Page 2 of Mine to Love
Emerson: No plans. Binging our show. Unless you need girl time. I can kick H to the curb and we can break out the Jif. You okay?
Reason number four million two hundred sixty-two Emerson is my BFF. Without having to say anything, she always knows what I need. But it isn’t guy trouble tonight, unfortunately. That well is drier than the old cinnamon stick I found in the back of my cabinet last month.
Reese: Yes on the Jif. H can have a spoon if he wants. Work talk. Need a pity party is all.
I set my phone down and massage the back of my neck. I’m probably over-reacting. There’s no need to stress about new ownership. It happens all the time. But I need this job. My resume is impressive, but my education is not, even though I’ve got the math brains that earned me valedictorian of my high school class.
Frank Bates and Warren had been overly kind to me, offering me a job with only one year of college under my belt, allowing me to take a lot of paid time off in the beginning, and promoting me quickly throughout the bank, even giving me raises faster than other employees. It’s part of small town living. When tragedy strikes your family, people step up.
My phone dings again.
Emerson: Blowing up the balloons now.
Em can make me smile in the worst of times. Funny how less than a year ago the roles were reversed. When things got dicey between Emerson and Holden last year, I swooped in with my slutty sense of humor and infinite bottles of wine. Not that they needed my intervention. These two were destined to get their happily ever after, and I love them for it. Even when their cuteness and lovey-doveyness causes me to vomit from time to time.
The rest of the day drags as I meet with customers, sit in on an interview for a new teller, and return emails. As soon as the last employee leaves, I lock up and rush home to change and take care of my father.
“How was your day?” I lean over his favorite recliner and place a kiss on his head.
“You know. The usual. Ran a marathon. Made a gourmet meal. Built a garage on the house.” He takes a breath and continues in his slow and careful manner. “And am now finally giving my...aching body a...rest.” He clicks off the television and scoots to the edge of the recliner.
I curl my arms under his and lift him to his feet. Since it’s Tuesday, he had two visitors stop by today. Daniel has been working with him since the beginning. They’ve formed a special bond in the past nine years, and I’m grateful my father has such great care.
Mariah also comes by on Tuesdays to work on his speech. His second stroke two years ago slowed much of his language, but he’s been making great gains.
“And here I felt bad about ditching you for some Em time.”
“You girls...going out for dinner?” He has an air of eagerness in his voice, like he wants me to go out. I help him cross the living room and situate him at a barstool at the kitchen counter, per our usual routine. He likes to talk with me while I fix dinner.
Has my life turned so pathetic that my father, who is basically housebound and alone all day until I come home from work, wants me out?
“We’re getting together after dinner.” After I help him to bed, which is my usual time for slipping away for some BFF time.
“Warm me up some meatloaf and...have dinner with Emerson. I’m fine.” His speech is always slower at night.
“Dad.” I take down two plates. “I’m not ditching you.”
He chuckles. “I’m your father, not your son...not your husband. You’ve already...given up so much to care for me.” He reaches out his hand, and I take it in mine, giving him a squeeze.
He squeezes back. Two years ago, he couldn’t do that. His hand would rest in mine, unable to show any affection.
“It sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me.”
“I’m tired after...my marathon anyway.” He winks at me, his bushy eyebrow curling over his eye.
“You sure?”
“You look tired.”
“Gee. Thanks.” I laugh and slice off a hunk of meatloaf and scoop up a mound of leftover mashed potatoes. Dad is always good at reading me.
“Bad day at work?”
I put the plate in the microwave and set it for two minutes. “Maybe. The credit union is being bought out. We’re staying open, or so Warren believes, but there will be staffing changes.”
“You’re a good employee.”
I read the worry in his eyes. My job barely covers the bills. I make a decent salary, but Dad’s medical care is costly, even with insurance. He’d taken a second mortgage on the house to pay for my college, and then life as we knew it ended.