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“Your generation, they always talk about soul mates, as if there’s this one person in the world you’re meant to be with. I don’t know if I agree with that. I believe in love—big and small. If you’re fortunate enough to find that big love, you hold on to it, and you ride the wave until the clock runs out and one of you is left behind. We don’t talk about Mom that often because, let’s face it, neither of us is emotionally capable of handling the amount of grief we’ve been feeling. She was my big love, and she left.”
“Well, that’s oddly morbid. If you were going for apick me upspeech, this is not it.”
“What I’m getting at is, you’re far younger than me, yet you act like there’s no hope. That’s not right for a wonderful young woman to be handling this burden for so long. Everyone expects me to spend my final years walking around in sorrow. I’m supposed to wear my grief like a cloak and shield myself from everything and everyone. Now, I don’t know about you, but that sounds horrible. Anna might not turn out to be a big love like your mother, but she’s a small love, and I’m willing to take a chance on that even if it never grows bigger. She’s fun, and I like being with her.”
My grimace is washed all over my face, I’m sure. The reaction is not because I don’t want him to talk about Anna. It’s because what he’s saying is true.
“You have many more years left. I’m not saying go off and date every man in Newbury. You’ll give me a heart attack despite how in shape I might be. However, if there’s a chance you can find a big love out there, a true love that you want to hold on to and ride the wave until the bitter end, take the chance. It’s out there for you, kid. In fact, it might be closer than you think.”
Dad’s words hit me harder that the cold wind blowing through the parking lot.
A man is the last thing I need in my life and the furthest thing from what I’ll allow. But I’m not dead inside, so while I don’t need someone, there’s still this huge part of me that wants it.
I rub my cheeks and look up at my father—my handsome father, who has been my saving grace these last two years, whether he knows it or not. “Jeez, Dad, where did that huge romantic speech come from?”
He narrows his eyes. “I said not to make it weird.”
“I’m not. That was really beautiful.”
“I’m done with you.”
He takes his keys out of his pocket and hits the unlock button. I follow behind with my hands in my pockets and feet scurrying.
“I’m not lying. I want to write it down and etch it onto a quilt.”
“Good night, Melissa.” He opens his driver’s door.
“Hey, Dad?”
He stops and then rises, peering at me over the roof of his car. “Yes?”
“I love you.”
A small smile appears on his face as he shakes his head and then goes back to a grimace. “Don’t be creeping in the house in the middle of the night. I’d like to get some sleep this weekend.”
I give him a salute. “Don’t wait up.”
nineteen
MY FIST RISES TOknock on the large oak door of a one-floor Craftsman-style ranch with wood beams, shaker-style shingles, and an American Flag hanging from a post. As I look back at the well-manicured lawn, I shouldn’t be surprised that Will has a home with charming curb appeal.
The lights are on inside, so I knock again and hug my coat around my body. I’m sure he’s running surveillance through the doorbell camera, so I give a wave and hold up the bottle of whiskey I brought as a peace offering.
He opens the door slowly.
The first time I met the man, he was wearing an officer’s uniform, and I could swear that was what made him sexy. Then, it was the damn boots and the black clothes with movie-star hair, all fabricated in this deliciousWilliam Bronson cleans up wellpackage.
Despite my disbelief that the man would be as sexy, his intense gaze nearly as powerful, if he were wearing pajama pants and a hoodie, I am, in this moment, proven wrong. So very, very wrong.
Plaid pajama pants, a white T-shirt, and a navy hoodie, unzipped to showcase said T-shirt, which fits him like a freaking glove.
My eyes trickle down to his bare feet, and my hands rise in utter annoyance.
“Even your feet are sexy,” I declare as I brush past him and walk into his house.
He stares at me with a tilted head when he closes the front door. “My feet?”
Unraveling the scarf on my neck, I toss it to him, and he catches it haphazardly. “Yes, your feet. They’re as hot as the rest of you, and it’s really unfair. If I don’t get a pedicure every month, I look like Wolverine.”
