Page 30 of Townshipped
11
AIDEN
Family dinner should be interesting tonight. Trevor and Lexi are bringing their new baby—my niece. I’m an uncle again. Having my baby brother become a father before I even have a serious girlfriend feels upside down and backwards.
Em and I load into my truck with a pan of apple crisp after a day that felt far too much like we were a couple doing chores and relaxing together. I did have work to catch up on, but nothing that couldn’t have waited until tomorrow. I just needed to put some space between us after holding her in my arms last night.
Retreating into my office proved to be a good pretext for getting a little distance from her so I could focus on my work. Only my mind kept drifting to something she had said, or her smile, or the way she tilts her head back when she laughs that full, loud laugh of hers.
I turn onto the road leading away from the farm toward my childhood neighborhood. Em takes in the scenery. Her hand grips the handle on the door and her other hand grips the front edge of her seat.
We’ve only been out this way once before, when I drove Laura home on Wednesday evening. I try to imagine what it would be like to see these fields and this landscape with new eyes. It’s so much a part of my life I rarely even notice it.
I’m becoming accustomed to Em. She fits here with me in ways I only imagined a woman could. We laugh together, work well together, and she even challenges me. She should feel like more of an intruder, but she just doesn’t. Instead she’s starting to feel like she belongs.
On more than one occasion, I’ve had to fight the urge to touch her—to hold her hand or loop my arm around her shoulder when we’re watching a movie at night in the living room, or to brush a stray hair away from her face when she comes out rumpled from sleep in the morning.
Today at breakfast, as she complained about being stir crazy, her wild red hair flying while she talked animatedly with her hands and used her fork for punctuation, I had this renegade thought that I wanted to grab her and bring those peach lips to mine. Are they as soft as they look? Would they be pliant, or would her feisty spirit transfer into our kiss?
I had to hop up from the island and rinse my dish to give myself something to do—somewhere to look away from her crystal green eyes and porcelain complexion with those almost imperceptible freckles across the bridge of her nose. I want to gently kiss each one, slowly, taking my time and working my way down to her cheeks and then her mouth.
I’m in trouble.
Laura saw this coming and now I see what she saw.
Maybe this is what Trevor was warning me about.
I’m so deep in thought I barely hear Em speak.
“What?” I ask her. “I’m sorry, I had some things on my mind.”
“Are you okay?” she asks.
She puts her hand on my forearm to comfort me, and it only serves to drive me even more crazy. I send her a tight smile.
“I’m fine. Really.”
Okay, no Academy Awards will be distributed for my acting skills.
“Were you going to say something?” I ask, shifting the conversation her way to get the spotlight off me and my growing attraction to a woman I can’t justify pursuing.
Em sighs, lifting her hand off my arm. I want to bring her hand back and I scold myself for even considering it.
She looks out the passenger door window. Then she quietly says, “I’ve been thinking … Why isn’t anyone looking for me?”
I look over at her and her light green eyes meet mine across the cab of the truck. She’s been unusually cheerful considering the constant strain of not remembering her past. She’s accepted her situation in ways that aren’t typical.
When I researched amnesia through Google and WebMD (I know, I know), I learned that the average person with amnesia can become occasionally agitated and even struggle with depression. I braced myself for a bumpy emotional road with Em, but she’s surprised me.
Each case is unique, and Em has been generally upbeat and adapted to life at the farm with very few signs of grief—except the night terrors and the times when I have caught a glimpse of her staring off looking forlorn—like right now.
“Maybe that dream meant something,” she says. “Maybe I’ve been this horrible person. What if I alienated everyone in my life and over time I’ve become a hermit loner?”
“Not possible,” I answer her immediately.
“It’s possible,” she says, with a dread I haven’t heard in her voice before.
“You aren’t a horrible person. I promise you that.”
