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Nick inhaled a long breath and let it out, squelching his anger as the door shut behind Quinn. The rattling glass echoed a lonesome tune in the near-empty hallway.
Mrs. LaRue was a sweet old lady, but that sweet lady made those comments when it was obvious he wasn’t dating anyone. Why would he be here if he was? It was one thing for her to talk to him like that, and she had. Always saying, “I just know any day some sweet little thing is going to steal your heart away.” But to speak that way to someone she didn’t know was another thing—at a grief counseling session no less.
He backed away from the door and sat on one of the hall benches to give Quinn time to leave. Elbows on his knees, he consulted his phone to make his waiting less obvious. The last thing she needed was to think he’d followed her out. She’d been trying to escape, and he’d stopped her—the first attack on her strategy. Then Mrs. LaRue’s display of brilliance—the second.
Come late. Leave early. Talk to no one. It’d been his goal at his first counseling session too. But it hadn’t worked out so well for Quinn. Too many threats and not enough space.
It would be a miracle if she came back.
Did he want her to?
He hadn’t wanted to return her phone. Had almost left it on her chair for someone else to find. But feeling Lauren’s gentle prodding he so loved and missed, he’d given in.
Having gotten a good handle on himself lately, he’d been thinking about giving up therapy. But a minute after the door had closed tonight, it had opened again.
People naturally looked in the direction of a distraction, but he’d looked twice. A double take before jerking back to center. Pain had seized his heart, and Lauren’s dying wish echoed off the canyon walls of his soul. Again.
His memory replayed the promise he hadn’t wanted to make. How was he supposed to fulfill a promise like that?
Just be a friend. Everything in him halted at his wife’s sweet voice. And everything in him fought to silence it.
But in her skinny jeans and white tank, camel-colored cable knit sweater hanging off one shoulder, Quinn had been a definite distraction. She hadn’t needed the sweater for the August heat. But in here, it was chilly, and he was glad she’d had it.
And I’m thinking about this why?
Lauren had loved her comfy sweaters. She’d carried one wherever she went. Especially at the end when her body was too frail to hold heat.
He leaned back and crossed an ankle over his knee, still staring at his phone, Charles and Steve’s nearby conversation a low drone.
Until the moment he’d seen Quinn, her wavy brown hair cascading down her back, he’d dreamed, even wished, he wouldn’t have to make good on his promise. And maybe the day was still far off, but he’d felt the flutter a beautiful woman gave a man upon first seeing her.
A flutter followed by a load of guilt.
It had to have been a fluke. He was just emotionally drained after suffering through his and Lauren’s third anniversary alone the week before. There were a lot of beautiful women in the world. One flutter didn’t mean anything. Besides, this place of grieving and pain was not a place to pick up women. Unless you were a vulture.
There was a tap on his knee. “Hey, see you next week.”
He jerked his head up. Steve and Charles weren’t close friends by any means, but being older, they’d become strong supports. They cried for him sometimes, although he didn’t want them to. But sometimes, in the dark of his apartment, he cried for them too.
Nick stood and accepted Steve’s hand. “Yes, sir. I’ll be here.” He’d have to be now. Then he shook Charles’s hand, and they left him alone in the hallway.
With nothing better to do, he resumed his position on the bench.
The roof had fallen in on his entire life, and he’d been a mess. The bottle of wine some friends had gifted to him and Lauren on their second anniversary had been the starting point. Followed by nearly nightly visits to the liquor store on his way home from work. The poison didn’t kill the pain or the nightmares, but he’d given it a good go.
Being left alone would’ve been ideal, but in his ideal world, he would’ve drank himself to death, floated away on a river of Kentucky bourbon. But Dad wasn’t willing to lose him to the bottle. When Nick’s work at their architectural firm began to suffer, Dad had used his position as senior partner to insist Nick get the help he needed—no alternatives.
Dad had saved his life. So Nick kept coming back each week.
What would bring Quinn back?
She’d lost her husband. And Mrs. LaRue was playing matchmaker.
No way would she come back.
Anger hit him. He scrubbed at his short beard and stood. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her anyway, so why was he worried? He strode toward the door. If she didn’t come back, then she didn’t come back. Problem solved. At least she had her phone. His hand on the push lever, he stopped.
That line of thinking worked as well as a crooked plumb line. His problem solved, but she still needed help.
Oh, for Pete’s sake, he had only returned her phone. It’s not like he’d asked her out.
But Mrs. LaRue... He wanted to strangle that woman. How could she think her comments were anywhere near acceptable? Quinn needed to be here, and her shaky effort to get help may have just jumped out of a ten-story window.
He stormed into the parking lot. Even with the world aglow in the orange wash of the setting sun, the Oklahoma heat still brought droplets of sweat to his brow. Not able to contain his scowl, he reached into his pocket for his key.
He jerked open the door of his red Ford truck, slipped the key into the ignition, and froze. His heart skipped and his scowl melted. He cared. Hadn’t wanted to. Hadn’t known he could. But he did. Arms crossed on the steering wheel, he stared out the windshield.
“You sure are tricky.” He could imagine Lauren’s giggle. That look that said gotcha when she managed to get a joke in on him. The way she bit her lip. Her hands on his chest. Her body melting into his embrace. Her sweet kiss.
His eyes closed as he let the memories return, the pain that never went away resurfacing. He could see her, wanted to reach for her, but he couldn’t touch her.
That world had slipped into yesterday.
There were no jokes, no sweet kisses, no more memories to be made.
There was only today and each day God allowed him to have thereafter. What filled those days—or who—was the mystery.
Maybe Quinn wouldn’t come back. Maybe she would. He fired the engine and drove from the lot. He couldn’t solve the mystery tonight.
His keys clanked as they hit the beechwood bowl on his entry table. He didn’t bother turning on the lamp. After the week he’d had and the way the night had gone, he wanted sleep. He longed for a drink to take the edge off, but he’d cleaned out those cabinets and vowed never to fill them again. Drinking alone was a spiraling staircase that didn’t lead up, and the bottom was a frightening place to be.
He squinted in the fridge light as it momentarily lit up the kitchen when he grabbed a water bottle. He chugged half, replaced the cap, and passed through his bedroom to the bathroom.
On the way, he cast a sideways glance at the frame on his bedside table that held Lauren’s picture. “That... did not go well.”
As always, there was no answer.
He brushed his teeth and left his clothes in a heap on the floor. He’d pick them up tomorrow. After all, Lauren wasn’t there to roll her eyes or complain. Before he could leave the bathroom, he stopped. He wished she was there to complain, to roll her eyes in that beautiful face of hers, to display any expression, even disappointment.
He slunk back and threw his clothes into the hamper.
Leaning on the bathroom counter, he turned the water bottle around on the cabinet with his thumb and forefinger. In the mirror, he looked his age, but his eyes held too much life experience for twenty-seven years. Not enough years to have seen the tragedy he’d experienced. Lauren sure hadn’t had enough. Abandoning the bottle, he pushed off the counter, flipped off the light, and went to bed.
Back against the headboard, he held the crystal picture frame in his lap, his arms heavy. Lauren, in Paris on their honeymoon, stared back. The first destination on her bucket list, he was proud he could put a check in that box. He’d have spent his last dime checking that box.
They never made it to the second.
She was beautiful. Even in the end. Even in the long drawn-out end when her hair was gone and she weighed a whopping ninety pounds.
The cancer had come suddenly and taken her just as suddenly. They’d had two years, one month, twenty-four days, and no children. When he hadn’t been able to come home to their four-bedroom, ghost-filled house any longer, he’d sold it and moved into this penthouse apartment on the river. The guilt of moving on without her followed. He couldn’t sell that or give it away.
“This week’s been hard.” A tear slipped down his cheek and splattered on the glass. He wiped it away with the sheet, then laid his forehead on the frame. “I wish you were here.”
I’ll always be right here. He could still feel her hand over his heart, still see her sweet face as she pleaded. Be happy, Nick. For me. Be happy.
“You always had such grand wishes. I wanted to grant every one. But how do I love someone else?”
Just be a friend.
“Lauren,” he pleaded. “I don’t know that I can.” He’d told her before when she’d been sick. He’d said it each time he remembered his promise to try. “I can’t do that if she doesn’t come back.”
Maybe she wouldn’t. Hopefully, she wouldn’t.
He cringed at his selfishness. Quinn needed to be there as much as he did.
Setting the picture aside, he locked his hands behind his head and stared into the void. Bare walls with room-darkening curtains, a man didn’t need much. He’d gotten rid of most of their things or put them into storage.
The dullness seemed lonely. And loneliness wasn’t what Lauren wanted for him. He was beginning to not want it for himself—just beginning. But he didn’t want anyone. He wanted Lauren.
And she wasn’t coming back. So, she’d made him promise.
He hadn’t wanted to—couldn’t imagine ever being with anyone else. But when he’d given in to her pleading, she’d looked relieved, at peace with having to leave him. Death had taken her not long after.
Eyes closed, he blew out a breath.
“Next week, if Quinn comes back”—he scoffed and shook his head—“if she comes back, we’ll see.”
He reached to click off his lamp and sank into the gray sheets. One week to dread the coming Monday. One more week to put off his promise.
