He hasn't asked me about Gabe and I don't want him to, not really, but I know he must be curious.
"Yeah, I get it. Cooking for one is hard. Then again, I don't really know how to cook for two or twelve either," he smirks. He's letting me off the hook and breezing past the Gabe comment. I'm relieved. "But I'm a good eater, so we'll make a good team. You get the joy of cooking and I get the joy of eating."
I laugh and the sound is soft and foreign. "Sounds like a good plan. It's the least I can do since you're here working on my stuff all the time."
He finishes the pie and looks at me expectantly. "I worked really hard today, actually. Maybe even enough to earn me a second slice?" I'd forgotten about how powerful that boyish grin could be.
"Coming right up."
Cole
I KNEW FROM THE moment that Emery came back to Oklahoma that she had changed. But spending time with her these last few weeks has shown me just how deep that change goes. Gone is the spunky wit of the girl from my past. Instead, she is quiet and reserved. Unsure. I'm not quite sure how to handle her yet, but we've fallen into a nice rhythm.
I work.
She watches.
She asks quiet questions and I study her every movement, filing them away to review later when I'm alone in my bed, staring at the ceiling. I stare at the ceiling a lot these days.
I’m constantly trying to put all of the pieces together. I know she’s sad. Unsettled. But it feels like more than that. It feels like there is some unspoken, important piece that would give me some kind of insight on the girl that she is now.
She occupies so many of my thoughts that if someone were able to peer inside my brain, they would probably call me obsessed. It’s just that there are so many things that I want to know, so many questions I want to ask, but I don't dare. Not yet.
She's a lot like a wounded animal. I see it in the way her eyes dart around nervously when we’re standing too close. I feel it in the tension that overtakes her at the most random of moments, like she’s afraid to trust the situation around her. So, I let her stay on the edge, testing the situation.
I can wait her out.
I watch her from the corner of my eye as I sand down some rough spots on the big front porch. She's in the swing, the chains squeaking with each movement forward. I should put some oil on them, but the sound is kind of comforting to me as I work.
"Do you want a beer? Or water? Tea?" she asks quietly. I wipe the sweat collecting at my brow, glancing up to smile at her.
"A beer sounds pretty amazing," I admit. She smiles back like she's happy to have suggested it. She jumps up and disappears into the house and I watch the space she left behind. The memory of her long legs in those tiny shorts painting a vivid image that will keep me up tonight.
Emery returns, smiling as she hands me the can of beer. I can’t help but smirk, "This is your Dad's beer," I tease. Every time I drink this brand I think of Henry and how we would sneak it from the fridge to take to the lake with our friends.
Her smile falls instantly and her eyes go round with an emotion I can't quite pin down. Her fingers twist at her waist as she shifts from foot to foot. "I'm sorry. I had it here for him. I should have asked you what kind of beer you liked. I'll get some tomorrow. I didn't think."
It hits me then. She's worried. Worried that she's done something wrong. The girl I used to know would have smarted off some retort about her daddy having better taste, or telling me to get my own damn beer if I didn't like it. The old Emery wouldn't be standing in front of me looking like she might bolt at any second.
"Emery, it was a joke. This is fine. It's perfect," I assure her.
She nods carefully and I see her release the breath that she'd been holding. She moves back to the swing and takes a seat. I want to ask her about the reaction, but I know she doesn't want to answer that kind of question. So I take a long drink of the beer and get
"Yeah, I get it. Cooking for one is hard. Then again, I don't really know how to cook for two or twelve either," he smirks. He's letting me off the hook and breezing past the Gabe comment. I'm relieved. "But I'm a good eater, so we'll make a good team. You get the joy of cooking and I get the joy of eating."
I laugh and the sound is soft and foreign. "Sounds like a good plan. It's the least I can do since you're here working on my stuff all the time."
He finishes the pie and looks at me expectantly. "I worked really hard today, actually. Maybe even enough to earn me a second slice?" I'd forgotten about how powerful that boyish grin could be.
"Coming right up."
Cole
I KNEW FROM THE moment that Emery came back to Oklahoma that she had changed. But spending time with her these last few weeks has shown me just how deep that change goes. Gone is the spunky wit of the girl from my past. Instead, she is quiet and reserved. Unsure. I'm not quite sure how to handle her yet, but we've fallen into a nice rhythm.
I work.
She watches.
She asks quiet questions and I study her every movement, filing them away to review later when I'm alone in my bed, staring at the ceiling. I stare at the ceiling a lot these days.
I’m constantly trying to put all of the pieces together. I know she’s sad. Unsettled. But it feels like more than that. It feels like there is some unspoken, important piece that would give me some kind of insight on the girl that she is now.
She occupies so many of my thoughts that if someone were able to peer inside my brain, they would probably call me obsessed. It’s just that there are so many things that I want to know, so many questions I want to ask, but I don't dare. Not yet.
She's a lot like a wounded animal. I see it in the way her eyes dart around nervously when we’re standing too close. I feel it in the tension that overtakes her at the most random of moments, like she’s afraid to trust the situation around her. So, I let her stay on the edge, testing the situation.
I can wait her out.
I watch her from the corner of my eye as I sand down some rough spots on the big front porch. She's in the swing, the chains squeaking with each movement forward. I should put some oil on them, but the sound is kind of comforting to me as I work.
"Do you want a beer? Or water? Tea?" she asks quietly. I wipe the sweat collecting at my brow, glancing up to smile at her.
"A beer sounds pretty amazing," I admit. She smiles back like she's happy to have suggested it. She jumps up and disappears into the house and I watch the space she left behind. The memory of her long legs in those tiny shorts painting a vivid image that will keep me up tonight.
Emery returns, smiling as she hands me the can of beer. I can’t help but smirk, "This is your Dad's beer," I tease. Every time I drink this brand I think of Henry and how we would sneak it from the fridge to take to the lake with our friends.
Her smile falls instantly and her eyes go round with an emotion I can't quite pin down. Her fingers twist at her waist as she shifts from foot to foot. "I'm sorry. I had it here for him. I should have asked you what kind of beer you liked. I'll get some tomorrow. I didn't think."
It hits me then. She's worried. Worried that she's done something wrong. The girl I used to know would have smarted off some retort about her daddy having better taste, or telling me to get my own damn beer if I didn't like it. The old Emery wouldn't be standing in front of me looking like she might bolt at any second.
"Emery, it was a joke. This is fine. It's perfect," I assure her.
She nods carefully and I see her release the breath that she'd been holding. She moves back to the swing and takes a seat. I want to ask her about the reaction, but I know she doesn't want to answer that kind of question. So I take a long drink of the beer and get
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