I don’t know what he wants, though a dozen different possibilities flip through my head. Am I being deliberately obtuse? Maybe it’s safer not to know, to continue as I have been. Perhaps that’s why I’m still empty without Max, because to desire something new is to open myself to failure, to hurt.
Sweet, soft wafts of cedar infuse the air.
He’s brave, asking for something new.
I nod, a tiny movement, but clear enough.
His lips brush mine. Once, twice—each so brief I could almost imagine they hadn’t happened—then a third longer, warm, soft. A promise or a possibility.
And then he leaves without saying another word; it’s just as well, for his darkly satisfied—dare I say, smug—smile conveys enough.
I retreat to the executive suite restroom. Lock the door. Splash water on my heated face and stare at my bemused reflection in the mirror.
Then, trace the tears slipping from my eyes.
No aspect of my previous life fits as well as it did before. I’ve read somewhere that it’s best not to make changes too quickly after losing a loved one, but how does one wait? How, when death means tiptoeing around not just one absence, but many? I worked, lived, slept with Max day in and day out. That’s three holes to fill.
Without realizing it, I’ve already started to change my sleep patterns, not wanting to be alone at night and, thus, finding comfort and warmth with Corin. New possibilities, never before conceived of outside fleeting moments that added to nothing, now form before me.
Guilt akin to Corin’s blossoms bitter in my heart. With Max gone, my relationship with Corin has to change. It could be so easy to grow closer. Could this have happened without losingMax? Maybe, but only if we stepped outside our usual patterns, and I’m not sure we would have.
I’m still empty. My future continues to gape open before me. Nevertheless, surety vibrates in my bones that this is but the start of a slippery slope. One change big enough and I’ll topple over and start rolling toward a different life, a different me.
My own words echo in my head, both curse and blessing: nothing about Max’s death was good, and nothing can make it good, but he’d want good things for me and Corin after.
Even if it includes something growing between us.
Chapter 12
The Fruit of Choices
CORIN
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, but I might have moved a little too fast. The hire car carrying us home isn’t that wide, but Johanna sits snugly against the backseat door, as far from me as she can get. Her scent is muted, although the mix of tart and sweet seeps through. Similarly, she keeps peeping my way, trying to be discreet and failing—which she knows, since whenever she accidentally meets my gaze, she gives a shy, half-smile.
It's adorable—and a warning.
Something I take seriously. I resist any and all urges to touch her. No shoulder nudges, no light caress down her arm, and most definitely no more kisses.
For now.
Nor will I make any mention of her sleeping next to me tonight. If she comes on her own, I’ll make her welcome. If she doesn’t, I’ll watch and wait.
If something grows between us, it must be the fruit of choice on both sides.
I hate waiting.
Fortunately, we return to the house to find ample distraction. Anamaria arrived before us, unloading boxes from a beat-up car that I recognize as belonging to one of Bebe’s friends only by the cat-shaped cracks in the solar panels on the roof.
Bebe and two brawny alphas I don’t recognize, along with the beta owner of the car—whom I do although their name escapes me—are also lifting and toting. The amount of stuff being shifted exceeds what I remember helping Anamaria move into her shared apartment not-so-very-many months ago.
Anamaria sets a box down on the pavement, wipes her hands on her t-shirt and jeans—and why is she wearing only a t-shirt when, even from this distance, it’s clear she’s shivering? She heads for us, but veers away from me, into Johanna’s open arms.
Not mine.
Johanna gives me little more than a warning glance before hugging and whispering with my daughter. I’m left standing flat-footed and as muddled as Johanna was in the car, though for different reasons.
Bebe tugs at my arm, pulling me to a far corner of the small front yard. She waves at her friends, or Anamaria’s—or both—to keep moving. From inside the house, the voice uttering sharp orders indicates Caity’s here, which means all my children know more than me about what’s going on.
