“That’s not fair.” His shoulders tense.
“Fair?” I shake my head. “You don’t get to nearly kiss me and then act like I imagined it.”
His eyes drop to the fire. The muscles in his forearms flex where they rest on his knees. “I didn’t…”
“Didn’t what?” My voice cracks despite my effort to hold my emotions in check.
“I tried… I couldn’t,” he stammers. “I hoped you wouldn’t remember.” He drops his face into his hands before dragging them both down it, the man sitting before me suddenly looking older than his years.
“I lost my wife.” His voice is rough and hesitant. “It was a little over a year ago. She was supposed to be with me, but I was running behind. She was going to meet me, only she never made it. A drunk driver made sure of that.”
The bluntness of his confession steals the air from my lungs and leaves me feeling like shit, suddenly realizing why he was so angry, in what little I remember, picking me up from The Dew Drop.
The fire popsbetween us.
“My world fell apart, and I found solace in the bottom of any whiskey bottle I could get my hands on,” he admits. “I drank. Hard. For a while, I didn’t care if I lived.”
The pieces all start to click into place: his distance, need for control, and the careful way he moves through the world, like everything is one wrong step from collapse.
“I don’t drink anymore,” he adds. “Not a drop. Because I know what happens when I let myself feel too much and don’t know where to put it.”
The wind shifts, carrying the smoke toward me and burning my eyes. Not wanting to look away, I struggle to keep them open.
“I don’t dislike you,” he professes. “Jesus, Teagan. That’s the problem. I think about you more than I should, and I noticeeverything… The strands of hair that always fly free from your braid. The tiny flecks of gold rimming your pupils. How you ride like you’ve got nothing to prove. The way you look at the horizon, like you know there’s a whole other world out there. I don’t dislike you…”
I blink, the smoke no longer the only source of tears welling in my eyes. My heart pounds so hard and violently, I’m certain it’s going to burst from my chest.
“But I love my wife,” he breathes, his voice breaking slightly.
The honesty breaks me, and a rogue tear trails down my cheek. I draw in a slow inhale, the cold air settling deep in my lungs.
“You think wanting me would send you back there?” I ask softly.
He laughs without humor. “I think losing you would.”
The honesty in his words split me open.
He meets my gaze then, and there’s no deflection left in him.
“I know it’s not the same,” I say quietly. “Losing a spouse isn’t the same as losing a parent. I’m not pretending it is.”
His eyes hold mine, cautious but open.
“But when my mom died…” My voice wavers before I steady it. “It felt like the ground dropped out from under me. Like the world kept moving, but I was stuck in the moment before it happened.”
The fire pops softly, and embers float through the air, catching on the breeze.
“I was eleven. Everyone kept telling me I was young. That I’dadjust. Like grief is something you grow out of, if you just wait long enough.”
He watches me carefully as I swallow around the memory.
“I didn’t want to adjust,” I continue. “Adjusting felt like agreeing she was gone. Like if I laughed too loud or had a good day, it meant she mattered less. That I didn’t miss her.” My fingers twist anxiously in the cuff of my sleeve.
“I used to sit in her truck after we buried her. Just sit there and breathe in the lingering smell of her perfume. Because if I could still smell her, she wasn’t fully gone.”
The admission hangs between us, leaving me fragile and exposed.
“I don’t know what it’s like to lose a wife.” My voice is softer as I struggle not to cry. “But I know what it’s like to love someone who doesn’t stop existing just because their body does. You don’t ever stop loving them. You just carry them differently.”
