It Happened on Maple Street

James was kind. Gentle. Soft spoken. He was going to be a chemical engineer. And maybe a part-time preacher.

I did what he told me to do. I thought about his request all weekend.

He woke up to the sound of tears. Or maybe to the soft jerks that accompanied Emily’s sobs. She was sitting upright on the opposite side of the backseat, looking out the window.

He’d screwed up.

“Hey,” Tim said softly, pulling her back to him. “I’m sorry about that.” She held herself stiffly, resisting him. “I was talking to you.”

“I know.”

“I was pouring my heart out.” Obviously he’d been asleep longer than she knew.

“I know, Teach, and I feel the same way, I swear . . .” He loved her. That was all that mattered. “I just . . . the feel of you against me, listening to your voice, it just felt so . . . you know, like we were married and . . .”

“Married?” The stiffness left her body. She leaned against him.

“Not now, or anything, but I’ve been thinking about it. Someday.”

“You want us to get married?”

“Someday.”

“I love you, Cowboy.”

“I love you, too, Teach.”

And before she could launch into a rehash of whatever heart outpouring he’d missed during his nap, providing more chances for him to make a mess of things, he turned her face up to his and kissed her. They were in a secluded part of the park.

And lovemaking always seemed to get rid of Emily’s insecurities where he was concerned.

“Have you thought about my question?” It was Saturday afternoon, and James and I were driving back from the home where his mother was spending the long weekend, babysitting for a couple of cute kids whose parents had opted to spend the holiday alone together rather than with their kids.

James’s mother had felt as sorry for the kids as I had. She’d made a Thanksgiving dinner, of sorts. She’d made me feel more welcome than I could ever have imagined.

She also made it clear that she would be more than thrilled to have me for a daughter.

“Did you tell your mother you were going to ask me?”

“I mentioned that I might. You’re staying at the apartment. She’d have guessed anyway.”

The apartment. We were heading back there. I liked the place. It was small but very well kept. Clean. Decorated. Lots of plants. It felt open and calm and welcoming and safe.

I was sleeping in James’s room, in one of the two twin beds. He’d slept in his mother’s double bed in the room next door.

“I’ve thought about it.”

“And?”

“I . . . ”

I was twenty years old and other than Tim, James was the only man I’d ever even thought about spending a lifetime with. I could make him happy. I had no doubts about that. And I enjoyed being with him.

He’d be a good provider. A good protector.

“I . . . guess.”

He stopped the car and stared, his mouth open. “You mean it?” You’d think the man was hard up for women, rather than the target of more than half of the girls in our social club.