Ididmeet someone.
And she is absolutely the reason I’m smiling.
But it’s not like that.
Except my brain immediately reminds me of the way I kept stealing a glance her way as she made breakfast this morning.
The black leggings.
The t-shirt that rode up when she reached for the cabinets.
The tattoo of a thorny vine snaking out from under her shirt and along her collarbone.
I shouldn’t be wondering what the rest of it looks like.
But I am.
I’m also wondering what other tattoos she might have.
And where.
“With what time?” I respond with a nervous laugh, worried if anyone might see through me it’s Nancy. “And I’m not interested in meeting anyone.”
She raises an eyebrow. “So you plan to play the grieving widower forever?”
I exhale slowly, shaking my head.
It’s not the first time I’ve had this conversation.
At first, no one brought it up. The wound was still open, the pain too raw.
But over the past few months, people have started to mention it, especially as we near the one-year mark.
“Do you really think that’s what Cora would have wanted for you?” she adds gently. “And her kids?”
“I just…” I blow out another long breath as I run a hand through my hair. “I’m not ready.”
“We’re never ready. But that doesn’t mean we should close down and stop living.Youshouldn’t stop living, Hayden.”
I search my brain for something to say, insist I’m happy. But I can’t seem to say the words. Instead, I grab my phone and show her the picture of Jemmy.
“The nanny sent proof of life. That’s what I was smiling at. He looks like a miniature hostage.”
She laughs softly, a twinkle of nostalgia forming in her eye. “He looks so much like her.”
“He does.”
We stare at the screen for a beat longer than necessary. Then I clear my throat and return my phone to my pocket. “What do we have today?”
“Mr. Alba’s in room two.”
I arch a brow. “Again?”
“He’s convinced the twitch in his left eyelid is brain cancer,” she says cheerfully, handing me a tablet.
“Of course it is,” I mutter under my breath.
While I would never assume to know more about a person’s body than they do, ever since Mr. Alba’s wife passed away earlier in the year, he’s been to this clinic at least once a week, sometimes more.
