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He sighs, full of understanding, but then his voice is strong, firm as he says, “Don’t, baby. Just don’t.”
It’s said with warmth and reassurance. Protectiveness too, and I try to let those guilty feelings ebb, especially since he called me baby instead of cupcake. He called me that, too, the first night we were together. It feels different than cupcake, and I’m not sure why.
All I know right now is that I don’t want to leave his arms.
He doesn’t let me go either. He’s quiet for a beat, stroking my hair gently. “Is this a fake fiancé benefit?” he whispers.
“A hug when you need it?”
“Yes.”
I smile against his solid frame. “Seems it is.”
A warm sigh. A comfortable silence. Then sweet words. “Good. I like this benefit.”
Me too.
19
A BAD IDEA
Elodie
A few hours later, the shop is spick-and-span, and Eliza and Amanda are besties. The older girls took Eliza to a pottery-making studio and are making bowls with cats on them or cat bowls. Or bowls shaped like cats. It’s not entirely clear, but they’re busy for a little longer with all things feline.
The blinds are down, so Gage and I were free to clean without being caged animals on display. As we survey the little space with the minimalist counter, and the simple tables, and the sound system, ready to play our curated playlists, we’re almost ready for Friday.
“I have a good feeling,” I declare.
“Yeah, me too,” Gage replies as we stop behind the counter together.
I turn to meet his gaze, my eyes finally returning to his ink. “The lotus is for change?”
“Yes,” he says, and I expect him to say he got it after his wife died, but he adds, “I got it after I went to therapy.”
Is it weird that my heart’s skittering that he prioritized his mental health? Maybe. If so, I’ll take weird, thank you very much. “I’ve been pretty much in and out of therapy since college. I have a lot of parent issues,” I say with a shrug, then nod to the ink again, recentering the conversation on him. “I love the lotus. Does it help?”
“I think so.” He studies the ink again. Does it reconnect him with his past? Or his progress? “I got it after the doctor told me I wasn’t going to play baseball again.”
That surprises me too. I’d been so sure it was for Eliza’s mom.
“Well, not immediately. Once I heard my elbow was toast, I drowned my sorrows for a couple months, turned into a shitty dad, then my grandma and mom told me to get my ass to therapy. I did. And worked on how much I was hurting.” He taps the flower authoritatively, like he’s in charge of his past, not the other way around. “I got this a few months later. It was sort of like taking back myself, you know?”
“I’m glad it worked. The tattoo and the therapy.”
“I still go from time to time. As Grams and Eliza tell me, it’s the in thing these days.”
“And you started before it was in. That was ten years ago, right?”
“It was.” He leans against the counter, his back to the door, rubbing a hand over his scruff. For a few seconds, I figure he’s said all he wants to say. That he’s opened the door a sliver and is ready to close it.
“I wasn’t in a good place, Elodie,” he says, his tone stripped bare. “I was struggling with depression. It was after Hailey died too.”
My chest aches for him. “Was her passing part of it? The depression?”
He doesn’t answer right away, then finally gives a resigned, “yes.” He looks to the white blinds covering the glass, like the answer to what to say can be found there. Then, he turns back to me. “That was part of it, but we were struggling. Our marriage was…well. It wasn’t perfect.”
That has to have been so tough for him to reconcile with her death. I wait for him to say more.
