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“Okay, I know this is super cheesy, but I was at a florist with a couple, picking out wedding centerpieces, and I put this one together. It was so pretty that I had to take it home, so I bought it, and as I was driving home, I thought, I should give these to Will. I mean, men never get flowers, and that’s a sin because flowers are beautiful, and everyone loves getting flowers. I bet even men do. So, here are your flowers. Do you like them? They’re dumb. Yeah, I shouldn’t have gotten you flowers I’ll take them back—”
“Melissa.” I said her name once, deeply and forcefully.
It calmed her out of her ramble. She looked up at me with wide, blinking eyes.
“I love them.”
I meant it, and yet … I meant more.
My heart was racing like a goddamn mountain lion, and my palms were starting to sweat.
She was standing there, beautiful, nervous, vulnerable, and cute as hell.
Her hair was still in her face, this time falling in front of her eye. I curled the rogue hair around my finger and tucked it behind her ear. As she looked up at me with those intimidating eyes, I was done for.
I didn’t just love the flowers. I loved that this woman had one wish and given it to me. I loved that she had bought me flowers and then was so nervous to hand them over. I loved that she thought of other people and was a good friend, an amazing mother, a loyal daughter, and that with every passing day, I was becoming more attached to her.
Then, something crazy happened.
In that moment, just looking at her—arresting, wedding designing Melissa Jones with the messy bun, wearing an oversize sweatshirt—my body relaxed. I wasn’t pulsing or head spinning or wired like a race car engine revving. In fact, looking at her with her teeth skimming her bottom lip and fingers rubbing together as she waited for me to say more, I felt calm.
I felt like I was home.
I knew it wasn’t like, or lust, or mere attraction to this woman.
I was in love with her.
Life-altering, death-defying in love with Melissa Jones.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
When you date a single mom, you thrive on the moments. Her time is precious, and you fight for her last five minutes, but when it comes down to you or her children, the kids always win. There are no dinners out on a whim or trips away for no reason. You can’t drop in on her whenever you want and take her up against the refrigerator on a Tuesday night. Her time is precious, and you should be honored she’s giving it to you.
I knew life was complicated for Melissa, and I hoped we could make it work. I never imagined, at the end of the day, she just couldn’t trust that I was the man for her.
How it went from amazing to fucked up so fast is beyond me.
It’s been a few weeks since Isabella went missing and was found in the tree house. I left Melissa that night and hoped she’d call. My phone’s been silent. Like a preteen boy waiting for the hottest girl in school to ring him, I look at my cell phone screen at least ten times a day, wondering if she’s texted. When I said I couldn’t keep chasing her, I meant it. It didn’t mean I didn’t hope she’d come around this time.
Now, I wonder,If she did, would it even matter?
As I walk around my house, I see the mementos of her scattered around. A hair tie she left on my nightstand, a bottle of whiskey she brought to my house, and the photo we took at the wedding. They all serve as reminders of the whirlwind that was us. Tonight, I open the top of the bottle and pour a glass.
I’m sitting on my couch when my doorbell rings. I look at my phone because, like I said, I’m an idiot who is waiting for her to come around. To my surprise, not only is Melissa not at my door, but it’s another woman who has been plaguing my heart the last few months.
I open the door and furrow my brows. “Mom. What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a mother visit her son whenever she wants?” She hands me her purse, walks inside, and then throws her coat on the coatrack.
I close the door, follow her inside, and place her purse on a table. “You can, but it’s peculiar since you’ve never done so before, and you haven’t been speaking to me exactly.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. I spoke to you at your nephew’s birthday party. And at Thanksgiving.”
“Please ask the man who broke up with a very nice girl to pass the mashed potatoesis not exactly talking to me.”
She hits me gently on the arm. “You’re always so sarcastic. I’ve made peace with the fact that you called off the wedding.”
With her arms out, she looks at me, confused. I raise a brow at her.
