Miranda
Jack put Kacey to bed tonight. I showered and made my way out to the garden to do the nightly watering. Checked the flower shoots in the front of the house and hit them with some water. They were still looking good.
After our long conversation this morning, I helped Richard into his recliner, made him some lunch, and even met Cynthia, who came by during her lunch break to check on him. He told me to dig out some shoots from the irises and plant them in our front beds. I did. Irises in front of the house would be so beautiful.
But the emotional day drained me. So the moment of silence, alone in my garden, came as a relief. My brain went into hibernate mode, and I simply watered, feeling numb from the inside out. The crickets singing and the water hitting the soil lulled my worries.
I was almost finished when the backdoor opened jerking my awareness back into this dimension. Jack had worked all day and looked tired.
He strolled out with his hands in his pockets.
“How’d it go?”
“Just fine. He passed out.”
“Bedtime is usually easy. He runs until he drops.”
“Wish I had his energy.”
“Same.”
Jack nodded toward the garden. “Why do you always water at night?”
“Because if you water in the heat of the day, the water heats so much it like boils the roots, scorches the plants.”
“Hm. Didn’t know that.”
I tried to smile. Probably looked fake. “Also Richard told me to do it this way, and I’d go to war for him.”
Jack chuckled. “He’s a good guy.”
We talked for a few minutes about Richard falling and how we need to check on him if we don’t see him out and about.
When the conversation lagged, I spoke up, dread wrapping around my heart. “Jack, we need to talk about something.”
He eased down onto the bench.
“I feel like we need to get back on the same page of where this agreement is heading.”
He nodded, his jaw visibly clenching with worry.
“We are well over a month into this. And even though time is flying, a lot has changed.” I went down and sat on the edge of the garden near Jack. “I need to keep reminding us where we are headed. That—that I have every intention of signing”—my voice cracked as his shoulders dropped—“divorce papers when we sell the lake house. Because we share history, it’s been hard not to get close and feel like this marriage is for real, but we need to remember why we agreed to this. Money.” The last word made me want to burst into tears. So pathetic.
He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t get it.”
“What?”
“Why it has to be this way. You’re fighting feelings, not because you had feelings in the past. But because you have them now.”
I couldn’t admit to the feelings I was having—because then what? There would be no boundary to protect me anymore. All I could offer was a strong front. And hope it would somehow be enough to keep our hearts in tact when all this was over. So I said, “I don’t have real feelings.”
He rolled his head back, obviously annoyed. “Come on.”
“I don’t. Attraction, maybe…”
“Maybe?”
I opened my mouth to respond.
