedding, just got married and had to tell me about it. The atmosphere is too festive, too much.
But I do it, month in and out because it is what Brody wants. He gets to see Grady there sometimes and go on the rides. He always reminds me of the things he recalls about Drew. I hold back the tears because all my son has are the memories. They’re snippets, in fact. He was three years old when my husband died.
I change into a yellow sundress, slip on a pair of cowboy boots for the dusty market, and leave my hair loose and un-styled. I finish my look off with a jeans jacket. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m twenty-nine, I look a bit younger, but the scars and lines on my body give my age away. The scars inside me are the battle wounds of the elderly, those who’ve had to live too many lives in one.
“I am so excited I get to hang out with Lucas again.” Brody bounces in his seat.
“You boys are together almost every afternoon.” I glance over at my son.
“Yeah, but now we get to really hang out. Like away from the house.”
“Ah, I see, Momma cramping your style?”
He laughs. “What does that even mean?” he asks and slaps his forehead lightly.
“That, I get in the way of your chill time.” I use one hand to create a wave-like motion.
“No, Mom. Okay, maybe.” He grins and looks outside the window.
“I’m still the cool mom, though, right?” I drive into a parking spot at the market a few minutes later.
“The coolest.” He beams up at me, and my heart feels like it could literally burst.
“I love you, monster.”
