stopped in her tracks and twirled around, staring daggers at Eric. “Her?”
“Yeah, she’s not afraid of marriage.”
Emory raised her eyebrows. “You’re going to marry Molly now? That was fast.”
“Who knows?”
“Well, if everything works out,” Emory said, with a slight laugh, “she can plan you guys a destination wedding.”
Her words -- the mention of marriage -- stung Eric, realizing he should have just kept his surgery schedule, and none of this would have happened. His plan to shock Emory in the hopes of getting her back had gone horribly wrong. Emory again headed towards the front door, but Eric had one final effort in him. He ran between her and the door, and placed his hands on her shoulders, then lowered his hands to her arms, stroking them tenderly. “Emory, I’m so sorry. You’re right. This was childish and vindictive, and. . . .” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forcefully, pinning her against the wall.
Emory tried to pull away, swatting at him. “Stop, stop!”
Molly entered the foyer, wearing only a towel that barely covered her large breasts, and saw Eric and Emory wiggling around together. “Well, well, well,” she squeaked. “This is awkward.”
Startled, Eric released her, and Emory quickly slipped out the door, slamming it behind her. He opened it, calling after her, with his voice shaking, as Emory continued to run to her car, searching her pockets for her keys as she ran and luckily finding them.
Eric closed the door and leaned his head against it, defeated. “Want to get back in the shower?” Molly asked, dropping her towel.
CHAPTER NINE
Emory arrived home with her chest pounding, knowing only one thing could settle her. She threw on a leotard and went down to Wesley’s dance studio. It was dark and empty. She flicked on the lights and stood at the ballet barre, trying to calm down. Breathe, first positio n . She prepared and stretched with her eyes closed, feeling her body relax and mind lift from the day’s drama. Ballet was her therapy and expression, a means for balance and control. When life failed her, the barre never did. It had been there since she was four, when her mother died and her father enrolled her in dance. Mom, I need you .
Emory and her mother, as they did every Friday night in the fall, drove towards the high school stadium to cheer on her father, John and his team. High school football in Georgia was serious business, as important to the faithful as Sunday service. John took pride that his little daughter often paced the sidelines with him, both before and during games. Sometimes Emory chose to stay in the stands with her mother, cheering with the crowd, enjoying the band and dance team, and stuffing her face with snacks and soda. On those nights, Emory went down to the field when the game ended to have round of catch with her dad.
One night, Emory didn’t show up on the sidelines during the game. John assumed they were in the stands. But Emory was still in her car seat, her mother slumped over the steering wheel, their car twisted around a telephone pole, the work of a drunk driver who plowed into their car on a poorly-lit backroad near the stadium, killing himself and her mother instantly. Secured by her car seat, Emory didn’t suffer a scratch but couldn’t unhook herself, ripping at the buckles with her little hands to free herself. But as hard as she tried, she couldn’t get out. She began screaming and crying for her mother to talk or move, furiously kicking her mother’s seat in front of her, hoping to stir her mother to life. Emory kicked and kicked and kicked, until the game ended and help arrived. Her mother was dead at twenty-eight.
John had no idea how to care for, or console, a four-year-old girl. He was a grizzled football coach with a knack for motivating boys on and off the football field and just couldn’t get through to his
“Yeah, she’s not afraid of marriage.”
Emory raised her eyebrows. “You’re going to marry Molly now? That was fast.”
“Who knows?”
“Well, if everything works out,” Emory said, with a slight laugh, “she can plan you guys a destination wedding.”
Her words -- the mention of marriage -- stung Eric, realizing he should have just kept his surgery schedule, and none of this would have happened. His plan to shock Emory in the hopes of getting her back had gone horribly wrong. Emory again headed towards the front door, but Eric had one final effort in him. He ran between her and the door, and placed his hands on her shoulders, then lowered his hands to her arms, stroking them tenderly. “Emory, I’m so sorry. You’re right. This was childish and vindictive, and. . . .” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forcefully, pinning her against the wall.
Emory tried to pull away, swatting at him. “Stop, stop!”
Molly entered the foyer, wearing only a towel that barely covered her large breasts, and saw Eric and Emory wiggling around together. “Well, well, well,” she squeaked. “This is awkward.”
Startled, Eric released her, and Emory quickly slipped out the door, slamming it behind her. He opened it, calling after her, with his voice shaking, as Emory continued to run to her car, searching her pockets for her keys as she ran and luckily finding them.
Eric closed the door and leaned his head against it, defeated. “Want to get back in the shower?” Molly asked, dropping her towel.
CHAPTER NINE
Emory arrived home with her chest pounding, knowing only one thing could settle her. She threw on a leotard and went down to Wesley’s dance studio. It was dark and empty. She flicked on the lights and stood at the ballet barre, trying to calm down. Breathe, first positio n . She prepared and stretched with her eyes closed, feeling her body relax and mind lift from the day’s drama. Ballet was her therapy and expression, a means for balance and control. When life failed her, the barre never did. It had been there since she was four, when her mother died and her father enrolled her in dance. Mom, I need you .
Emory and her mother, as they did every Friday night in the fall, drove towards the high school stadium to cheer on her father, John and his team. High school football in Georgia was serious business, as important to the faithful as Sunday service. John took pride that his little daughter often paced the sidelines with him, both before and during games. Sometimes Emory chose to stay in the stands with her mother, cheering with the crowd, enjoying the band and dance team, and stuffing her face with snacks and soda. On those nights, Emory went down to the field when the game ended to have round of catch with her dad.
One night, Emory didn’t show up on the sidelines during the game. John assumed they were in the stands. But Emory was still in her car seat, her mother slumped over the steering wheel, their car twisted around a telephone pole, the work of a drunk driver who plowed into their car on a poorly-lit backroad near the stadium, killing himself and her mother instantly. Secured by her car seat, Emory didn’t suffer a scratch but couldn’t unhook herself, ripping at the buckles with her little hands to free herself. But as hard as she tried, she couldn’t get out. She began screaming and crying for her mother to talk or move, furiously kicking her mother’s seat in front of her, hoping to stir her mother to life. Emory kicked and kicked and kicked, until the game ended and help arrived. Her mother was dead at twenty-eight.
John had no idea how to care for, or console, a four-year-old girl. He was a grizzled football coach with a knack for motivating boys on and off the football field and just couldn’t get through to his
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