I hold up a hand.
“I don’t want it to sound like an excuse, and I know it will. But honestly, one of the worst parts of it was before the race, I’d made up my mind—I was going to reach out to you after it was over. But once I was laid up… I felt like I had nothing to offer. Nothing except one surgery, therapy, or appointment followed by another.”
I pause, exhale. She waits.
“Honestly, thoughts of you got me through some of my toughest days.”
She snorts. “That’s a little dramatic.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But it’s true.”
“What was the date of the accident?” she asks, with a different tone I can’t quite read.
“It was July 21. Just weeks after we’d met.”
She’s quiet again. Looking far off. As though trying to puzzle through something.
“Once I was back in the states and mostly recovered, I knew I had to see you. I looked you up on Facebook. And there you were… beautiful as ever. Smiling down at this tiny little girl like she was your whole universe.”
She stills.
“That’s when I realized, while I was out of commission… your whole life had changed.”
She doesn’t speak right away. I see her jaw flex, her throat bob.
“Esme” is all she says.
I shake my head, then ask the question that’s been burning in me for months. “Is her father a part of your life? Her life?”
She hesitates. Then, “Not really.” But the answer is laced with something—sadness, maybe. Loneliness. Something she hasn’t said aloud.
“Well,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “With all due respect, he’s a damned fool.”
She gives a dry laugh. Shakes her head. “It’s not all on him. It’s just…complicated.”
I don’t press. Maybe he ghosted her. Maybe he’s married. Maybe he’s an ass. Maybe she never told him. I have no idea what her truth is—and I’m not about to demand it.
“Well,” I say, “Esme is a beautiful name. And she’s lucky to have you for a mom.” And I feel a deep ache of grief, allowing myself to imagine, as I had so often these past months, since first seeing that picture, what it would be like to have a child with this woman.
She smiles softly, looking down at her drink. “I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing. But I’m trying.”
We’re quiet for a moment. Then she looks back at me. “But seriously… I had no idea about your accident. That had to be so hard.”
I nod, then offer,“Il faut du courage pour traverser la douleur.”It takes courage to move through pain.
She holds my gaze, but doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she reaches across the bar and takes my hand.
“I think this would be a good one to dance to,” she whispers, just as the opening notes of“Make You Feel My Love”roll through the speakers.
I nod.
And then she’s in my arms again.
But when the song ends, we don’t head back to the bar or to the wedding party table; we walk out the door, into the elevator, and up to my room.
As soon as the door closes behind us, I pull her to me and kiss her long and deep, as though I can make up for lost time.
Her hands are immediately at my neck, and she makes me laugh as she says, “Still don’t know how these damned bowties come off.”
