I direct my gaze back to my daughter. “Never?”
“What are you trying to ask me, son?”
“How do you know?” I cut in. “How do you know if another woman is worth that risk?”
My father sighs, taking a long swig from his beer before replying. “I guess I would wait for the same feeling I got when I met your mom…even though I’m afraid that I never may feel the same way about another woman like I felt for her.”
“Yeah, I get that.” I take another drink. “But what did you feel?”
My father chuckles. “She made me feel lighter, Rhonan. I—I don’t know how else to explain it. But when I was with her, I never wanted to stop listening to her talk. I felt like being with her made me see the world differently. And with her by my side, I felt like we could accomplish anything.” He swallows roughly. “She was my best friend, and I miss her every fucking day.”
It’s rare that my father cusses. “I miss Mom and Sarah too, Dad.”
“But this conversation isn’t about them, is it?”
“No.” Lifting my beer bottle to my lips, I keep my gaze on my daughter.
“The only thing you can do, son, is listen to your gut. I’ve found that it never truly steers me wrong.”
If only my gut was louder than my fear.
***
“I’m going to make this one into a watermelon.” Ellis dabs her paintbrush into the bright pink paint, swishing it around a few times before moving the dripping brush to the rock in front of her. She leans as close to the rock as she can, her focus fucking adorable. But if she gets any closer, she’s going to end up with pink paint on her nose.
“That’s a great idea, Ellis,” Vienna says, dipping her brush into the red paint next. “I think I’m going to make mine into a rose.”
“Oh, I wanna do a rose too!”
“You can do that next. We have tons of rocks that we can paint, sweetie.”
“We need to paint them all,” my daughter declares, but my eyes move to the basket, knowing damn well that it could take months for that to happen.
“You won’t be able to paint them all tonight, Ellis,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Because there’s way too many, sweetie.”
My daughter looks up at me as if I’ve sprouted another head, but Vienna chimes in quickly. “That just means that we can do this again sometime, Ellis.”
My daughter turns to her, a bright smile on her face. “Okay!” And then she goes back to painting.
It’s a Wednesday night and, as planned, Vienna came over about an hour ago to paint rocks with my daughter. Joanne made a pasta dish for dinner that we all ate together, and then she left for the Sip & Smut night at the winery that my sister hosts. I try not to think about the things they discuss at those meetings, but that means I’m alone withmy daughter and neighbor, watching the two of them together while I fight the physical reactions happening in my body.
First of all, Vienna is wearing an olive-green shirt that shows just the right amount of cleavage, hinting at the perfection lying underneath that fabric. Then, she’s wearing black spandex leggings that put every single one of her curves on display but still allow me to appreciate the jiggle of her ass as she walks.
However, the thing that’s truly captivating me right now is how she’s interacting with my daughter. Melancholy is resting in my chest because all I keep thinking is how this is something Sarah should have been doing with our daughter—and yet again, I’m making myself feel guilty for the other things I’m feeling for the woman sitting in front of me.
It’s not the guilt from wanting to sleep with someone else that is eating at me. It’s the fact that I can’t stop thinking about her in every capacity. It’s the fact that I want to know more about this woman, my curiosity growing with each interaction we have—and I didn’t think I’d ever consider that after losing my wife.
I thought Sarah was the only great love that I’d get.
And I know I’m far from feeling love for Vienna, but I’m definitely feeling interest—and in a way, that almost feels more conflicting for me because that’s the last thing I should want, given our complicated relationship.
But my mind keeps sprouting questions, like what was her childhood like? Why did she want to be a teacher? And has she done anything else liberating since the night at The Charming Bull? Or does she regret all of her choices that night, including leaving me without saying goodbye?
“You know, when I was a kid I collected pine cones,” Vienna says, pulling me back to the present.
