Page 109 of Townshipped
We change course and turn toward the goats and Lily.
“This is quite a place you’ve got here,” Mr. O’Brien says to me.
You guessed it.
I nod.
Em walks ahead of us, chattering away to Gabriela about Granger, the goats, Lily, Ty and Paisley, and other aspects of her time living here.
I watch the two of them and a whoosh of awareness threatens to topple me.
I love her.
My feelings for Em hit me like a meteor, crashing into me seemingly from out of nowhere. But, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve known. It’s as though I’ve been waiting all of my life for her.
She’s layer upon layer of beauty, from her red hair and green eyes to her sassy spirit and thoughtful heart. I’ve never met anyone like Em. As cliche as it sounds even to my own ears, it’s like I’ve been holding out for her, biding my time until she crashed into my tree and my life with equal force.
Em’s the first thing I think of in the morning and the last thought on my mind as I drift to sleep. If I go out, she’s what I want to return to. When she’s near, I feel like I’ve got everything I need.
This isn’t the time to fall in love, and she obviously isn’t the ideal person for me to have fallen for. I’ve got Paisley and Ty to take care of and she’s about to leave. It seems cruel to finally find the woman I feel like I’m meant to be with, only to have her end up completely unattainable.
Em looks over from her conversation with Gabriela and gives me a quizzical look. I’m staring at her while my feelings for her slosh over me like a rogue wave making its way past the hull and soaking the deck.
Whether it’s ideal or not, Em owns my heart and I can’t reclaim it. I’m not sure what I’d do with the seemingly useless organ if I could take it back. It’s not like I’d want to give myself to anyone else. I’m glad she’s the one. I’d rather have had her the three weeks I did and found out she exists than to have spent the rest of my life wondering and searching. Now I know.
She can go on with her life, and I’ll go on with mine, but she’ll be taking the biggest piece of me with her.
37
“EM”
Gabriela’s presence feels familiar in a way nothing else does. We walk slowly across Aiden’s driveway, chatting together. She laughs easily and I soak in everything about her from her golden skin to her brown eyes with the beginning signs of laugh lines at the edges, to the curvy figure and her bold choice in clothes.
I recall our life together—so many more scenes than I’d already retrieved. Her nearness draws the memories up like a bucket draws water from a well. The images never went away, I just couldn’t retrieve them until she showed up.
I tell Gabriela about life on the farm, Ty and Paisley, and the group of local women who have been slowly including me in their circle of friendship.
I don’t say much about Aiden. And I absolutely steer completely clear of any mention of our kisses. Gabriela would squeal and jump up and down, making a scene. I’d definitely never hear the end of it. Neither would most of the neighboring farms, considering how she tends to be louder than loud.
I have to put all my memories of Aiden somewhere safe—scrapbooked into an invisible album to cherish, and left where they belong, knowing they will never be repeated.
Across from us, Mom and Dad are making their way down the driveway with Aiden. They appear a little out of place here. Okay. A lot out of place. Mom’s heels keep sinking into the dirt and snagging on gravel. She repeatedly glances at her shoes as if she could shine them back to perfection with a mere look. Dad’s dressed for a power lunch, not a walk through a barnyard covered in dirty snow melt and the early signs of this year’s grass.
We stop by Lily’s enclosure. She’s grazing. When she raises her head, she sends us the llama version of anothing to see here, folksvibe with her avoidant body language. She twists that split top lip of hers into what I imagine is a sneer.
Mom says, “Isn’t she something? Do you shear her fur? My friend has a llama jacket that’s just gorgeous. I would love one someday.”
Lily apparently does not like being the topic of any personal discussion about her shearing. And how do I know this? Well, she lifts her head, studies my mother, walks three long, lazy, perfectly postured steps closer to our group and hocks a loogie right at my mom. It’s not really a loogie, thankfully, though she is capable of those stunners.
Instead, Lily uses what we call her “crowd-control spit.” She stands erect, tilts her head back and lets a short, but powerful mist fly across the group standing on the other side of her fence. She follows the spit-shower with a loud, high-pitched rhythmic cry which sounds like a manic seagull getting stuck under a rocking chair.
“Oh my gosh!” I shout, pinching back a laugh.
“Oh dear,” Mom says repeatedly, wiping frantically at her hair, face, and clothes. “Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear.”
“Well, now,” Dad says at the same time. He takes a few steps back, eyeing Lily as if she might spit again.
Who knows? She just might.
