“Likeyou,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “Have any feelings for you whatsoever.”
“Oh, I’ve made it very hard, have I?”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t release his hand.
“Don’t get cocky.” She paused. “But oddly enough, yes.”
“You must have a thing for borderline depressed dads who need therapy and a good shave.”
“Everyone needs therapy,” Merritt said casually. “As for the rest, maybe I do. The heart wants, et cetera.”
Whit stopped, pulling Merritt’s hand until she did the same.
“What?” she said.
“I don’t want you to think...”
He could see the worry descend on her face, and he jumped to find the right words.
“It’s not like you’ve been languishing in your feelings for me all alone.”
“I object to ‘languishing,’ but go on.”
She waited, clearly unsure where he was going.
“I...” He puffed up his cheeks and let out a long breath. “It’s complicated, being a... widower. I hate that word. Anyway, I’m not very self-aware when it comes to my own feelings. I’m trying to be, but it’s still hard, even without all the grief and guilt. Lately, though, when Idohave any nameable feelings, it’s like they’re plants in a terrarium, and I know they’re there, but I have to break through to get to them.”
He looked down and stepped on a dead leaf.
“Not always, but often, and so anything I’ve felt for you—and I’ve felt a lot for you, from the beginning, from the moment you got that book stuck in the book drop—but I had to let myselfgetto it first, if that makes sense. And I don’t want to always talk about Helen, really, I’m sorry about that, but I think that’s just going to be part of this. Part of me, and—”
Merritt brought her other hand forward so that his hand was wrapped in both of hers.
“Whit,” she said, interrupting him, “you know how you said I’m not allowed to be surprised when people say my writing is good?”
She said this directly without a single quiver of self-doubt.
“Yes?”
“Right. Well, you are not allowed to apologize for grieving. The guilt is another story—it’s natural, I know that from when my dad died, even if it’s not logical or fair to yourself—but you can’t change the grief, and you can’t feel bad about it. That, or talking about Helen. Okay?”
Whit started to speak, then stopped himself, waiting, letting himself feel Merritt’s words. And the feeling came. In the early months after Helen’s death, he had tried to push through, for Annie, and he had lived more or less on autopilot, going through each day without being really conscious of any decision he made. The soft parts of himself were buried far within, unreachable except sometimes, when something unexpected would breach all his protective layers: discovering one of Helen’s earrings in the couch cushions, or a song they’d both liked coming on the radio. Or once—he remembered this specifically—he’d been sitting in the optometrist’s chair, and the technician, who was adjusting the refractor against Whit’s eyes, barely grazed his cheekbones with his fingertips at the very same moment he asked, “So how have you been?” and Whit had felt a shudder roll through him, and his eyes had filled with tears. He’d apologized, explaining that his wife had just died.
He felt much the same now as Merritt gave those soft parts permission to be, and as she told him in so many words that feeling these things for her did not lessen his love for Helen. And he did not cry, and he did not apologize, but he wrapped his other hand around hers for the second time that day.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Thank you.”
Merritt nodded.
“And,” she said, “just a point of clarification:Idid not get the book stuck in the book drop. I got the book unstuck, thank you very much.”
Whit smiled.
“Of course. I must have forgotten.”
“Well, don’t do it again,” she said, pulling her hands free as she continued to walk. “I’m the hero of that story.”
“Yes,” Whit said, “you are.”
