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I was attracted to Lamise in a way that went much deeper than surface-level, physical attraction. I liked thatshe could understand where my head and heart were at in a situation like this. I liked her energy and attitude. I enjoyed her conversation. And I loved the way she loved my son.
I wanted to tell her the truth. I thought she deserved to know how I felt when I was around her.
Unfortunately, doing anything about it felt impossible, because there was still guilt lingering there for me, something I believed might always be there.
So, feeling eager to see her again, I woke earlier than usual. Wanting to do something to make her feel welcome and appreciated, even more than dinner tonight was supposed to, I decided to make her breakfast.
I put on some coffee before I went about pulling out the ingredients for breakfast—bacon, eggs, and toast.
Simple and classic.
Everything had been going according to plan, and I was looking forward to what the morning with Lamise would bring. I didn’t think anything could change my mood or bring me down.
That’s when it happened.
And what struck me the most about it was that no matter how good I thought my instincts were or how prepared I was for just about any intense situation at work, there was no amount of training to prepare me for it.
I’d just served the last of our breakfast onto the plates when Lamise entered the kitchen. Two things halted me in my movements.
First, it was seeing Lamise standing there, wearing my T-shirt I’d given her last night. At the time, I hadn’t given it much thought beyond recognizing she’d spilled coffee on hers and needed something dry and clean to wear to bed. Seeing her now, I had to admit I hadn’t expected it to affect me the way it was.
Because I liked it.
I liked the way it felt to see her standing there wearing my tee. Granted, she still had on a pair of leggings, too, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t interested in seeing her wearing nothing but my shirt.
If all I had to deal with that morning was what she was wearing, I might have been able to react, to do something about how it was making me feel to see her like that.
But there was something else happening, something that kept me frozen to the spot and feeling a mix of helpless and horrified. Because while seeing Lamise in my T-shirt had caused an unexpected feeling inside me, seeing her wearing the shirt hadn’t been a surprise. I knew that was going to happen, even if it had caught me off guard.
What I hadn’t been expecting, and what I didn’t know how to respond to, were the tears that had welled in her eyes within seconds of her entering the kitchen.
Had something happened to her? Was she hurt? Did she hate eggs?
We’d been standing there like that, staring at one another for far too long. And considering she was in no state to do something about it, I knew it had to be me. Wanting to tread cautiously, I carefully placed the pan back down on the stove and moved toward her.
When I was standing in front of her, I allowed my eyes to roam over her face. Seeing the tears in her eyes made something squeeze in my chest. I hated how much it upset me to see her so sad.
Or maybe it wasn’t that I hated how much it upset me so much as it was that I just hated to see her sad at all. Either way, it wasn’t good.
“What happened?” I asked, unable to keep the concern out of my voice.
Lamise remained silent for a long time before she answered, “You made breakfast.”
I turned slightly to glance at the plates of food and wondered if I’d been right. Focusing my attention on her again, I queried, “Do you not like eggs?”
“I like eggs,” she rasped.
My brows shot up, silently questioning her.
Lamise did not answer that question. Instead, her emotions got the best of her, tears now spilling down her cheeks. Each one I saw felt like a punch to the gut.
Unable to resist the urge to comfort her, I reached one hand out and curled it around her elbow. After giving her a gentle squeeze, I begged, “Lamise, please talk to me. What’s going on?”
It took her a moment to pull herself together. “Graham used to make me breakfast every morning.”
Suddenly, it all started to make sense. I understood precisely what this was all about. Knowing she wasn’t finished speaking, I waited for her to share.
Sure enough, a few seconds later, she continued, “That was his thing. No matter what was going on, whether it was a workday, a holiday, or the weekend, Graham always made breakfast. Ever since he died, I haven’t had that.”
