When I parked, I was surrounded by green lawns and flowers. Some flowers were dead, and some were replenished daily, never losing their luster.
Headstones poked through the earth, marking the place where loved ones would rest for an eternity. I knew the path by heart as I entered through the gates and walked the paved road. Sometimes I’d recognize a last name; it was a small town, after all. Most of the headstones, though, floated by without attracting an ounce of my attention.
I clutched the baby’s breath in my hands. The cemetery smelled so heavily of cut grass and blooming flowers that the baby’s breath was drown out entirely. The sun was an unrelenting sauna, calling beads of moisture onto my skin. I saw a grave in the distance—the one for which I’d been searching. It grew larger as I approached until I was standing above it, looking down on a name that still broke my heart if given too much thought. Bruce Brookes stared up at me, along with the engraved dates of his birth and death.
Beloved father and husband. Forever loved. Forever missed.
They charged me for each word, but it needed to be said. Our grandchildren would one day know of the man who bought their grandma flowers every Friday to start the weekend off right. They’d hear stories of the legendary Bruce who constructed many of Brunswick’s structures by hand, though he’d only lived in Georgia for less than three years. I’d be sure to explain why we brought baby’s breath to his grave rather than traditional flowers. When he saw it in my hair the day we got married in the courthouse, he vowed he’d never love another flower so much. In front of our home, he planted entire bushes of baby’s breath. He loved it because he loved me.
And I would never stop loving him.
But as I sat and leaned against his headstone, brushing the dust from the top with my bare hand, I sighed. “I promised I’d never forget you or stop loving you,” I started. “I still bring Derrick here to see you every few weeks.”
I didn’t want to mention that Derrick only remembers the idea of his dad, and not so much who Bruce truly was. Derrick liked to place cars on the grave, because he wanted his dad to play with him. He wanted a dad so badly, and I knew it would only get worse with time. “I told you about Ethan Jones a while back—probably when I first moved to New York. Remember him? One of the three Jones brothers who I grew up with?” I chuckled. “You never met any of them, but they’re great people.”
I closed my eyes and imagined him sitting in front of me, listening intently to each word. He always listened, and I liked to believe he still was. “I thought that staying single would best honor you, so I haven’t looked at another guy until recently. How long is long enough to wait? To mourn you?” I asked, sniffing the air. With my eyes closed, I could almost imagine he was with me. I could almost smell his favorite cologne on the air.
“I got back in contact with Ethan, and he’s not the guy I remember. He’s the one who saved me and Derrick. He was my best friend. God, I’m so sorry I never introduced you two. I think you would approve, though. He loves Derrick, and he’s almost as chivalrous as you.” I thought about what I had witnessed Ethan do over the past few days. “He’s teaching Derrick to carry things and pull out chairs for me. And he won’t let me carry anything heavy. He always opens doors, too. I want Ethan to grow up with a man in the house, and I could see Ethan being that man. I’m going to give it a shot. I’m going to see where this thing between us goes.”
I bit my lip and didn’t stop the single tear from streaming down my face. “But I need a sign. I need to know that this isn’t too soon.”
I waited for as long as I could with the scolding sun pounding down on my skin. I wasn’t met with any decisive sign. I could grow to love Ethan, but could I grow to forgive myself without a sign from Bruce?
But Bruce was gone, and the only one left to judge my decision was me.
Chapter Nine
By the time I got to the station to make dinner with Derrick, the guys were all run ragged and laying in the break room. I paused, but Derrick paid no attention to the social cues and rushed toward Garrett, who slept on the couch. Derrick bounced on Garrett’s stomach, and he groaned before his eyes sprung open. “Derrick,” I scolded, a look of embarrassment plastered to my face. The other three men stirred, and I looked around for Ethan.
“He’s on watch,” Garrett said as he noticed my glances. He pointed in the direction of the door. He held Derrick on top of him and smiled at the boy.
I sat the full crock pot on the counter and plugged it into an outlet, turning the setting to high. “Come on, Derrick,” I said, holding out a hand for him. I was met with an immediate pouty face. “Derrick,” I said with a firmness in my voice.
“He’s fine. He can stay here. I’ll put on cartoons,” Garrett said. His voice was sleepy, and his eyes drooped as he grabbed the remote from the floor. “We need to
