Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

even though they were not staring at me, they heard every word being said and would drill me as soon as I got off the phone. Not too many young men called the house. Once upon a time, they called for my sister Julie, yes. Before she met the bum.

But not me.

“Sure,” I said. “Do you know how to get—”

“I’ll figure it out.”

And he had. He’d figured it out at least twice, sometimes three times a week since. And, he’d become my every waking thought. The breath in my lungs. The period at the end of my sentence. From the absolute beginning, I knew—instinctively I knew—that one day he and I would marry. That I would never go to college—at least not anytime soon. That he’d be the father of my children. The reason I’d wake up in the morning and go to bed at night and move through the hours between. Westley Houser was all of life rolled into a big red rubber ball and tied off with a wide ribbon, able to bounce higher than all the others in the bin.

And—even though my ball was a little low on air—I believed that, with him, I’d soar above the rest.

Chapter Three

On my third Christmas, Santa managed to get a swing set from Sears & Roebuck into his sleigh and deposit it—red bow and all—to the backyard of our home. He even positioned it so my mother could stand at the kitchen window and watch my sister and me pump our little legs, forcing the cold metal swings higher and higher. Over the years, until I was too large to fit on its narrow seat, I spent the better part of my thinking hours there. This was where I dreamed. Where I created situations and circumstances I called “my stories.” This is where, when I’d reached the end of them, I’d leap, arching above the green earth, arms flung wide, until I landed flat on my feet with a jarring bound.

I had turned thirteen or possibly fourteen when Daddy finally removed the rusted chains and unused swings and the two-seated glider, replacing them all with a wooden patio swing. He painted the frame and the swing in a soothing shade of forest green. Now, my actions upon it were different, but I still had a renewed place to think. To contemplate. To write in my diary uninterrupted. And to sit with friends on warm summer evenings, waiting for the sun to dip behind the line of tall, dark pines until the lightning bugs emerged. Waiting for the blue of the sky to turn to gray and then to black and the stars to come out. Waiting to lean my head back and look up and say, “There’s the Big Dipper …”—the only constellation I clearly recognized in the summer months.

Orion being the one in fall and winter. But that came later. With Michelle.

The evening Westley came over to talk to my parents—my father in particular—and after all the hand-shaking and after my mother had written down his mother’s phone number in the little address book she kept in a kitchen drawer so they “could talk,” Westley and I slipped out of the back door. We walked hand in hand around the front of the house to the far-right side where the swing had been moved, then dropped onto it. Night’s cloak had already been donned and a distinct chill hung in the air. I shivered as I snuggled into Westley’s arm, draped across the back of the swing. “Cold?” he asked as he removed his jacket without waiting for an answer.

I shook my head to indicate I would be fine, but he had me wrapped and tucked before I could say the words. I laid my head on his shoulder then, feeling the safety of being with him. Of knowing that—soon enough—he’d be my husband. I, his wife. And that we could do this forever.

He kissed the top of my head, leaving his lips at the crown until I looked up and found him smiling at me. “I thought we were going to tell them together,” he said.

I kissed him lightly. “I couldn’t wait.”

He cocked a brow at my words as though he was about to reprimand me, but when I smiled, he smiled back and asked, “Do you want to talk about dates?” I returned to my original position, then threw my legs over his so I fit like a child against an adult. Westley adjusted me to his liking, then said, “Hmm?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

His finger traced a line along my shoulder. “How does May sound to you?”

I calculated the time. “I thought most brides had a year to plan,” I said, suddenly feeling a little sleepy … and a little too comfortable scrunched up against him.

Westley tipped my chin up and kissed me in the same way he had the day of the proposal, leaving me wanting so much more than we should do … or possibly could do … especially considering our current location. “Do you want to wait a year?” he asked when the kiss ended.

“No,” I croaked.

“Me either.”

“But I do want to wait,” I said, shifting the meaning.

He ran his index finger down my nose. “I understand that …” He kissed me again, just as passionately as he had a moment before. Then, “How about December? You can be a Christmas bride.”

I leaned back, the wood beneath me becoming like bricks. “I couldn’t possibly get everything done in two months, Wes—”

He kissed me again. “Valentine’s Day?” he asked when we came up for air and my whole body wished to ignite.

I threw my legs to the ground and bounded up. His coat puddled at my feet. “Hold on,” I shouted as I sprinted toward the house on al dente spaghetti legs and the swing creaked and shook behind me.

“What are you—” Westley called out.

“Just hold on,” I hollered like a fishwife, now at the front door. I