And as the game progressed, I found myself becoming more and more invested in the outcome, driven by a fierce desire to come out on top.
Then I lost my edge, she advanced several spots in front of me.
"Ha!" she exclaimed, giving me a smirk. "Looks like I'm in the lead."
I narrowed my eyes at her. "Don't get too confident, sweetheart. You haven't even gotten to the Peppermint Forest yet."
She raised an eyebrow. "You realize we are taking this game far too seriously, don't you?"
I shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant. "I just don't like to lose."
I was focused on the dark angel across from me rather than the board in front of me. I learned yesterday that playing games with Miranda was more than just a way to pass the time. It was a way for me to push her boundaries without scaring her.
I gave into my long-standing curiosity and asked, “Do you miss him?”
Without even looking up, Miranda responded. “Always. He’s the light of my life and while he’s away at camp, the house feels colder, emptier. But Jamal loves camp, and he’ll be back. I’d do anything just to see him smile.”
Something in my chest swelled uncomfortably at hearing her devotion to her son, and how he gave her life. It made me want insane things. Like to meet this kid who she thought hung the moon, or even be like him in making her life fuller, more complete. I wanted to be that reason for the secret smile at the corner of her lips, or the sparkle in her eyes. I was a selfish sonofabitch.
“I actually meant your husband,” I corrected.
Miranda's eyes slowly raised up to meet mine, their light brown sugar hue captivating me. Against the smooth, silky texture of her skin, they shone like precious gems, drawing me in closer. “Oh. You mean Rashon.” Her voice, soft, flowed over me, sending shivers down my spine.
Jealousy warred with my need to know how she felt about a dead man. I’d no doubt he was worthy, not just because he died a hero’s death, but because he’d earned the respect and love of the woman across from me.
Her gaze fell back to the board game though I know she wasn’t actually seeing the brightly colored illustrations. She was looking inward for the answer to my question. How deep did she bury her feelings for him? I knew she’d covered them up and pushed them down like she did all her emotions, but the question was how far? Was she so in love that the pain required a deep grave in her mind so she could function?
That idea created a sour taste in my mouth.
She started slowly. “Rashon and I were very young when we got married. He was a good man.” Her expression softened, the corners of her lips curving up as she dove into her nostalgia. “He had the greatest smile.”
My fists balled into fists at my sides. How often had I smiled at Miranda? Was it pleasing? Or did it only communicate my bitterness and pain?
Why was I being childish and comparing myself?
Miranda slightly shook her head. “He loved Jamal more than anything.” Then her smile disappeared. “But we didn’t get enough time to really get to know each other. We both hoped we’d have more time.” Her words came slower as she seemed to deliberate each one. “I think a lot of the time I more miss the idea of him. I grieved the future we were going to build together. But we weren’t around each other enough for me to miss how he made coffee in the morning or kiss me goodnight. Sometimes I wonder if that makes me a bad person, not missing my own husband. Forgetting about him entirely at times.”
Then she jerked, as if realizing I was sitting right there hanging on her every word. She pushed her braids back on one side. I tracked the motion, her elegant fingers moving in slow-motion as they curled around the delicate shell of her ear.
Invisible bolts tightened in my chest. I was half grateful the ghost of her lover didn’t haunt her, and half wished she could have had that future. Conflicting thoughts often warred in me, but this was a particularly hard juxtaposition of ideas that I swallowed down like razor blades and cotton balls.
“I’ve never said that out loud before,” she confessed, abject terror entering her eyes making her pupils shrink to pinpricks.
Before she could freak out too much, I said, “You aren’t a bad person, Miranda. I think you know that. And from what I can guess, your— Rashon wouldn’t have wanted you to love his ghost more than your present.” I took a gamble on imagining him to be a practical man, that’s who I envisioned Miranda with. Someone steady, who could support her and others, a beacon of strength.
Something in my chest caved in as I thought of how opposite I was to that.
Miranda visibly swallowed before she held out the deck of cards. “Your turn.”
I allowed my fingers to stroke hers as I took the stack. For such a small surface area of connected skin, a massive spark leapt to life and travelled through my entire body, warming me.
Our eyes locked, forcing us both to face the vulnerability she exposed. I tried to silently communicate to her that it was safe. I was safe.
Our touch broke and so with it, went my lie.
Who the fuck did I think I was? Trying to convince her I was safe? I wasn’t. But thankfully, even in the moments I deluded myself, I doubted she’d forget. Miranda was far too sharp to fall for the bullshit I even fed myself.
We continued to play, both of us getting more and more competitive as we advanced through the different colored spaces of the board. When she landed on the Molasses Pit, Miranda groaned in frustration as she was forced to miss a turn.
