Page 22 of Endless Southern Love

“Wade . . .” I say his name for the first time, to him, in years. It hurts, hearing my voice call out to him.

He stops and sets his shovel down. I didn’t expect him to walk toward me, but he does. Each step of his is deliberate and forceful, almost like he’s trying to leave his impression in the grass. He’s wearing his khaki cargo pants and from experience I know each pocket has something he’ll need today. A tool, twine, or trimmer line for the weed wacker. I’ve spent countless hours sitting on my parent’s front porch, watching him cut lawn with precision.

I’m out of breath when he comes face to face with me. He stands close. Close enough that we share the same air. Everything in my mind tells me to step back, to put a wall between us, but my heart sings at the closeness. I know I’ll never win the battle of hating him as long as we’re in the same town.

We stare at one another, taking each other in. His dark hair, brown eyes, and scruff all call to me, beg me to get lost in everything that is Wade Jenkins. I have loved this man for most of my life, and yet he’ll never be mine.

“Nice hat,” he says, adding to the cacophony of noises surrounding us, making it sound like the cicadas are serenading us.

My hand goes to the hat I put on before leaving. I’m a rough sleeper and often wake up with bedhead. I didn’t have time to run a brush through my hair—having to catch teenagers in the act of doing the unmentionable—and in my haste grabbed a hat that used to belong to him.

“It was in my closet.” It’s not a lie, but until recently, it had been tucked away in the back corner, never meant to see daylight. After one too many margaritas, I dug it out.

Wade touches the brim and smiles. It’s radiant and warm, exuding happiness. How can he be like this when I’m so damn angry with him? When my lips don’t reciprocate, I expect him to frown. To change his demeanor.

He doesn’t.

As the corners of his mouth turn up, I swear his eyes sparkle, which is just asinine to think since it’s dark—only it’s not—and the sun is rising behind him, casting him in a purple, pink and orange glow.

This Wade, the one in front of me, is the one I remember. He could always brighten my day without even trying. In him, I found a sense of warmth and comfort. He made me feel special, loved, and understood.

We linger in this weird void of staring and not talking. I itch to touch him. To let my memories remind me of the pure, unfiltered affection we used to have for each other. I wonder how easy it would be to have that again. With him.

Only him.

I haven’t loved another since Wade Jenkins and I’m not sure I can. They say, when you find the one, you’ll know. I knew eons ago, but life threw us such a curveball, neither of us could dodge it.

I finally find the courage to step back and put a professional distance between us. That’s all we’ll ever be, and for me that’s a stretch. I don’t want to deal with him. Not during the workday and especially not at sunrise.

“Don’t,” he says. Without elaborating, I know what he means, but I have no choice. Feelings be damned, I won’t go down this road with him. He’ll never understand the jealousy I feel when I look at his daughter. We were meant to experience parenthood together. Not him and someone else.

I force myself to look away. To look at the ground, his tools, the spotlight he uses to guide his work. Anywhere but at him. “It’s too early,” I tell him. “To make this much noise.”

“It’s now or I don’t do this, Lemon. I’m very busy.”

I inhale and shake my head. “You were supposed to come yesterday,” I repeat my earlier statements because there isn’t anything else I can say.

“Like I said, I couldn’t. Hell, I didn’t want to.”

“Excuse me? We’re paying you to do this.”

Wade scoffs. “That doesn’t mean you control what I do. I book out weeks, if not months, in advance, and I’m sorry but at five or six, I want to be home, sipping sweet tea on my front porch and hearing about my daughter’s day.”

The mention of Marigold causes me to step back again, but that doesn’t faze Wade. He moves toward me.

“Speaking of, I don’t know what you did to her yesterday, but she didn’t like it.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me,” he says. “You know she’s already struggling with boys picking on her, so what do you do? You embarrass her by forcing her classmates to eat with her? How do you think that went over?”

My tongue’s thick in my mouth. How dare he imply that I’ve done something wrong. “She . . . she was happy.”

“Yeah, well she’s not,” he tells me. “Kids are making fun of her, and you’ve made it worse.”

“I can’t help?—”

“You’re the damn principal,” he roars. “She’s seven and new to your school. It’s your job to help her.”

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