“Life’s too short to waste time being scared of what people think.” His voice gets more serious. “I spent three years barely living because I was too afraid to move forward. I don’t want to do that anymore.”
He’s braver than me. “I want that too.”
“Can I kiss you? Since you’re completely sober and sure about it?”
My heart races. I think about the festival, how mortified I was the next morning when I remembered trying to kiss him while tipsy on cheap beer. How I’d apologized and he’d been so understanding it made me want to crawl under a rock. This feels completely different. This feels right.
Say yes. Just say yes. “Yeah.”
He cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and kisses me softly. Carefully. His hands are warm. His lips are soft. Like he’s been thinking about this moment for weeks and wants to get it right.
And it is right. Gentle at first, then deeper when I lean into him. The kiss tastes like salt from the fries and something sweeter, more us. When his tongue touches mine, I make a small sound I’d be embarrassed about if I had any brain cells left.
When we break apart, I’m smiling so wide my cheeks hurt and trying to catch my breath.
“So,” I say, my voice still unsteady. “We’re really doing this?”
“Yeah we are.” He threads his fingers through mine, and the simple gesture feels intimate, binding. “Think you can handle dating a cop? We basically run on adrenaline and caffeine.”
“Think you can handle dating a woman who has constant family drama?”
“We got this.” He says it with such certainty that I almost believe him.
Looking at him in the starlight, his hand warm in mine, his dark brown eyes soft and open in a way I'm realizing is rare for him, I think he might be right.
Or we're both about to crash and burn spectacularly.
Either way, I'm all in.
Chapter 39
Sawyer
Three Years Ago
Thefuneralwasyesterday.Today I’m back at work because I don’t know what else to do with myself. The house feels too empty, too quiet, like the walls are closing in. At least here at the station I can pretend everything is normal. Pretend my wife didn’t just die. Pretend my life isn’t completely shattered.
I’m reviewing reports at my desk, not really reading them, just staring at words that won’t stick in my brain, when someone knocks on the front door of the station. It’s after hours, but the door’s still unlocked for emergencies. I look up to see a man I vaguely recognize from Lila’s school—mid-thirties, nervous energy radiating off him, fidgeting with his car keys like they might save him from whatever he’s about to do.
Who the hell is this guy?
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Sawyer Edwards?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Tom Bradley. I worked with Lila at the school.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, can’t seem to meet my eyes.What is this dude’s deal?“We need to talk.”
About what? If this is condolences, I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.
“If this is about flowers or whatever, I’m working—”
“It’s not about that.” The way he says it makes my stomach drop. There’s something in his voice, something guilty and desperate. “It’s about Lila. About something I need to tell you.”
What could you possibly need to tell me about my dead wife?
I lead him to the break room and close the door. Tom sits down heavily in one of the plastic chairs, running his hands through his hair like he’s trying to pull the words out of his head.
