The corner of her mouth lifts, a little crooked, and fills her cheeks slightly. Not the way she looks when she smiles wide and proud, but a smile, nonetheless.
We look at the menu in peace, or at least she does. I’m too busy looking at her to shift my gaze to anything else. It doesn’t matter either way, because I know what I want.
Both in life and from this place.
I want her.
Even if I don’t deserve her. I’m about to have to fight my brain, my body, and my heart tooth and nail until we either heal so we can be whole for her, or until I can forget how much I want her. I’ve never felt like this with anyone before. I’ve never felt a connection so deep, it feels like its roots are growing from the bottom of my soul all the way to my fingertips. How does one even?—
“Are you ready to order?” the server interrupts my thoughts. Quickly, we both place our orders, and when she leaves, taking the menus with her, the shield I was hiding under is gone. I’m left to face Natalie and hope to hell she doesn’t see my inner turmoil.
“Nick’s death was sudden,” she says after she takes a sip of her water. “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about all the details,but when he got hurt, my phone was away from me, and nobody could reach me. I was at the store, though, and someone came to tell me he was being transported to the hospital.”
She pauses. I want her to know she doesn’t have to share this if it’s painful, but she seems to want to share, so I let her. I saw Liam do that for Oliver when he lost his wife, the same way he did for me when I lost family—he listened in the way it’s needed the most: actively and patiently.
“When they came in, the door didn’t have a bell, and my back was to it. I was stocking the shelves, and all they shouted was ‘Nick’s in the hospital’, and I dropped a book.” She exhales, eyes fixed on her water cup. “Somehow, it all jumbled together—the back to the door, the unexpected entrance, the sound of the book falling, and my husband’s death.”
“So now, you face the door and put chimes at entrances.”
She hums in agreement. “A little irrational, I know, but?—”
“Nothing irrational about not wanting to replicate the things that happened when you found out your husband was hurt.”
Two not-so-silent tears fall down her face as she tries to blink them away. Just like the blush on her face speaks volumes, her tears do the same. I can hear how they trail guilt, sadness, and sorrow. I can understand telling me thank you for understanding and for putting into words the struggles she’s faced, the hurt. Those two tears share so much love, passion, and a life that was lost. I imagine two lives—his and the one they had together.
I’ve never wanted to be closer to someone before. The urge to reach over and wipe her tears, carrying them with me on my fingertips, is so strong, it physically pains me not to give in. I do the next best thing and touch my foot with hers under the table. She looks surprised for a brief second, but then her face softens, smiling back.
“My daughter says I’ll get dehydrated from crying so much, fair warning. It comes as an entire package with being my friend.”
“What does?”
“My kids, my tears, and me.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. I promise.”
“Sausage gravy, biscuits, and eggs for you.” The server slides my plate in front of me before placing Natalie’s breakfast sandwich down with a side of hashbrown casserole. “Can I bring you anything else?”
I look at Natalie for confirmation, and with the shake of her head, I say, “No, we’re good. Thank you.”
“No problem! Let me know if that changes.”
“Thank you,” Natalie mutters, followed by an exhale. “Provecho!” she says, catching me by surprise.
“Buen provecho,” I reply, and this time, it’s her who wasn’t expecting it. “Three of my best friends are fluent in Spanish. One of them is obnoxiously in my face all the time, so I’ve picked up a word or two. What about you?”
“My mom. She’s from Argentina, or, I mean, my grandparents were; she grew up here. In Baker Oaks, actually, but she carried a few things with her, including language.”
“That’s good. Are your girls fluent? Actually, areyou?”
“Eh, more conversational, I would say, and so is my oldest, especially when my parents are in town. Vero, well, no. The first speech pathologist suggested we use one language, and by the time we found another therapist who encouraged both, well, it’s been hard.”
“Still pretty cool.”
“Mmhmm. My parents come twice a year and spend some time here, and Bella picks it up more and more when they’re here. It’s great.”
We eat a few bites in comfortable silence, dancing around the giant elephant in the room, the whole reason we supposedly came here. “Are you close to them?”
“My parents?” she asks, and I nod in confirmation. “Yes, kind of? Just different from the way I am with my girls. They’re more providers than nurturers, which is okay. Everyone parents differently, you know? They never really played with me, and we don’t talk every day, but I see them twice a year, more when Nick was alive because we traveled to see them. They also send me wine every month, so we touch base a few times.”
