Emmy
Assemblé (ah-sahm-blay’) v—To put together
“Can’t say I’m not happy about winning tonight.” Rhys settles into the driver’s seat beside me with a big grin. I love the contrast of his bright white smile against his delicious dark skin.
“Me too!” I say. “And Jen’s great.”
“Yeah. She makes work almost bearable.”
Jen pulls up beside us after we’ve backed up, and Rhys points to the street, indicating for her to lead the way to the restaurant for dessert. We reach the driveway, and he’s about to merge onto the main road when his phone buzzes. When he not only pulls out his cell but reads the text, I’m taken aback. We’re stopped, so it’s not like I’m worried we’ll get into a car accident or anything, but using a cell phone during a date, a first date, no less, is rude.
“Is everything, okay?” A hint of irritation colors my question.
He drags a hand through his hair, his fingers disappearing into the thick, dark strands.
“Not really, no.” Rhys taps his phone against the steering wheel.
“Rhys?” I ask, suddenly worried.
He hands me his phone. “Will you please text Jen and let her know we won’t be able to do dessert tonight?”
My eyebrows furrow as I take the phone from his hand. “Yeah, sure.” I slide my thumb across the screen and see a list of names. Mine and a few other girls. Not what I hoped to see. I click on Jen’s name, and the conversation thread appears. I don’t mean to read it, but my eyes land on the words before I can stop them.
Jen: I thought she was a spoiled princess?
Rhys: Long story, but that wasn’t her.
Jen: So . . . you like her, then?
Rhys: More than I should.
There’s something about seeing a text not meant for me but that’s about me that makes whatever this thing is between Rhys and me real. I quickly text Jen and hand the phone back to Rhys. He stuffs it in his pocket, and we zip back to Provo.
Rhys pulls down a street in south Provo. Redbrick homes line either side, and the yards are one of two extremes, impeccably maintained or on the verge of death. It’s quiet here. A normal city street, not the bustling college town I know Provo to be.
Rhys turns into a driveway, shuts off his truck, and jumps out of his seat. Do I follow him? Wait in the car? He didn’t exactly invite me inside, but it’s not like he told me to stay put either. My hand is on the latch and pushing the truck door open before I can talk myself out of it.
At the front door, Rhys fumbles with his keys. There’s enough light that I can see his forehead crease with worry. I have a feeling that whatever, or rather whoever, is on the other side of that door, is the reason Rhys keeps cutting our time short and turning hot and cold with me.
I start to follow, but he turns suddenly, and I almost pummel into his chest.
“I’m sorry. I—” He tugs on the ends of his hair, then wipes the back of his hand across his brow. “This isn’t how I planned to tell you.” Rhys steps inside the house, and I follow him in. He disappears down a darkened hallway, and I gently shut the door. When I turn around, the first thing I notice is that what I see does not match what I smell.
What I see is a brightly decorated, clean home. Blue walls, a red couch, and a rug that somehow ties the two together.
What I smell is feces.
Down the hall, a woman’s soprano voice mingles with Rhys’s deep baritone. A door closes between us, and the sound of rushing water filling a tub cuts off their conversation.
I sit on the couch to wait for Rhys, and the smell begins to dissipate. An eternity passes before the door creaks open again. Sitting straight, I wipe my hands along my pants and then realize my posture might make me look too rigid, so I force my shoulders to relax.
In the TV’s reflection, Rhys’s broad shoulders fill the hallway, and he wheels a woman who looks far too young to be in a wheelchair toward me. Her curly brown hair is nearly as long as mine. And the way she’s slumped makes her appear smaller than she probably is.
Rhys’s voice, although hushed, reaches my ears as he talks. I can’t make out his words, but his tone is gentle, almost pleading, as he speaks to her. The woman listens but turns away.
The floorboards creak as Rhys pushes her wheelchair down the hall. Right before he enters the living room, he drops to his knees and puts a pair of slippers on her feet. His back is to me, but I can still see him reach out to the woman and her bat him away. Despite her obvious displeasure, Rhys buttons her sweater anyway. He takes his position behind her again and wheels her the rest of the way into the living room.
“Emmy,” Rhys says, his voice almost a whisper. “I’d like you to meet Mary Solario. My mother.”