I choke on a laugh. “Oh my.”
“Funny, that’s what his ninety-seven-year-old mother said when I tripped over my own shoelace midspin and fell face-first into her lap.”
My hands fly up to cover my mouth, but that does nothing to stifle the witch cackle/snort combo that rips through me. “I thought you said you were usually coordinated?”
“All bets are off when rum’s involved.”
“Sounds like it was a once-in-a-lifetime performance.”
“Lucky for everyone, it was.” There’s a lightness in his eyes despite their dark color that puts me at ease and makes my heart race all at once.
“All right, Magic Mike,” I say with a sly smile as I begin to step toward the door. “Let me go check on those meds for you.”
“Do you have any pets?” he asks before I can leave. “Maybe a dog Ace could run around the dog park with? He could really use a buddy.”
Ace sighs and sinks to the floor, no longer interested in our conversation.
“No dog,” I say. “It’s just me and Catrick Swayze.”
“Ah, so you’re the infamous ‘Baby’?” he asks, not missing a beat. “I promise not to put you in any corners.”
“He wouldn’t care if you did so long as his food bowl was kept full.”
“Do you guys ever practice that dance? You know the one.” He mimes lifting someone over his head.
“Yeah, but even after all these years, he still can’t catch me,” I deadpan, delighting in the way his eyes widen for a split second before realizing I’m messing with him. His smile stretches to his ears, and we explode into a fit of giggles.
Our laughter finally slows, but my heartbeat doesn’t.
“Well, I hope you’re able to do something fun over the holiday,” he says. “Sounds like you deserve it.”
My chest aches when I think about how brutally un-fun the next few weeks will be. I used to look forward to the holidays, but that was before my dad died. Before everything changed.
That thought is enough to send my heart and this conversation to a screeching halt. I don’t care how cute or funny or ridiculously charming this guy is. Even if I were interested, his job is dangerous. I know all too well the kinds of things that can happen even when your job doesn’t require you to risk your life.Sometimes the bad things find you even when you’re sitting at home in your favorite chair.
“Okay, I’m going to get Ace’s meds,” I say, keeping my tone friendly but professional. “One of the techs will bring them in and take you up front to get y’all checked out.” I ruffle the fur on top of Ace’s head. “It was nice meeting you both. And hey, welcome to Loving. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
“I hope you do,” he says. “I mean, I hope to see you around. And that you see me too. You know, at the same time.”
He waves as I step out of the room and head back to the lab, the remnants of a smile lingering on my lips. Despite knowing this was nothing more than a minor flirtation, I find myself hoping ‘sometime’ comes sooner than later.
2
MJ
Empty.The spot where the canned pumpkin should be isempty. The open space feels like a personal attack, taunting me for having the audacity to search for such a thing this close to the holiday. It’s barely 8 a.m. the Friday before Thanksgiving, and I’ve now been to the only two grocery stores in Loving. I did the very same thing the year after Henry died. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson.
I stare at the manufacturer’s label on the shelf as though I can somehow make the cans of orange mush appear by sheer force of will. Pumpkin pie was Henry’s favorite. No, he won’t be here to eat it—an unfortunate side effect of no longer being on this earthly plane—but we still need to have it. It’s not Thanksgiving without it. We’ve had it every year since he passed away, and we’ll have it this year too, even if I have to go to eighteen different stores to find it.
“Can I help you find anything?” a soft voice asks from behind me. I turn to find a woman about Lindsey’s age. At thirty-five, she’s my oldest.
“I was looking for some canned pumpkin,” I say, “but it seems like you’re out.”
She gives me a regretful smile. “Yeah, I think we ran out last week. We have pumpkin pie filling, and I think there are still a few pumpkin pies in the freezer section. I can go grab one if you like?”
“No, that’s okay. Thank you, though.” I twist my lips to the corner of my mouth, blinking back the watery film blurring my focus. It can’t be just any pumpkin pie. Ithasto be Henry’s mother’s recipe.
I can at least try to go with the proverbial flow any other time of the year, but the holidays are nonnegotiable. The year after Henry passed, I refused to change anything. His loafers remained by the front door in the foyer. I still made a full pot of coffee every morning, leaving his mug next to mine on the counter. Dinner was on the table promptly at six, though it often went untouched.
