“Of course,” I say, impressed that he had been there. “I saw a few faces from Elm Village, but I must not have seen you. Not that I would have had the nerve to speak to you.”
He waves his hand to let me know that apologies and regrets are unnecessary.
“I’m glad I had the day off and could attend,” he says. “It’s weird to come in to work in the morning and be given this laundry list of reports, with part of it being the news that Mrs. So-and-So is in the hospital, and 212A died. I hate when they use the number like that. Nate was more than 212A.”
“Thank you for saying that,” I say, emotion trekking across my chest.
He smiles and winks at me again. It’s completely benign and surprisingly comforting. I feel like I did in the parking lot before I kissed him and made things weird. How he manages to wiggle back and forth between friend and possibility, I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s more indecision than anything else. I’m sure he can sense that he’s welcome to—but yet, he doesn’t.
“So how was the family mourning vigil?” he asks, scooting back from me and hitching his knee up on the couch. “I hate that part. What are you supposed to say to all those people? How many times can you handle someone telling you what a terrible loss it is?” He moves his leg back down and slides back closer to me. “Duh, huh? Thanks for forcing me to talk about it over and over to every unearthed aunt and uncle within a day’s drive.”
I laugh. An actual laugh, deep and real. One that almost makes me cry, but then pushes into more laughter. It’s a different laugh than Lola and I shared in our room reliving old memories and taking about boys.
I need this release from the grief and the weight of missing Dad. I need to get out from under the loss of my marriage and the uncertainty of my future. I need to stop checking my phone every two seconds to see if my teenage daughter still loves me.
I need to find happy again, but I have no idea how to do that.
I’ve spent the last twenty years of my life being everything to someone else and feeling guilty when I thought of myself. I’m not even sure what I’m guilty of, but it makes me sad. I’ve been holding onto my guilt like he’s an old friend, like I’m showing him around town for the weekend, pointing out all the tourist traps and scenic views. I need to send him home. I need to stop feeling guilty for wanting, dreaming, hoping.
“It was fantastic,” I say in answer to Oliver’s question.
“Glad to hear it,” he says, and the corners of his mouth turn up.
I feel an urge to press my lips to his again. I’m like the last moments of the tulip now. I feel my petals pulling backwards, bending me toward something I don’t recognize.
“Want some coffee?” he asks. “Do you have to be home or can you stay?”
“I shouldn’t,” I say, still thinking about the kiss he offered.
“Drink coffee or stay and talk to me?” he asks, his eyes clearly showing that he hopes I’ll stay.
I feel yanked back in time to a place much less burdened with responsibility and the knowledge of life’s cruel pranks. I need this escape.
Ok, guilt, I say to my old friend, you sit over there for a while and read a book. I need a break.
“Decaf,” I say.
He smiles widely, and I can see that I’m in deep trouble.
I’m hooked before my coffee mug is half empty. The longer Oliver and I stay, the closer we get, and by the time the bookstore music loop has repeated itself at least once, we’re pressed beside each other on the couch with no more room between us than the space a heartbeat takes.
I look back once at my guilt. He’s sitting in on a book club meeting and talking to a lady about Jane Eyre.
Just a few more minutes, I signal to him, and he nods.
I turn my focus back to Oliver. This isn’t like the parking lot, where I was too caught up in my own crazy grief to notice what being close to Oliver feels like. We sit beside each other, talking about everything and nothing. His knee is against mine, and I touch his arm unnecessarily when I speak. He touches my hand where I have it resting on my own leg just so that it’s available. He moves his fingers across the back of my hand, and the softness of his touch electrifies me. As he presses his hand more firmly against mine, I turn my palm over to meet his fingers as they search out mine.
I feel giddy and a little sick to my stomach. We run out of things to say and that offer of another kiss hangs between us, visible and pulsing.
“I don’t know if this is the right thing to do,” I whisper, my fingers interlaced with his, my face turned to his, my lips inches from his.
His lips press first against my cheek like a test, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Then when he kisses me, I’m aware of nothing but his mouth on mine, warm and unfamiliar. He puts his free hand against my face and then pushes his fingers through my hair until they find the back of my neck. His hands on me feel like I’m coming up out of the water, air hitting wet skin piece by piece. This time, it doesn’t feel like the pathetic science movie. This time, it feels like waking up.
I think of Jack and his lopsided smile, and I catch a glimpse of my buddy, guilt, across the room. I close
