“I have some work I need to do, so I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me for anything,” Lily tells me before she turns and walks back inside.
As soon as the door shuts behind her, I look back at Jack, fully prepared for some smart-ass comment. But he gives me a reprieve when he says, “I’m going to go take those pictures real quick, then I’m heading out. I promised Gisella I’d take her shopping for some new furniture.”
I shake his hand. “Thanks, man.”
He jogs down the steps we just came up and disappears around the side of the house. I assume Lily’s position and stare off into the trees.
I need to talk to someone. Someone who knows me better than anyone, and who can give me advice.
I know exactly who I need to go see.
Tuesday morning,I’m sitting at a stoplight, and my car’s console alerts me to a text from Lily. Before the light turns green, I open it.
Lily: I want to cook again tonight. Are you in the mood for anything in particular?
This is a very blissfully domestic conversation that, for some inexplicable reason, makes me happy. That is, if you ignore the wholeshe’s my clientpart of it.
Me: Honestly, really anything you want to make will be great.
Lily: Okay! I’ll figure something out.
The light changes, and I drop my phone into the cup holder, a smile that feels unnaturally pleasant tweaking my lips.
I hated leaving her alone this morning. But she seems to be settling in nicely at my place and insisted she’d be fine for the hour before she had to leave for work. Even though it’s only been a few days, it’s become way too comfortable and easy to have her with me.
And she seems a little more relaxed than she was before she moved in. I’m sure she’s getting annoyed, but I keep asking her how she’s feeling. I need to know where her head is at so I can figure out how to best help her.
Last night, I had a moment of clarity as we were sitting on my couch, watching a movie. I’ve decided I don’t give a shit about how unprofessional my feelings are. I won’t act on them because I don’t know how she feels, and two weeks after her husband dies is probably terrible timing to hit on her.
But deciding to accept my feelings rather than fight them, even if they’ll never be shared with her, is freeing. There isn’t this internal battle. They’re just there, and I acknowledge them and move on. I still want to confide inone of my closet friends. Get his take and hopefully have him validate my feelings and decisions.
Sitting at the small table, feeling unusually anxious, my leg jiggles as I wait for him to be brought over. Movement besides me catches my eye as the guard brings him over. I opted not for a private room this time, since it’s during normal visiting hours.
Tom swings his leg over the small bench across from me, smiling up at the guard. “Thanks, Brad.”
Brad nods and leaves us.
“Making new friends?” I tease.
He waves my comment off. “You know, these youngin’s are good guys for the most part. There are a few bad apples, but if you’re not an asshole to them, they tend to do the same for you.”
It wouldn’t surprise me if Tom became a mentor to these men just as much as he was to me. That’s just who he is to his core, and being in prison doesn’t change that. I never thought I’d be jealous of a prison guard, but there’s an undeniable heaviness in my heart when I think about the fact that they get that with him because they’re in here with him, and I’m not.
“Have you seen Seth lately?” Tom asks quietly.
I sniff hard and look away from him, my jaw muscle ticking in anger.
“Chris, you promised.”
Sighing, I thread my fingers through my hair. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll go this week.”
Seth is Tom’s teenage step-grandson and the only other person besides me who he worries about. I told him I’d check in on him regularly, but sometimes it’s hard. Not because of Seth, who’s actually a pretty good kid, considering,but because of his mother. I’ll loathe that woman until I take my last breath.
“But that isn’t why you came here,” Tom observes. “How’s the new client?”
I brush nonexistent crumbs off the table, trying to decide how to word this, before glancing up at my friend. “Complicated.”
He tilts his head and studies me. “How so?”
