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“We’re both members of the surviving spouse club. It sucks, and not many people understand what it’s like, but I’m proof that you can heal and you’re allowed to find happiness again. When you’re ready.”
He squeezes me before releasing me. He goes to a knee and kisses two of his fingers before laying them against his late wife’s name. Then, he stands and walks me back to my car.
His words keep running through my head as I drive home.
“Let him go so you can live.”
I glance in the rearview mirror at my sleeping daughter.
I’m trying.
Weston
“Where is everybody?” I ask as I enter the back door to Garrett and Ansley’s new home.
“In here,” Garrett calls.
He’s been in town for the past few weeks, and tonight is the first official night he is staying at the new homestead.
Ansley and the girls all took a trip to Nashville for dress fittings, so Garrett invited us brothers over for a cookout.
“Jeez, I need a fucking map to navigate this palace,” I quip as I find them all gathered around the kitchen island.
“It’s not that grand,” Garrett says.
“The hell it’s not. How many bathrooms does this place have?” Corbin asks.
“Seven.”
“Seven? Damn, son, how many asses do you have?” Langford asks.
Garrett rolls his eyes. “We have four guest rooms. Each one has its own attached bath, plus the master. Then, there is one in the basement and one off the living room.”
We all just blink at him.
“Whatever. I don’t have to justify how big my house is to you assholes,” he gripes.
“It’s a good thing you’re rich, superstar. It would suck to have to clean seven toilets yourself,” I say.
“Ansley keeps insisting that she doesn’t want any help. She’ll keep the house clean herself.”
“She has seen this place, hasn’t she?” Morris asks.
Garrett cuts his eyes to him. “Of course. She helped design it. She just doesn’t want people to think she can’t keep her own house.”
“That’s crazy talk. If I could afford it, I’d have a full-time housekeeper and cook,” I say.
“And a butler,” Morris adds.
“Yeah, a butler to bring me my slippers, a glass of whiskey, and a cigar when I get home from work,” I agree.
“You don’t smoke,” Graham reminds me.
“That’s because good cigars are expensive, and we just established that I’m the good-looking brother, not the rich one.”
“I don’t remember anyone saying anything about you being good-looking,” Langford quips.
I shrug. “I am.”
