“That’s nice,” he says, like we’re talking about the weather.
“Nice?”
He drops his hand from my elbow and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, yeah. What else should I say?”
I shake my head and grab my wine, needing just one more sip. I don’t know how to explain all the emotions I’m feeling after meeting Tate and seeing the way Angelo is with her. It’s heartwarming and heartbreaking all at the same time.
Before I can bring the glass to my lips, Roger tries to snatch the damn thing from my hands, but I twist in the opposite direction. “I think you should slow down.”
I’m careful not to spill a drop and level him with my glare. “You are not my father.”
I hate being handled, especially by Roger. While he means well, the last thing I need is for him to tell me what to do or how to feel. I had months of that after Mitchell died. Between the counselors, military wives, and Roger, I had had enough.
He lifts his hands in the air. “Point taken.”
“Either join me in a drink, or you know where the door is.” I lift my chin, defiant and petulant as I take a sip.
Roger grabs the wineglass I set out for him, filling it to the top without even looking at me. “So, tell me about the kid. What has you so…”
He’s walking on eggshells. He wants to say crazy, but it’s a term he knows will make me come unglued. I’m not insane. I’m emotional.
Fuck, I’m grieving.
Anyone who’s been through losing a spouse will know the insanity that follows. Emotions change quicker than the direction of the wind, and there’s no warning before the anger suddenly strikes or the sadness becomes unbearable.
“I’m feeling so many things.”
Roger nods but doesn’t speak. He’s learned it’s best to say as little as possible and let me blabber on. It took months for him to realize I just need someone to listen to me.
“I look at her little face and imagine what it would be like to have a little piece of Mitchell here with me.”
“Oh,” Roger whispers, deciding it’s time to start drinking the wine he’s holding.
I begin to pace, kicking off my shoes because my feet are freaking killing me. “Then I think, why would I want to put the sadness I feel in my bones on someone so young and innocent.”
I chug half the glass before I speak again. “Tate took my hand today and wanted nothing more than to show me her bike. She kept looping her finger through my hair as I bent down to check out the pink paint and her cute little white basket.”
The tears come a little faster this time because my heart ached from the moment she touched me. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and never let go. No child should feel the pain of love and loss at such a young age. I was in college when my mother died, and it damn near broke me.
Roger hops up on the steel table and watches me, staying silent and nodding his head.
“I don’t know how Angelo does it,” I say and then stop moving, looking over at Roger. “I don’t know how he got this far. How can you grieve and raise two kids?”
“I don’t know. I remember you wouldn’t even get out of bed for a month, and then…”
“I know. I felt and smelled like trash.” It wasn’t my proudest moment, but it was all I could do. I wanted to curl up and die, joining Mitchell wherever he was. “I was so in shock, I barely remember that month, honestly.”
“You were literally a day away from the county mental ward.”
I stalk across the tile floor in my bare feet and look him straight in the eye. “They never would’ve taken me alive.”
“That’s why I never called. I wasn’t willing to lose you. Not after losing Mitchell.”
I can see the pain in his eyes. Sometimes I’m so lost in my grief, I forget he lost his only sibling. He became an only child in a heartbeat, just like I’d become a widow.
He opens his legs as I move closer. “Why did this happen, Roger?” I place my head in the middle of his chest. “Why?”
He sets his wineglass next to his legs before prying my glass from my hands. “There’s no reason, Til. Life doesn’t make sense sometimes.”
