Page 10 of Higher Ground
“It was just thunder, Clayton,” she said, twisting her body to give him a gentle pat before she got out. “We’re at Papa’s, hold on.” She smiled politely at Byron and pulled two backpacks across the front seat.
Byron rushed over to take them from her, fumbling with the tangle of long straps. His hand brushed against Emory’s. Electricity buzzed between them, and lightning lit up the yard once more, only this time, Byron could see the distinct zig-zag pattern as the power surged through the sky.
Just the storm, Byron told himself. Still, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Emory. He counted thousands again, muttering the numbers under his breath as he tried to steady the anxious swirl in his chest. Emory stood, frozen out of fearor shock or unease. He hated feeling like he caused something uncomfortable for Emory, but her nose scrunched up just so, leaving the cutest lines across her freckles. Her long hair had been tied in a loose, messy knot high on her head, with haphazard pieces that flew about in the wind. And there was something about her eyes that Byron couldn’t help but get lost in. Before, he might have said they sparkled, but now they reflected the uncertainty in the air. The chocolatey brown of her irises had darkened in the overcast light. God, even in her oversized grey shirt with the buttons done in the wrong holes, Emory was perfect. So, Byron stared even though he knew he shouldn’t, and did his best to fill his expression with something that looked friendly. Caring, even. Until she blinked slowly, breaking the trance Byron had fallen under.
Emory pulled her lower lip between her teeth, and Byron tracked the movement with his eyes. She released it with a slight pop, and her mouth hung open, only by the tiniest sliver.
Byron was captivated.
He stepped forward. No longer thinking. His mouth still counted, but his brain had switched off. Their hands were still touching over the straps of the backpacks. Byron wrapped his fingers around Emory and stepped closer. Her eyes dropped to his mouth. He could tell.
Their chests heaved in time, and Byron swallowed down everything that was threatening to spill over. It didn’t work.
Thunder roared around them. Byron stood his ground, holding down the unsettled feeling storms always brought out in him, but Emory jolted back. She dropped the bags into his arms and raced around the car to get Clayton out. The poor kid was terrified. He clung tight to Emory’s shoulders as she picked him up and nuzzled his head underneath her chin.
Emory stared at Byron over her son’s head. Her eyes were harsh, and her mouth had thinned into a straight line, and Byronwanted to storm over there and wipe the jarring expression from her face. He took a step towards her, but stopped in his tracks when she shook her head.
“I can help with the tubs once I get Clayton inside.”
“Don’t be silly. You get him settled. His room is all set up.”
It would be good, Byron thought, for Clayton to actually use the room properly for once. He’d set it up as soon as Jaxon had left. He thought maybe he’d take over that fatherly role, and wrongly, he supposed, figured that meant watching him overnight every once in a while. But a grandfather can’t replace a father, he’d learnt. And while Emory was more than willing to bring Clayton over as often as possible, she drew a firm line at sleepovers.
As Clayton grew a little older and progressed from an immobile baby to a running toddler, Byron started watching him during the days while Emory worked at the local café. Sure, he’d had his fair share of naps here at the farmhouse, but otherwise, the miniature bed was unused. The toys and books remained too neatly stacked on the shelves. The dresser was never filled.
So yeah, Byron was happy for the room to see a little extra life now that Clayton and Emory had come to stay. He just wished it would be a permanent change, even though he knew all the reasons why that would never be.
“Thank you,” Emory called over her shoulder. Clayton clasped around her neck as she trudged up the stairs and kicked off her shoes.
“You can stay in the room next to him,” Byron added as she stepped inside.
Emory didn’t respond, although Byron presumed she hadn’t heard him over the distant grumble of constant thunder and pounding rain on the horizon. Moving to the back of the car, he threw both backpacks over an arm and pulled the suitcases out of the boot. One was far heavier than the other, but Byronmanaged to whisk them up to the house and into the entry hall. He dropped the backpacks with them and returned to the car.
All that was left were two large plastic tubs, stacked neatly in the car. Byron double-checked the back seat, sure they should have more belongings than this. Besides Clayton’s harnessed booster and a scattering of toys, there was nothing. All that was left were the tubs. Byron hauled them from the car and up into the house.
He stacked them in the living room. One was full of toys, the other books and photographs, and he didn’t want Emory to think she and Clayton were confined to their rooms. He wanted them to feel at home here.
Clayton’s giggles drifted down the hall, and Byron paused at the sound. It wasn’t unusual. After all, Clayton was here most days while Emory worked. But there was a sweet echo to the sound that wasn’t usually there. It tickled inside Byron’s ears and sent whispers down his spine. It made his breath hitch against his throat and squeezed at his heart.
He stood there, transfixed, and it took him far too long to realise that the sound wasn’t coming from Clayton at all. It was Emory. He wondered if he’d ever heard her laugh. Small chuckles? Maybe. The silent ‘ha’ after a punchline that wasn’t quite funny? Definitely. But never this. Never so unfiltered and joyous.
This was light and sweet and laden with syrup. Emory’s laugh filled all the little gaps he didn’t realise he had, soaking him in a pure kind of warmth. It made his heart swell and his eyes water and twisted at something inside him that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
His brain stopped connecting to his body, and he stood, paralysed in every way, listening to Emory’s melodic laugh. It was beautiful, and he could have stood there all night.
He would have stood there all night, too, but Emory stepped out of the room and into his line of sight. She stood, staring at him. A small crease formed between her brows, her nose scrunching. Biting at her lip, she folded her arms across her body before dropping them by her sides and shaking out her hands. Lifting her head high, Emory walked towards Byron, never breaking their locked gaze.
“You alright, old man?”
She was so close to him. So close, all he had to do was wrap his arms around her back, and he could kiss her. He wanted to, but he didn’t. Because with two short words, she slapped him with a reality far harsher than the fact that he was actually getting older. It was the fact that she saw him that way.
All this infatuation he was drowning in was one-sided. Byron rolled his shoulders and forced air into his lungs. This was fine. She didn’t know how he felt, and she never would.
Chapter 5
Emory
There was something different about the farmhouse. Emory couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The same collection of old, fraying picture books was spread on the coffee table. Memories of the boys’ youth that Byron revisited daily when he looked after Clayton. The old leather couch was still sunken in the centre, where Miff was curled in a ball. The same cold slate tile floors were covered with the same soft tan rug in front of the fire.
