“I’m coming over,” she insists.
“Okay,” I give in.
“Demi’s gonna get laid. Demi’s gonna get laid,” she sings obnoxiously.
“I gotta go. Bye,” I hang up even though she’s still singing.
A date. I’m going on a date. My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I inhale deeply. My mind runs with thoughts of right and wrong, and before I know it, I’m at the cemetery. Days before he became incapacitated, Blake held my hand and gave me the talk. The talk giving me permission to move on.
“One day, Demi . . . another man will come along.” I tried to pull my hand from his, but he squeezed, preventing it. “I want you to be happy . . . to meet someone that can give you the things I couldn’t.”
“You gave me everything, Blake.” Tears broke loose and streamed down my face. This was my dying husband giving me permission to move on and love again. It was brutal. My hand squeezed his tighter as if I could somehow keep him here.
“I didn’t give you children. And I know how badly you want them,” he smiled sadly. “I know you want at least one.”
And I did. But I wanted one of his children. I wanted a piece of him to continue to exist even after he left me. When I told him, he refused. Blake grew up without a father. And he believed every child deserved one, not just the memory of a father that other people shared with them.
“One day, Demi . . . he’ll come along and love you. Don’t be afraid to love him back. He won’t be anything like me . . .”
I stared up at him and wondered if he had some vision of what he thought the next man in my life would be like. And then I sobbed. My poor, dying husband was torturing himself with visions of a man that might take his place.
“Blake . . . please—”
“Shh,” he soothed me. “I love you. I always will.”
Slowly, I walk through the large graveyard, delaying having this conversation with Blake. I don’t know if he’ll hear me, but I feel like I need to let him know. I come here, often, and speak to him. I tell him about work, complain about my mother, crack jokes about Lexi. I’m two rows over when his grave comes into sight. I stop when I realize Connor is standing in front of it, his large hands stuffed in his pockets.
I don’t want to impose on his time, but I feel rude just standing here, staring at him. I debate if I should leave, but when he kneels and puts one hand on Blake’s stone, I can’t stop staring. What is it about this man showing emotion that gut checks me? My goal has been to fulfill Blake’s wishes; to help Connor any way possible. The plan has always been to make Connor feel at home yet keep him at arm’s length at the same time. But with every day that passes, I’m more and more fascinated by him. I can’t deny a physical attraction to him; I mean . . . he’s sex on a stick, as Lexi would say. But there’s more there; so much more. When he stands again, I make my way toward him when I begin to hear him speaking faintly.
“I’m grateful. So fucking grateful, Blake. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you . . . in the end. I’m sorry—”
A lonesome twig snaps under my foot and Connor whips around, his eyes red and swollen; on the verge of crying.
“Demi,” he croaks before clearing his throat, as he turns and wipes his face quickly.
“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
When he turns back around, he has a smile plastered on his face, but his sad eyes don’t quite match it. “I was just passing by and thought I’d stop,” he explains.
“Same here.”
“Grams said it was a nice funeral,” he notes as he stares at the headstone. He said this to me the day I picked him up in Arizona. I realize there’s a lot of guilt there for him. He wasn’t here to bury his cousin . . . or little brother as he considered Blake and he needed reassurance that Blake had the best; that his wishes were met.
“It was,” I assure him.
“Will you tell me about it? I know that sounds dumb, but . . . I just want to know.”
Moving beside him, I say, “He had a dark mahogany casket. The best we could buy. He argued with me about it, but I put my foot down.”
Connor’s eyes widen. “He helped pick out his own casket?”
“Yes. He wanted to feel in control of his death. And . . . he wanted me to be able to mourn without stressing about all of the details.”
Connor nods as he continues to stare at the headstone. I smile sadly as I stare down with him. “We buried him in his best suit, but no dress shirt under it. He made me promise to put his Avengers T-shirt on him.” We both chuckle.
“He loved his damn comic books.”
“He was buried with a photo of me and one of you and Grams and his favorite comic book. He said he’d need something to read when we were all sleeping, and he wasn’t watching over us.”
“Sounds like him,” Connor snorts. “Always thinking of everyone else.”
“I think he always knew he was going to die young,” I admit. “But the man spent every day trying to make someone else’s day a little better.”
Connor sniffles and wipes at his nose. “You must think I’m a pussy; I’m always crying.”
God, if he knew. Why his sadness is so devastatingly beautiful to me, I’ll never know. It’s like I get to know a secret; see something no one else does. I get to see this tough, tattooed man . . . let go. Feel. And I hate to admit it, but I find it so attractive. It’s not how he looks while he cries, I mean, he’s an exquisite looking man, there’s no denying it, but it’s more about the rawness of it. A beat of awkward silence falls between us, our gazes fixed on Blake’s stone, and staying true to myself, I try to fill it. “Wendy and I are meeting at Tillie’s in a half an hour. You wanna join us?”
Connor turns to me and shrugs. “I think I’m going to head home and work on the bike, but thanks for the invite.” Then he turns his head and looks back at Blake’s grave. “Later, cuz.”
He gives me a quick wave and leaves me with Blake’s stone.
Wendy is waiting for me in a corner booth when I arrive. I’ve known her my entire life and just looking at her as I approach the table, I know something is wrong. Hey eyes look puffy and an empty glass sets next to the beer in her hand. She’s in a drinking mood tonight.
“Hi,” I venture. “You okay?”
She gives me a sad smile. “I am. Just . . . had a bad couple of days.” Her blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail, and she runs her hand over it as she looks away from me, her eyes growing teary.
My brows furrow in concern. Wendy rarely gets emotional, so I know it must be bad. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She blinks a few times, trying to clear the emotion from her eyes. “I hadn’t told anyone,” she begins, “but I was pregnant. I found out a week ago, but I miscarried two days ago.”
I lean forward and take her hand, my heart breaking for her. “I knew something was wrong when I saw you yesterday. I’m so sorry¸ Wendy,” I offer.
“I couldn’t have been more than two months. I know it seems silly that I’m so upset about it when I wasn’t so far along.”
“It’s not silly at all,” I reply, firmly. I hate that women are made to feel like they can’t mourn the loss of a baby they miscarried early on. I’ve never been pregnant, but just the idea of finding out my child was growing inside of me makes my heart swell with love; I can’t imagine how it feels to actually see that positive pregnancy test. “That was your baby, Wendy. You have every right to feel sad and mourn this loss and don’t let anyone make you feel differently.”
She takes a napkin from the dispenser between us and wipes under her eyes. “Thank you, Demi.”