Page 28 of Endless Southern Love

“No, not okay. Stand up for yourself.”

Wade takes another step back. “As I said, I’m not here to upset you, Lemon. I don’t know what’s going on or why you said what you did earlier. Honestly, your words confused me. I thought maybe . . . I don’t know.” Wade shrugs. “The whole closure thing.”

“What on earth did I say that was so confusing?”

He looks confused and then finally says, “Something about how it’s your business when you have to look at her every day and don’t I care about how you feel.”

“I didn’t say that,” I lie like a rug.

“You did. Maybe not those exact words, but you did, and I started to wonder what you mean by them.”

“Nothing,” I tell him. “I think you?—”

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on, Lemon.” Wade steps toward me. I inhale deeply, giving myself a moment to enjoy his cologne. As if on cue, my heart does this stupid little happy dance. Like it’s rejoicing that Wade is here and we’re miraculously going to make up.

I cross my arms over my chest and huff. This used to work when we were younger, but it doesn’t even faze him. I suppose having an adolescent daughter makes him immune to childish behavior.

“Lemon.”

I really hate and love the way he says my name.

“Can I ask you a question?”

I twirl my hand in the air for him to continue.

“Are you jealous of my daughter?”

Yes. Yes, I am.

I scoff and throw my head back to exaggerate my flippant attitude. “Come on. She’s a child and I’m an adult.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says. “Because why would you be jealous of Goldie. She’s just a little kid who is innocent in all of this.”

I nod, unable to find my voice.

Wade stands there, waiting for me to say something. When I don’t respond, he shakes his head and leaves, closing the door behind him. Like I used to do when we dated, I run to the window and watch him. He descends the stairs and jumps into his truck. I expect him to peel out of the parking lot. Burning rubber, as he used to say. He doesn’t.

He sits in the cab for what feels like forever.

eleven

wade

Despite a heavy day ahead, I’m back at the elementary school. It’s the last place I want to be but Jean called this morning to tell me the sprinkler system outside—one that I installed two years ago—isn’t working.

After walking out to see where it’s failed, I head back to my truck to change my steel-toed work boots for my rubber ones. Thankfully, I didn’t cave when Goldie said I needed yellow ones with ducks on the toes to match hers. Mine are a little more presentable for an adult.

Not that I want to be one with the size of the puddle forming on the field. The inner child in me wants to run, jump, and slide until I’m all muddy. The thought brings a smile to my face, and I feel sorry for the kids who won’t be able to experience how much fun it is to puddle jump.

I lay the sprinkler plans out on the tailgate of my truck and take a picture of each page. It’s the only way I’m going to be able to determine where the pipe has busted. Nothing says fun like digging up yards of earth because you’re unsure of things.

Feeling confident, I head back toward the newly formed swamp, minus the bugs, with as much gear as I can carry. It sucks being short-handed, but I had to send my skeleton crew to a few other places who all have contracted service.

“You really need to start hiring more people,” I say to myself as I clomp through the soggy earth. “You can’t do it all.” I’ve tried for years, but I’m at the point where I need more help. Especially now that Goldie is living with me. She takes priority and I’d really like to be off work by five every night so we can have dinner together.

At the valve, I twist the dial until the water stops running. I need to find the break quickly because if I’m not mistaken, when the water company came out and installed the water line for the sprinkler system, they tied it into the main line. No water inside means no school today. Although, I’m sure the kids would love to stay home.

I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll through the images, doing my best to line them up from the water main. I walk along the supposed path, praying I’m over the line. When I think I’m close to the issue, I stuff my phone in my pocket and slam my shovel into the earth.

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