Page 319 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Just as I’m about to walk after her, my phone alerts a text. I groan when I read it and realize I just screwed up royally.

Talking about sex possibilities with Emerson or fulfilling obligations to my family.

I know which one I’d rather choose, and I currently can’t take my eyes off her.

“You don’t have to do this,” Grant says as he pulls down the street I know so well from memory but have lacked the courage to venture back to since I returned to Sunnyville.

I’m not ignorant of the fact that he took the long way through the neighborhood. I am, however, silently relieved not to have to deal with seeing my old house for the first time since I left it twenty years ago.

I risk a glance his way, the anxiety I know visible in my eyes hidden by my sunglasses. “I know.”

I don’t know.

Needing to abate the nerves jittering through me, I slide my clasped hands between my thighs and squeeze my legs together.

Cue the panic.

“My mom is going to be thrilled to have a woman to balance out all the testosterone tonight,” he says and reaches over to squeeze the top of my thigh. He doesn’t remove his hand, though. I appreciate the silent show of support and wonder if he has any idea of the riot of emotions clamoring around inside me.

“It’ll be good to see her,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the houses as we pass.

Sally Glendale’s house is still there and still that awful green color we used to say looked like puke. Then comes Adam Beecham’s house to remind me of the hours we spent on the green transformer box out front playing UNO until the streetlights came on and it was time to go home.

Everything looks the same but so very different from my memories. I bet they’ve all moved out, moved on, and forgotten about the little girl, Emmy Reeves, two streets down who had the unthinkable happen to her.

Did their parents gossip about me for a long time after I left? Did they wonder if I was telling the truth, or did they just think I was making stuff up to get attention from my workaholic mother like little kids often did? Or did they not think of me at all because it was too unpleasant and might ruin the idyllic feeling of their safe neighborhood?

My palms grow sticky as the car slows down. My heart beats faster.

Why did I agree to come?

Because I know all of these people forgot about me a long time ago. I would bet that if I were to ask someone if they remembered the Reeves girl, they’d probably recall her name was Emily or Emma and have to think real hard about why the name sounded familiar.

Maybe I agreed to come because after the nightmare of last night, I don’t want to be alone tonight. I’m so exhausted that I fear what other dreams will come when I finally let my subconscious crash.

“Emerson?”

I look over to Grant, only to notice that we were already parked along the curb in front of a place I remembered more fondly than my own, the Malone house.

My smile hides my nerves as I take in the exterior. It’s just as I remember it being, but the paint’s newer and the flowers are brighter. There’s a woman’s attention to detail in the colorful pots carefully placed on the stoop, and I can hear the wind chimes tinkle in the breeze as Grant opens the truck’s door.

With a fortifying breath, I get out, but doubt shreds me apart with each and every step up the walkway. As positive as I am that most of Sunnyville doesn’t remember Emmy Reeves with the pigtails and freckles, I am certain that the Malone family does.

I spent years going to psychologists, and every single one of them had the same exact look when they spoke to me. Pity. They all thought I was broken and irreparable. As soon as I convinced my mom I didn’t need to go anymore, I promised myself no one would ever know about my past so that I’d never have to see that look again.

Now, for the first time since I made that promise, I’m willingly walking into a room, knowing full well I just might get that look again.

Grant must sense I’m about to lose my courage because he reaches out and links his fingers through mine, squeezing them in silent reassurance. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even glance my way. He just leads me up the last step as if this is an everyday thing for me.

“Hello?” he calls out as he opens the door, but his voice is drowned out by a cacophony of sound. A loud, baritone bark is echoing around the house, along with the screech of a little kid in what sounds like a tickle war. Laughter reverberates off the walls, and the faint chords of music playing in the backyard competes with the sound of an Indy race on a television no one seems to be watching.

Not only is it complete chaos but also it’s exactly how I remembered it.

I follow Grant through the formal living room and stop when I see Betsy Malone. Her back is to me, and she’s chopping vegetables on the counter I used to steal cookies from. Her hair may be shorter now, but everything else about her appears exactly the same.

“Mom,” Grant says.

“It’s about time you showed up,” she says, but when she looks over and sees me standing in her kitchen, her lips fall lax. “Emmy Reeves. Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel and steps toward me since I’m frozen in place. “Grant said you were gorgeous, but leave it to a man to understate the obvious. My goodness. Get over here, you, and let me hug you.”