Free Hourglass by Myra McEntire Page A

know what to think. “How did you two find him anyway?”
    She shrugged and took more clothes out of a paper shopping bag. “You’d have to ask your brother about that. And don’t change the subject.”
    “What subject?”
    “The subject of your future. Your happiness.” She wadded up the bag, fiercely crunching the brown paper, and threw it to the ground. “You’re one of the most compassionate, generous people I’ve ever met, which means if you want to be, you’ll make an excellent mother. You have so much to offer. Don’t sell yourself short and hide in a hole instead of living your life!”
    I froze, waiting for the flying pigs to descend. Dru never yelled.
    “I’m sorry.” Her hand flew to her mouth. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be. I—I, just, thank you. For everything.” I paused, pressing my lips together, blinking furiously. “That’s how I know what a phenomenal mom you’re going to be. Because you’ve been one to me. So thank you.”
    This time the tears spilled over. I grabbed the spit happens shirt and held it across my chest. “I don’t think this will fit. Didn’t they have bigger sizes?” I got the laugh I was hoping for and took the opportunity to change the subject. “Looks like the bags are empty. Are all baby items deemed acceptable?”
    She nodded, brushing the wetness briskly from her cheeks, getting back to the business at hand. “Will you help me take the tags off everything so I can wash it all?”
    “No problem. I had no idea babies needed their own detergent.” I handed Dru the pink plastic bottle with the picture of a sleeping infant on it.
    “Me neither.” She laughed. “We have a lot to learn. Isn’t it exciting?”
    It was.
    When we were finished, a pile of tags and tiny plastic hangers covered the floor, so I stuffed it all into an empty shopping bag and took it down to the Dumpster. Dusting off my hands, I headed up the metal stairs and ran smack into Michael’s chest, losing my balance.
    He reached out to grab my shoulders, stopping me before I fell. I pulled away quickly. Now wasn’t the time to be reminded of our crazy physical connection.
    “Hey,” he said, his focus shifting from my face to the ground as he hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans.
    I crossed my arms and stepped around him to continue up the stairs, irritated that he’d spoiled my good mood.
    “Wait, Emerson.” I heard his feet hit two steps behind me before I turned and leaned back against the metal railing. We were practically eye to eye.
    “What?” I drew it out, trying to sound bored, but my voice trembled at the end of the question.
    “About yesterday … the Hourglass … I wish I could explain.”
    “Why can’t you?”
    He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I just can’t.”
    I gave him an irritated growl and turned to continue up the stairs. He grabbed for my hand, but I yanked it away as I spun around. “Why? I ‘don’t know what I’m dealing with,’ so I should just ‘mind my own business’—isn’t that what you said?” I could feel the sneer curling my upper lip.
    “It’s more complicated than that.”
    The desire to kick him in the shins at the answer that was beginning to become his standard was overwhelming. “No.”
    “What?”
    “No.” My impulses moved from kicking to punching, spurred on by my own anger and the fact that, before yesterday’s incident in my bedroom, I had trusted Michael. “I won’t mind my own business. You show up, tell me you understand me and that I should trust you. And then you won’t tell me the truth.”
    “Emerson, I’m being as honest with you as I can be, believe me,” he said, his palms up.
    “Not being completely honest is the same as being a liar.”
    “I am not a liar,” he said. A vein pulsed in his forehead.
    “I think you are,” I pushed with my words.
    “I’m not. What I am is extremely frustrated.”
    Michael reached out, cupped his hands under my elbows, spun me