Chapter Three
Meghan
There are fourteen of us in Irma Daniels’ living room sipping wine or lemonade and discussing the latest John Greer book on a Thursday night. My attention isn’t one hundred percent there, especially after Grandma’s comment about reading smutty books. What would happen if my next pick was something a bit racier? Would they freak out if I suggested E L James or Sylvia Day? At twenty-eight, I’m the youngest woman in the room.
By a good twenty years.
I haven’t even reached my prime yet. Hell, most of these women have been married for as long as I’ve been alive. You’d think they’d be all about reading a few kinky words to spice up their marriage.
Married book clubbers outweigh the non-married ones. With nine wearing a ring on their finger, only three are singles, two of which are widows. I consider myself a widow, even though Josh and I were never married. We had plans though, and a diamond on my finger, so I believe that puts me in the same class as Cindy Jones, the nice woman whose husband died a few years ago from a heart attack.
After we discuss the book, which I barely participated in, everyone congregates to the dining room, where the appetizers and desserts we all brought are laid out. I pile some crab dip and cream cheese bars on my plate and head over to the corner of the room. Everyone is discussing the newest coffee shop to open uptown, anxious to find out all of the gossip on the young family who recently relocated to Jupiter Bay and opened the business.
“Hey, you’ve been quiet tonight,” Cindy says as she comes over to sit beside me along the back wall.
“Yeah, sorry. I’ve been a little sidetracked tonight.”
“No worries here. I had a hard time getting into the book myself, which is why I didn’t have much to say. Sometimes, I just don’t want those gut-clenching, tear-jerking stories that make me bawl my eyes out from start to finish. Sometimes, I just want to read something that will make me laugh until I cry.”
Yes. This.
Exactly.
“No, I totally get it,” I tell her with a smile.
“Personally,” she starts, bending down and whispering so only I can hear, “I’d love to read something a bit…dirtier.”
I glance her way, a wicked little glimmer lighting her blue eyes. “Me too.”
Cindy laughs and holds up her hand for a high-five. “It’s settled. Next time it’s yours or my pick, we’re totally choosing smut.”
Laughing, I turn my body so that our knees are a bit closer. “Deal.”
We both continue to eat our food, watching the speculation and conversations of the other attendees around the table. Someone actually just suggested that the young couple moved to Jupiter Bay because the husband has an illegitimate kid with one of the young single women in town.
Clearly, they read too much fiction.
“How’s your dad?” Cindy asks casually.
But my radar perks up.
“He’s fine,” I answer, looking her way and watching her body language. She’s completely relaxed. Casual. Nothing that says she’s being nosy, or worse, looking for a date.
Not that dating my dad would be bad. Actually, it would be the complete opposite, and the more I think about it, Cindy would be a great woman for him to date. But am I ready to see my dad date?
I come to my answer immediately, and realize I mean it a thousand percent.
Yes.
As far as I know, Dad hasn’t dated since Mom passed away. It’s been years – more than sixteen years, actually – and I’ve never seen him so much as glance toward another woman.
That thought truly makes me a little sad. Even though I completely understand it – the prospect of dating again makes me a little queasy – I don’t want that for the patriarch of our family. I want him happy, smiling, and if love is in the cards for him again, I want that too, and I believe my sisters would all feel the same way.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice is quiet as I glance around the room to see if anyone is paying us any attention.
“Of course,” Cindy replies, giving me her full attention.
Before I can chicken out, I ask, “Would you be interested in getting coffee sometime Saturday? I have plans later that night, but I’d love to, maybe, talk to you again. More privately.” It’s as if she knows what I’m getting at. Hell, do I even know what I’m getting at? All I know is that I enjoy chatting with this woman the few times we’ve spoken during book club, and maybe, just maybe, it would be nice to talk to someone who has been where I am.
Someone who has lost the one she loved.
“I’d love to,” Cindy replies instantly, a warm smile on her face. “Name the place and pick the time. I’ll be there.”
“Say, eleven? At the new place on Main Street, Hendricks?”
“That sounds wonderful. We can grab a sandwich, too. I’ve heard amazing things about their lunches.”
“Perfect,” I say, relaxing in my chair a bit, the tension ebbing from my shoulders almost immediately.
After chatting for a few more minutes, everyone starts to gather their belongings to head home. Cindy makes sure to give me a quick hug, letting me know she’s looking forward to meeting me for coffee on Saturday, and reminding me that our next book club pick is going to be smutty.
The smuttier, the better.
Grandma would be so proud.
* * *
When I pull into my driveway, my phone lights up with a text. Dr. Adams. Or Nick, as he’s repeatedly asked me to call him. It was difficult at first, but over the last few years, I’ve definitely developed more of a friendship with my boss than just a standard eight-to-five work relationship.
In fact, he’s kinda become “my person” when I need a friend or am feeling exceptionally low. He’s attended family gatherings, as well as rescued me when the memories of Josh start to swallow me whole. Nick is a good friend, and besides my sisters, I don’t really have too many of those.
Josh was my life, my everything.
My best friend.
Now isn’t the time to let his memory grab me and pull me under. While sitting in the driver’s seat, I swipe my finger across the screen and pull up Nick’s text message.
Nick: What was it tonight? War & Peace? The Diary of Anne Frank?
Me: You would be wrong on both accounts. We read those last year. *emoji sticking its tongue out*
Nick: Damn. I always miss the good ones. So what was it? 50 Shades?
Me: You’re picturing Irma Daniels reading it, aren’t you?
Nick: I just threw up in my mouth. *vomiting emoji*
Me: *laughing emoji*
Nick: I should fire you for that.
Me: You wouldn’t dare. You need me.
His bubbles appear, but then disappear without text, like he started to write and then deleted it. Finally, after a few long, drawn-out seconds of anticipation, he finally replies.
Nick: Truth. I do.
Me: Whatcha doing? I’m sure you’re not actually sitting around, wondering about what book we read this week at book club.
Nick: Another thrilling Thursday night for me. On my way home from helping Rhenn with a class. I’m starving. Probably stopping at the burger place on Main for a big, juicy to-go order.
Me: They have the BEST milkshakes.
Nick: You’ve mentioned. Strawberry, right?
Me: Yep. They use real strawberries. Like the real thing, Nick. Not syrup. This is a big deal, my friend.
Nick: It most certainly is. Strawberry syrup is a crime against ice cream, Meghan.
Me: *fist bump gif*
Nick: I’m getting ready to pull out of the lot. Glad you made it home safely.
Me: It’s Jupiter Bay. What could have possibly happened to me?
But as soon as I send the message, I know the answer. Plenty can happen, especially when behind the wheel.
Nick: Don’t make me answer that. I’ll see you soon.
Me: Tomorrow morning.
Nick: *smirky emoji*
Me: Good night
I drop my phone into my purse and grab my bag before making my way toward the house. The light above the kitchen sink gives off just enough light that I don’t trip over the extra pair of shoes I kicked haphazardly by the door. Setting the bag down on the table, I pull off my shoes and head toward our bedroom to change into pajamas.
Wait. My bedroom.
I know it. It’s still a struggle to accept it.
Just after throwing on a pair of old flannel shorts that are way too short and one of Josh’s t-shirts, the doorbell rings. It’s well after nine, which tells me it must be one of my sisters. They’re the only ones who would drop by unexpectedly after nine o’clock on a weeknight.
Though, when was the last time one of them just happened to drop by? All of my sisters have significant others now. They have families. Busy lives.
I don’t even have time to grab a robe before the knocking starts. Yep, it must be one of my sisters. They all have the patience of…well, something that doesn’t have a lot of patience. “I’m coming,” I holler as I round the corner from the bedroom and run to the front door. When I check the peephole, I’m shocked at the face staring back at me.
Not one of my sisters at all.
Nick.
I disengage the lock and slowly open the door, carefully concealing my too-short shorts and the fact that I’m braless beneath the shirt. “Hey, everything all right?” I ask, worried that something is wrong.
“Everything’s fine. I just happened to have an extra milkshake, and since I was in the area, I thought I’d see if you wanted it.” He gives me an innocent smile, but I’m on to his game, as he waves it in my face. Not only do I completely doubt that they just happened to give him an extra shake (strawberry, no less), but Nick lives on the opposite side of town. Not exactly “in the neighborhood.”
But then again, he does have a strawberry shake with him, so who am I to call him out on his blatant lies and send him away?
I reach out my hand for the ice cream goodness and wait until he passes me the cup. There’s already a straw stuck in the lid, so I take a quick sip and savor the smooth velvety richness of the milkshake laced with chunks of strawberry heaven. Nick’s eyebrow arches toward the sky as he waits. “It’s amazing. Okay, you can come in.”
“I don’t have to come in. I just wanted to drop that off,” he says, nodding toward the cup.
“But you have food, right? Might as well come eat it inside while it’s still warm.”
“You know how much I despise cold fries,” he retorts with a grin. “Are you sure? It’s getting late.”
“Definitely. I’m not ready to go to sleep yet. You can keep me entertained for a while.” I open the door and motion for him to enter.
Nick proceeds to step through the door, but there’s no missing the way his eyes dart to my chest. When I glance down, I see exactly why. My boobs are practically on display, completely visible beneath the thin, gray material of the shirt. What’s more embarrassing than showing my boss my girls is that my nipples choose that exact moment to stand at attention and salute.
Oh, goodie.
I take a step back and cross my arms over my chest. Nick’s eyes fly up to meet mine, my cheeks burning with mortification. However, Nick looks…hungry. And I don’t think it’s for the cheeseburger and fries he’s about to consume. But that can’t be right, can it? He has always treated me in a perfectly respectful, friendly manner.
The hunger in his eyes must be for his double cheeseburger.
“Umm, go ahead and make yourself comfy,” I instruct, closing the door behind him and keeping all of my bits and pieces covered up. When I turn around, his eyes are focused on my ass.
My ass.
He’s blatantly staring at my ass, which is completely covered, thankfully, but the way he’s devouring my body makes me feel naked.
And surprisingly, not uncomfortable.
Why is that? I should be exposed, awkward, and incredibly embarrassed.
Instead, I feel…excited.
When the silence stretching between us continues, his eyes finally meet mine. That look that I saw only moments ago is quickly replaced by a sheepish, nervous look. He knows he was busted checking me out, and now neither of us knows what to do or say.
I know what I need to do.
Put on clothes.
I wave him toward the living room and make a beeline to my bedroom. When I’m finally safely behind the closed door, I finally take a deep breath. My reflection catches in the mirror above the dresser and I’m surprised at what I see. Even though my boobs are showing and my nipples clearly begging for attention, I look…cute. Pretty. Completely normal.
Alive.
Running my fingers along my lips, for the first time in a very long time, I wonder what it would be like to kiss someone again. Maybe even Nick. To feel wanted and desired…and alive. Yep, there’s that word again.
But it might be the truest adjective to describe this crazy feeling that has pushed to the surface, past the armor of hurt and make believe I keep firmly in place to protect myself. I haven’t felt this way in so very long that I thought this bitter sadness may have been all that was left. Like every ounce of happiness and life was buried in that six-foot grave, along with the man I loved.
As I rip off the shirt, grab a bra, and throw on a new (and slightly more form fitting) shirt, I can’t help but wonder if there really is life after loss.
And more importantly, am I too terrified to find out?