What kind of monster doesn’t attend his daughter’s funeral? What kind of man leaves his devastated partner alone to deal with that kind of pain and loss?
“They’ve both been so sad,” Mick continues, a helpless note creeping into his voice. “I thought some time out of the house, doing something other than work might make them feel better, but…I don’t know. I’m beginning to think Mom and Dad should come home. I don’t know if I can fix them by myself.”
“Well, of course you can’t fix them,” I say, feeling for Mick. The kid’s obviously trying to help but trying to “fix” his sisters isn’t the way to support them. “They’re mourning. And everyone mourns in their own way. All you can really do is be there to listen and let them know you’re not going anywhere, even when things get hard. And you’re already doing that.”
Mick nods slowly. “Yeah, you’re probably right, I just… It’s so hard to see people you care about hurting and feel helpless to make it better.”
Jamison claps Mick on the back. “You’re not helpless, man.” He sets his beer on the table and puts his arm around Mick’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go get the girls some drinks and have them waiting when they get back. They may be sad, but we can make sure they don’t have to be sad and sober.”
Mick smiles. “We did come here for Bloody Marys.”
“And you won’t be leaving without them,” Jamison says, starting toward the bar. “You need anything, Jake? Another beer? Water or something?”
I shake my head. I don’t need another drink, and I doubt that’s what the Whitehouse sisters need, either. Alcohol might numb the pain for a few hours, but I know from experience that it doesn’t do jack shit to help a person heal.
Alcohol only helps you hide and hiding never makes anything better.
The thought resonates, and for a moment, I swear I can hear Jenny’s voice in my head again, telling me to take my own good advice.
I stopped hiding from my grief over losing my wife a long time ago, but I’m hiding from other things. I’m hiding from the future, from scary possibilities, determined to keep my heart locked up tight so it can never be shattered the way it was when Jenny died ever again. I’m hiding from hope, too, figuring it’s better to assume I’ll always be alone than to open myself up to disappointment.
And lately, I’ve been hiding from Naomi.
I thought I was hiding from our painful past, but as I watch her emerge from the hallway, her arm around her sister’s waist and a determined-looking smile on her face, I see the truth.
I’m not hiding from what was; I’m hiding from what could be.
I’m hiding from how much I want Naomi and, at the moment, how much I want to pull her into my arms and tell her how sorry I am that she lost her little girl. I want to tell her that she deserved better than the asshole who fathered her baby and then left her to shoulder her grief alone. I want to hold her close and hug her tight and…let her in.
The realization is sobering, banishing my hint of a beer buzz.
What would happen if I stopped hiding, if I give the feelings I still have for Naomi the opportunity to grow? What if I take her up on the invitation in her eyes and take a chance on the woman the girl I once loved has become?
It’s a heady thought. And scary, but not entirely terrifying.
There’s still something between us, potential energy that sparks in the air every time we’re together, and I know from experience it doesn’t take much for a spark to become a flame.
But before I go fanning any fires, I have to be sure.
One hundred percent sure.
I set my beer on the table and head for the exit, needing fresh air and space to think, to decide if I’m ready to make Naomi part of my present, and maybe…my future.
Chapter Twelve
Naomi
I take one whiff of the fragrant, deep-fried-turkey-scented air wafting from inside the VFW hall Friday night and wish I’d worn my control top underwear.
Sure, they give me a headache after a few hours, and judging by my blue toes after a night out in industrial strength, belly-squishing spandex, I’m pretty sure they’re constricting blood flow and potentially causing organ damage, but who cares?
What is blood circulation compared to the magic of being able to have seconds of turkey and dressing and still fit into my skin-tight black sheath dress?
The dress I think Jake is going to really, really like…
My stomach flutters, but it isn’t hunger alone that has me unsettled. Jake’s late. Fifteen minutes late, which isn’t like him.
But then, he’s been acting strangely ever since Monday afternoon.