First Position

CHAPTER ONE

Emory Claire stared at the array of bridal magazines on her fiancé Eric’s dining room table, stifling an urge to throw up. 

“What do you think about a winter wedding?” Molly, their wedding planner, eagerly suggested.  “Colors silver and white?  That could be absolutely gorgeous.”

Emory wondered how Molly, an unwed thirty-something, could become the top wedding planner in Charlotte, and why she had to be so damn perky all the time, to say nothing of her big breasts.  Molly was so top heavy that Emory wondered how she didn’t topple over.  And her voice, high-pitched and squeaky, made Emory sick, almost as much as the whole idea of a big wedding.  She wished Eric hadn’t hired her.  Emory wished she was anywhere but here.

“That could be nice,” Eric said hopefully, well aware of Emory’s hesitancy.

Emory wrinkled her nose, Molly sensing her discomfort.  Eric, in his mid-thirties, was a big client for her.  He was on the fast track to becoming the head of pediatric cardiology at his Charlotte hospital.  He’d met Emory, a child and maternity photographer, while taking photos of newborn babies in the maternity ward.  Eric seemed to have an uncanny ability to know when Emory was working; more than once he just happened to cross paths with her, then persisted in asking her out.  Molly planned to make sure their wedding was in the social pages, which would only boost her own career, so she surely didn’t want to upset Emory in Eric’s house.  Still, she had no idea what Emory’s problem was.  She decided to switch gears.

“I have some fabulous connections in the Caribbean.  Have you guys thought about a destination wedding?”

Emory flashed her eyes to Eric, signaling that may be the stupidest idea ever floated in the history of the world.

“A destination wedding might be difficult for our families and friends,” he responded, tactful as always.

Emory felt her face begin to sweat.  She had her late mother’s soft features -- alabaster skin and slender body, with rosy cheeks and lips -- masking a tough core molded by her father, a high school football coach.  Because of him, she could talk sports, play pool, and hold her own in a game of poker, all while looking like the angelic ballet dancer she once was.  Few things rattled her.  But her father hadn’t prepared her for this moment.  She was twenty-eight and scared.
 
Most women would consider Eric the perfect catch.  What’s wrong with me
?
   He was respectful and polite, not to mention a doctor who’d built his own home on a golf course in a posh gated community.  His blond hair, green eyes, and lean muscular frame made him easy on the eyes and a favorite among the nurses. 

“Are you OK?” Eric whispered to her.

“Yeah, I just need a drink.”  Emory excused herself from the dining room and walked into the kitchen, quickly looking for something to calm her nerves, but then remembered Eric didn’t keep any alcohol in the house.  She sadly settled for a glass of water.  She’d been in Eric’s kitchen many times before, but for the first time realized just how organized it was -- the chrome fixtures polished to a shine, the hand towels neatly placed, the flour and sugar jars precisely filled.
 
How did I get here
?
  Everything was in order, just like Eric -- safe and steady.  What their relationship lacked in passion, it made up for in security.

Eric followed her into the kitchen, then touched her shoulder from behind, startling her.  “What’s going on?”  She could feel heat rise to the surface of her skin.  “Molly says we really need to pick a date in order to get the venue we want.”

She took a sip of water.  “I thought we agreed to have a long engagement and take our time?”

Eric looked at her curiously, a twinge of aggravation in his eyes.  “We’ve dated for over a year, been engaged for three months, and it takes at least a year to plan a wedding.  Can you give me a month even?”  She took another sip, hoping a quick stall would give her something -- anything -- to say, but there was nothing.  “Can you at least give me
a
season
?
”  Emory shrugged her shoulders.  Eric was perfect; his house was perfect; and he had hired the perfect wedding planner to plan the perfect wedding.  But Emory felt anything but perfect.  She didn’t want to hurt Eric, but knew this was not just normal wedding jitters.  “Damn it, Emory!  I think I’ve been very patient and understanding about all your commitment issues.   I’m beginning to feel like you don’t want this wedding at all, or maybe it’s just that you really don’t wan
t
me
!
”

Emory reached for his hand.  “I love you, Eric.” 

“Then give me something to work with here.”

“All this talk of dates and venues and flowers is just so overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming?”  Eric threw up his hands.  “This is so embarrassing.  Molly is in the other room, and we need to. . . .”

“I don’t give a shit about Molly, and I don’
t
nee
d
to do anything.  This is the rest of our lives we’re talking about.”

“Didn’t you think about that before agreeing to marry me?”

It was a good question.  “Yes.”  And she had -- several times.  It was why she’d turned down his first two proposals, fearing that what little spark there was between them would dwindle after the honeymoon ended and the dog-days of marriage began.  But Eric was nothing if not persistent, and she finally accepted his third proposal, believing that he was certain about their relationship, and she should be, too.  After all, he was a smart man.  Emory chalked up her nerves about getting engaged to the broken heart she suffered at the hands of her college sweetheart, Mason.

“Because you agreed to marry me,” he said, trying to add some reason to the conversation, “we need a date to get married, right?”

Emory looked down at the oval cut diamond ring on her finger.  “I can’t give you that today,” she said softly.

“Then there’s no reason for us to be engaged.”  Eric held out his hand.  “Give me the ring.”

“Eric, come on.”

“No, I want it back.”

“Think about what you’re saying.”

“Oh, I’m thinking.  In fact, I’m thinking real clearly now.  Give me the ring!”

Emory took in his words.  She believed he was thinking clearly; he always did.  She walked slowly to the sink and poured the rest of her water down the drain, setting the glass in the sink.  She slipped the ring from her finger and gently placed it in Eric’s hand.  “I’m sorry.  I’m just not ready.”  She walked out of the kitchen towards the front door, grabbing her purse along the way.  She glanced back to Molly on her way out.  “We won’t be needing your help for that destination wedding -- or any wedding at all.”

*              *              *

Emory sat in her car, as the sun set over Eric’s house on the gloomy Friday night.  She put her hands on the steering wheel, wondering what had just happened.  Rain began to fall.  She looked at her left hand; it looked different without a ring.
 
I feel lighter
.
  She felt a calmness come over her, as if the rain, obscuring her view of the house, was washing away a prior life.  As wonderful as Eric was, she was right to have rejected him twice before; she should’ve trusted her instincts a third time.  She simply liked Eric more than she loved him, and that was no way to enter into a marriage.

She dialed the one person who always made her feel better, Wesley, her best friend and roommate.  “Hey, girl, how’s your day?”

“Awful.  Eric and I just broke up.”

“Holy shit!  What happened?”  He walked into their modest apartment, after a full day of teaching dance classes in his downstairs studio.

“I had a panic attack in front of the wedding planner,” she said, putting her hand to her face.  “So embarrassing.”

Wesley grabbed a large water bottle from the kitchen.  “She’s just a big-breasted bimbo, so you shouldn’t be embarrassed.” 

Emory sighed.  “It was all just too much.”

“It’s just a sign you’re with the wrong guy.”  Wesley chugged from the bottle and wiped his mouth.  “And I’m gay, so I know men.”

Emory laughed.  Wesley was always good for a laugh.  They had become fast friends in college when they were made dance partners.  She always knew he was gay, though she was the first person he told.  It wasn’t some big surprise to her, but she pretended it was.  She assumed he wouldn’t have wanted her to say it was obvious -- as obvious as the sun is hot.  Emory helped him with the ups and downs of coming out, and even went with him to break the news to his parents, who thought he was bringing home a girlfriend.
 
Were they blind or just stupid
?
  His parents didn’t take the news as well as she did and kicked them both out of their house, leaving Wesley a complete mess for months.  She did her best to comfort him.  Years later, he returned the favor and was there for her when Mason broke her heart, and she broke her ankle, ending her dream of a dance career.  It was the darkest time of her life, and Emory still hadn’t fully recovered.  Her own mistakes and secrets, which only Wesley knew, continued to haunt her. 

Her stomach growled.  “Do you have plans tonight?  I was thinking it might be a good night for take-out from Gus’ Bar.”

It always amazed Wesley how often Emory thought about food and how much she could eat and never gain an ounce.  He always had to watch what he ate to keep his tall, slender frame -- back in college and even now --  but sometimes found himself giving into his own food cravings.  But no matter how many buffets or combo meals Emory took in, she looked the same and never seemed to gain an ounce.

“Sounds great!  Don’t forget to get extra sauce.”

Emory rolled her eyes.  “Of course.”

*              *              *

Emory drove along the street in front of Gus’ Bar, cursing that there was no parking lot.  She didn’t have an umbrella.  She found a parking spot a block away, then ran through the rain, side-stepping puddles along the street.  She reached the front entrance, finding some relief underneath a small awning.  She wrung out her long blonde hair, drenched on her shoulders and back.
 
This day has sucked
.
  But good barbecue was worth braving the elements and the embarrassment of looking like hell.

She walked inside, still wringing out her shirt.  Gus greeted her at the bar.  “Hey honey, you’ve obviously had a rough one.”  Gus had known Emory for years.  He was one of her first clients when she moved to Charlotte after studying photography in Europe.  She took pictures of his grandkids and was a repeat customer at his bar.  Gus knew her mood from her order.  It was a slab of ribs tonight -- which meant comfort food after an awful day.

“Not the greatest, Gus.”  Emory frowned and flicked her wet shirt.  “Could you put a little extra sauce in with that?” 

“Already did, baby.  It’s right on top.”  He handed her a large sack.  “Don’t know where you put it.”  

She shrugged and smiled.
 
Definitely not in my bra cup
.
  She peeked in the sack while turning from the bar, then rammed into a hard body, the sack slamming against her chest, dumping sauce down the front of her wet shirt.  The sack fell to the floor.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!”  the hard body said, bending down to pick up the sack.  “Didn’t see you there.  Are you OK?”  He placed the sack on the bar while Emory grabbed some napkins from a nearby table.  The hard body looked at his victim, wiping her shirt in vain.  “Emory Claire?”