“Oh, you stop that right now.” Her delicate touch lifting up my chin is in total contrast to the fire in her voice. A fire, I should add, that I’ve never heard from her before. “You don’t apologize for protecting yourself. I know how much you loved your dad, how much he loved you. You know I talked to him not long before he passed. And the only thing he was worried about was leaving you. He knew you needed to sell the house, but he was worried you wouldn’t. That’d you’d stay and all of the laughter buried in those walls would be washed away by sadness.”
The tears I work so hard to keep locked away start to beat against the barriers I have in place and I know I’m not going to be able to fight them much longer.
“I miss him.” I give life to the thought that runs through my head on an endless loop, but never dare say out loud. “I miss you. I miss the life from before. I don’t know how to be around everything that I want back and still move on.”
“Sweet girl.” Her hand, covered in wrinkles that only point to the wisdom in the life she’s lived, reaches up to wipe the tears I didn’t even realize had fallen. “You will miss him for the rest of your life. We never move on, we just learn to not only live with the pain but to welcome it. Because it’s all we have left of a love so great.”
I hate that for her. I hate knowing how long she’s been living with pain. But man am I grateful that it led her to me.
“Would you like to come see my place soon?” I sniffle and try to pull myself together. “I can make dinner and we can watch reruns of Scandal.”
“Oh yes, you know how much I enjoy that Olivia Pope. Just don’t try to make me eat any of that kale crap.” She pats my hand and I know we’re okay again. “I’m old. I don’t need to worry about my figure anymore.”
You make someone a kale salad one time! I swear.
“No kale, I promise.”
She lifts her hand like she’s about to wave when something catches her attention out of the corner of her eye. “Oh my, Elliot.” Color rises in her cheeks and she pats the stark white hair curled on her head. “I didn’t realize I was interrupting a date! Why didn’t you tell me?” Reality punches me in the stomach and I feel like I might literally throw up when I realize that not only has Quinton arrived, but he’s witnessed this deeply personal moment.
Anger, hurt, and embarrassment swirl through me as I watch Quinton slip his large form out of the booth like nothing happened. Like he didn’t encroach on my privacy by listening to this conversation. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He extends a calloused hand to Mrs. Rafter, the epitome of a gentleman . . . and all I want to do is slap it away. “I’m Quinton.”
“Oh, I know you!” She ignores his hand and claps hers together, drawing the attention of a couple at the table behind us. “You’re that football fella! The one who’s been causing all sorts of hubbub! Oh yes, I do love it. Tell those greedy old bastards where to stick it, won’t you.”
I gasp. “Mrs. Rafter!” I’ve never heard her call anyone out like that!
Quinton’s deep laughter fills the room and causes Mrs. Rafter to blush . . . again.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “Actually, Elliot has been helping me set up my foundation. We’re having a party next Tuesday and I would love for you to come if you’re free. You can see all of the work she’s put in. I couldn’t have done it without her.”
I want to object. I hate that Quinton knows my personal business at all, the last thing I want is him getting even more information . . . having a greater hold over me. But by the way Mrs. Rafter’s eyes light up at the invitation, I can’t say anything.
“Oh, well spoil an old lady, why don’t you? I’d love that!” Mrs. Rafter pats him on the chest and her hand lingers just long enough that I know she’s trying to see if he feels as hard beneath that T-shirt as he looks. “Who would’ve thought a trip to Stanley’s would get me my girl back and an invitation to a party? Well, I’m going to head home, I don’t want to use all this luck in one spot. Maybe I’ll buy a lotto ticket on the way.”
She leans in, giving me one more hug, and then shouts out her goodbyes to the rest of the patrons. I watch through the window as she makes her way to her car, and I try to get ahold of the anger that feels like it’s spinning out of control.
“Your Diet.” The waitress places my soda on the table before turning her friendly gaze to Quinton. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“A water’d be great, thanks.”
“Easy enough!” She smiles, putting her untouched notepad back in her pocket. “I’ll be right back with that.”
I’m still trying to rein in not only my thoughts, but my emotions as well, when she walks away. I grab my Coke and take a deep sip, wishing Stanley’s had vodka.
We sit in the silence. Neither one of us seems to know what to say. I’m hoping this means he’ll just pretend he didn’t hear or see anything at all.
But I’ve never been particularly lucky.
“I’m really sorry about your dad. I had no idea.” He’s so quiet that I almost didn’t hear it.
I wish I hadn’t heard it.
“Of course you had no idea, why would you?” I keep my voice even, indifferent.
“I know, it’s just . . .” He scrubs a hand over his head before leaning back in the booth—leaning back
