Page 16 of Townshipped
“What’s a good thing?” I ask.
She laughs. “You know, dating before you get married and have kids.”
I laugh.
A redhead with sass and a sense of humor. Not funny, fate, or universe, or whomever you are.
While we finish breakfast, Em looks around like she’s sizing up my home, or maybe making sense of her surroundings. It’s hard to tell and I don’t want to pry. I try to imagine what I’d be like if I wound up at the mercy of strangers and lost my entire past and my sense of identity in one cataclysmic swerve of fate.
“Here you are in a stranger’s home not knowing anything about yourself …”
“But aside from that?” she jokes.
“Yeah.” I smile, picking up my toast.
“It could be worse. I could have ended up stuck in my car through the overnight freeze. Maybe I wouldn’t have even survived if you hadn’t found me. Or I could have ended up at the house of some weirdo.”
“Believe me. Once you meet some of the neighbors, you’ll understand how narrowly you beat the odds there.”
She offers me a shy smile. When she looks at me like that, I feel like I’d take on the world for her. I barely know her, but somehow she feels familiar. And, despite how she’s rolling with this trauma, there’s a vulnerability just under the surface that drags up my protective streak.
Em’s face shifts a little. Her lips tug in thoughtfully.
“What are you thinking?” I ask her.
“I wonder who I’ve been before this. Am I a good person? Employed? Do I have any significant friendships? So far we’ve established I’m not a goat farmer. I like blond coffee and scrambled eggs. And I could eat this jam from the jar with a spoon.
“But I don’t know anything else about myself. There’s this dull ache where my memories should be. Like I’m standing at the edge of a chasm with a strong wind at my back. If I’m not careful, I’ll just be blown into a void of nothingness.”
What can I say?
We stare at one another, the seriousness of her situation hanging between us.
Then without missing a beat, Em’s face takes on this playfully determined look and she doesn’t bat an eyelash, doesn’t look away. She simply stares with an impish grin on her face and challenge in her eyes.
Okay, then. I chuckle, but then I plant my hands on my hips and lock eyes with her.
I can’t believe we’ve started a stare down, but I’m so here for it. Trevor and I used to play the staring game as kids for what felt like hour-long stretches, both determined to win. I think my parents loved this game more than we did for the silence it generated.
I start making slight movements of my eyebrows, mini twitches meant to crack her resolve. I lift one, then the other, then both. I waggle them, never allowing my gaze to leave Em’s mesmerizing eyes.
This feels completely undignified and yet, surprisingly, it also might be the most fun I’ve had in months.
Em responds to my taunts by licking her lips slowly. So unfair. Does she realize how long it’s been since a woman has looked me in the eye and licked her lips. I can’t even remember the last time I really wanted to kiss a woman.
Not. Thinking. Of. Kissing.
I flare my nostrils. I start to flare them to the tune of Yankee Doodle Dandy. It’s a talent, yes. And one I didn’t know I could still practice. Em’s mouth quirks up in the corner as I push the edges of my nose in and out. I’m starting to weaken her with my silliness.
She crosses one eye while keeping the other fixed on me. Impressive—and odd—but mostly impressive.
I stick my tongue out and curl it. Then I touch my nose with the tip of my tongue. Most people can’t reach there, so I follow that movement with a slightly gloating expression.
Em lets a huff of amused air out her nose, but she doesn’t look away.
She wiggles her ears.
I pucker my lips like a fish while pinching my nose up.
