Page 23 of Endless Southern Love

Wade stalks off, which only irritates me. “Don’t you walk away from me . . . again.” The last part slips out. He turns and stomps in my direction with his finger raised. When he stops in front of me, he drops it.

“I didn’t walk away from you, Lemon. You quit me. Us. You pushed me away like I was nothing more than gum on the bottom of your shoe. You wanted space. I gave it to you.”

“You cheated on me.”

Wade groans and throws his head back, shaking it. “You asked for a break in our relationship. What I did after is and will always be none of your business.”

“It’s my business when I have to look at her every day. Don’t you care how that makes me feel?”

He stands there and stares at me, glaring at me for my outburst. I’m embarrassed those words came from my mouth, but there’s no taking them back. He slowly shakes his head. Before I can say anything, before I can apologize and pull my foot from my mouth, he goes back to work and starts the rototiller, drowning out my voice even though words have failed me once again.

nine

wade

It seems I work better when I’m angry. By the time kids start arriving at school, the garden is mostly ready. Someone will have to come out and sift the dirt to separate it from what sod I couldn’t remove, but that’s for Lemon to figure out.

I don’t know how long she stood there, watching me move earth, but it was for a good chunk of time. I suspected she wanted me to turn the rototiller off so she could justify her comment about Goldie, but I didn’t. There isn’t anything she could say to change the words coming from her mouth.

Sitting in my truck while I wait for my mom to bring Goldie to school, I scroll through the photos I have saved. Inadvertently, I somehow click on the folders and one I have dedicated to Lemon shows on my screen. My thumb hovers over the icon while my mind goes back and forth on whether I should click on it.

A horn honks, getting my attention. I look out my window at my daughter—the only female to hold the key to my heart—waving excitedly at me. I get out and put my phone in my back pocket. I don’t need photos of Lemon to remind me of what we had or how much I loved her. Hell, most of me still loves her, but I’ve resigned myself to accepting we’ll never be anything but a memory.

I open the passenger side of my mom’s car and wait for Goldie to unbuckle. She launches into my arms, as if she hasn’t seen me for days or weeks, not hours. There is nothing better than the love of a child. She completes me in ways I could never imagine.

“How was breakfast with Grandma?” I ask as I set her down.

“Good. She made me pancakes.”

“Grandma’s pancakes are the best!”

I lean into my mom’s car. “Plans this morning?”

“Not really,” she says. “I have a few articles to write but nothing pressing.” My mom is a writer for our newspaper. Not that much happens in Magnolia. The once-a-week publication is loved by everyone in town though, so it’s not going anywhere anytime soon, despite the internet trying to put print out of business.

“Meet me at Jitterbug Coffee?”

“I’ll go get us a table.”

I tap the top of her car and then reach for Goldie’s hand. It’s not my intention to walk her into school every day, but I will as long as boys think they can pick on her. Once I find out who it is, I plan to go to their house and speak with their parents. I won’t tolerate kids picking on my daughter, let alone other kids. That shit only escalates the older they get if it’s not nipped in the bud now.

After making my presence known in Goldie’s class and speaking briefly with her teacher, I head to the office with my bill in hand. After the morning encounter with Lemon, I made sure to add the overtime I hadn’t planned to bill the school for.

As luck would have it, Lemon’s standing at the counter when I walk in. I set the bill on the counter. “Ms. Walsh, here’s my bill for the garden.”

She picks it up and her eyes widen. “Wade, this is . . . well, way more than I expected.”

“After hours work is double my normal rate,” I tell her.

“You did the work this morning.” She points the obvious.

“According to my website, my hours are from eight a.m. to five p.m. I was on-site this morning at five in the morning, doing a rush, emergency job for you.” I take the invoice from her and jot down another number and cross out the total, changing it to reflect the now emergency fee I calculated in my head. “Sorry, I forgot to add the additional fee in.”

Behind her, Jean snickers. It’s very telling how she knows what’s up. Believe me, it hasn’t gone unnoticed that if the elementary school needs something, it’s Jean who asks, never Lemon. Moving forward, I’m going to break that cycle. She can’t continue to hide behind her secretary.

“This is way over budget,” Lemon says quietly.

“Oh crap,” I say as I pull my phone out and open my invoicing app. “Let me check the estimate I submitted when you inquired about the project.” I pretend to scroll, act like I’m frustrated, and then sigh. “Huh, that’s odd. I don’t see the estimate here.” I close my phone and look at Lemon. “Oh, right. Because there isn’t one.”

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