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I knew something was going on with her before I saw her at the cart. I was standing at the corner, waiting for the light to turn at the crosswalk, when I saw her exit the hospital doors and walk toward me. There was a stubborn kind of sadness in how she held her shoulders. It wasn’t hard to figure out that someone she loved was inside that hospital. But the way she held her shoulders, the way she stubbornly placed one foot in front of the other in what was almost a stomp—I could see she was holding it in. And there’s nothing worse than holding it in.
I held it in for a long time. And it fucked with my head. When my sister died, I was still a teenager. My parents were lost in their grief. I had no clue how to deal with it.
So instead, I buried myself in school and then work. It wasn’t until I got sick last year and had to stop and breathe that I had no choice but to deal with my grief. I did it alone. I still don’t know how I got through it. But my doctor told me I wouldn’t get my health back until I did. She was a different kind of doctor. But she put me in touch with a therapist.
I know I’m not perfectly healed from that grief, but I’m better than before. I learned to accept my pain and stop being afraid to feel it. It was hard. But the more I went to therapy, the more I realized that pain and grief weren’t bad—just something I had to let happen.
I guess I recognized that same need in her—the need to stop and feel. I wanted to give her a place to let it out.
Never in a million fucking years did I imagine she would wake up this part of me I didn’t even know existed. A woman I met by chance.
“I need some time. Can you hold my calls?” I ask Larissa, my administrative assistant when I reach my office.
“Yes, Mr. Russo. You have an appointment in an hour with Gail Johnstone. Should I cancel it?” she asks.
“No. That’s fine. Let me know when she gets here.”
I close the door to my office and sit behind my desk. My head falls into my hands. My heart is still pounding, and I can’t get the image of my sad angel out of my head. I don’t even know her name. I gave her my card, but she got mad and threw it on the ground.
I’ll never see her again.
* * *
Three days later,my mystery woman is still on my mind, but I’ve managed to get my shit together enough to focus on my work. It’s been busy all morning, and I’m just about to grab my coat to grab a bite to eat and unwind for a bit when Larissa comes into my office.
“Mr. Russo, I know you’re busy, but can you squeeze in one of Mr. Kondra’s clients? Ms. Ross was supposed to handle them, but she’s stuck in a meeting, and they’ve been waiting for an hour. I hate to ask, but—”
Bill Kondra—our estate lawyer—had a heart attack last week, and we all agreed to share his clients between us while he’s out sick. Many of his clients will be mourning the death of a loved one and looking for advice and support in dealing with the deceased estate. Other law offices wouldn’t bother to take the measures we have to ensure Bill’s clients are looked after, but we take pride in being lawyers with a conscience.
“That’s fine, Larissa. It probably won’t take long. Can you get the files for me? Give me ten minutes and send them in,” I tell her.
“I have the files right here,” she says, handing them over to me.
“Thank you,” I say, hanging my coat up again.
I sit behind my desk and look over the files. It’s not complicated. His estate is clear, and it doesn’t look like there’s anyone to contest the will.
A few minutes later, Larissa knocks on the door.
“Come in,” I call.
A man and a woman in their late forties and a young woman walk in.
“Please, have a seat,” I say, standing to shake their hands. And then I freeze. It’s her. The beautiful blonde woman from the park. And she’s looking at me with the saddest blue eyes. Now I know the reason for her pain and anger. I know I can’t take it away, but I can share the burden.
I have to get myself together. I can’t let them see past the professionalism. Even though all I want to do is pull her into my arms and absorb some of her pain. I won’t do that. They need a calm face right now.
“Mr. and Mrs. England and”—I glance at the papers in front of me—“Shelby England? Thank you for your patience. I’m sorry that you had to wait so long. I assume that Larissa told you about Mr. Kondra’s unfortunate situation?”
“Yes,” Mr. England says. “Thank you for making time to see us.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. I’ll try to make this as quick and painless as possible,” I reassure them.
For the next half hour, I go through the will and answer questions. I focus on Mr. and Mrs. England because every time I look at Shelby, I’m overwhelmed with a need to protect her from all of this. It’s primal. I know she belongs to me, and it’s my job to ensure that nothing hurts her. It’s up to me to make sure she feels safe. I’m just not sure how to do it without freaking her out.
As Mr. and Mrs. England stand to put on their coats, I pull Shelby to one side.
“I meant what I said. I’m not sure how long you’re here, but if you need to talk to someone who isn’t connected, just a listening ear, call me. Please,” I add.
