I’m cleaning the dishes in Sydney’s kitchen when she asks if I want to see the pictures she’s going to use for the PowerPoint slide show for the funeral.
I dry my hands and go sit beside her, studying each one.
“Did you make one of these when your mother died?” she asks.
I shake my head no.
“Did you have framed pictures?”
I stare at a picture of Callie holding baby Sydney and clear my throat. She thinks I’m a nice guy. Maybe it’s time to tell her the truth.
“Sydney, I’ve let you assume something about me without setting you straight.”
“What?”
“About my mother. See . . . I loved my mom. But I was a jerk when she died.”
“Well, it’s a hard thing. People react differently.”
I shift in my seat. “No, I mean . . . Maybe jerk isn’t the right word. Maybe coward is more accurate.”
I have her full attention now. I wish I didn’t have to go on, that I could rewrite that chapter of my life so it doesn’t sound so bad.
“I went to see her in the hospital when she was dying, and . . . when I saw her lying there with all the tubes and wires . . . I just left. I didn’t even go in.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and I know what’s going through her mind. He’s inadequate, he’s cold, he’s nothing but some cab driver who didn’t feel empathy even for his own mother.
But she doesn’t say anything like that. She surprises me by touching my hand. “Okay.”
“There’s more.” I draw in a ragged breath and meet her eyes. “I didn’t show up for the funeral.”
She blinks. “Oh.”
“I was her only child, and I didn’t go.” I rub the sweat forming over my lip. “You know, now that I think about it, jerk probably does cover it.”
She lets go of my hand. “No, I think coward was good.”
It takes me a minute to realize she’s not serious. She takes my hand again and leans toward me. “Finn, you’re not a coward now.”
Tears pushing to my eyes horrify me, and when she hugs me I’m glad she can’t see them.
I don’t want to leave, so I watch her cues and she seems to want me to stay. After I’ve cleaned up the dishes, I join her on the couch, watching some romantic comedy that I couldn’t care less about. I just want her to feel content.
After a while, she lays her head on my shoulder, and I take that as a cue that I can put my arm around her. Before I know it, she’s sound asleep. I wonder if she’s slept at all in the last few days.
I could sit here with her all night, basking in the warmth that defines her. I could be here when she wakes up. But will she want me here in the light of a fresh morning?
What if she wakes up and thinks I’m the most presumptuous idiot she has ever shared time with? What if she remembers she’s out of my league, that I’m nothing but the cab driver, that I wasn’t there for my own mom?
Reminders of my inadequacy will run like a loop through her mind. Sure, I’m good when she’s stunned by a death and doesn’t want to be alone. But given a choice, given a comparison with almost any other guy, I’ll come up lacking.
I don’t know what I was thinking to let myself be this familiar with her.
I gently slide out from under her head and move a pillow there. I find a throw over a chair and cover her with it.
Then I grab her phone, which doesn’t require a passcode, and I set an alarm for the morning so she won’t oversleep. I set it on the coffee table next to her. I text her that I’ll see her at the funeral. Then I press the shadow of a kiss on her cheek just before I leave.