Page 438 of Dark Love

“You’re no fun.” She pouts as she carries the plate into the kitchen, leaving me in the living room.

Why am I doing this? I’ve already dug myself a hole. Do I really want to dig it any deeper?

This was a really bad idea. I walk over to the couch, but I’m too antsy to sit down. Instead, I move over to the fireplace. There are family pictures covering it.

Love shines in every single one of them. One picture on the left-hand side of the mantle catches my attention. That must be Hope’s mother. She’s cradling her bump, while Max has his arms wrapped around her. They’re so young. Just children themselves.

What would have my life been like if I had a normal high school experience? Would I have found love, married my high school sweetheart, and had a bunch of kids by now?

They’d be in school by now. I’d be a soccer mom.

But that wasn’t how life happened. I can’t change the past. I can only live with it and try for a better future.

“Prue?”

I spin around. “You have a beautiful family.”

He tips his head to the side. “Thank you. But that doesn’t explain the tears in your eyes or the plate in your hand.”

“These are for you.” I hold them out to him. “They’re bourbon-soaked pecan clusters on a butter cookie.”

He doesn’t take the plate. “Why are you crying?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It certainly does matter. A woman doesn’t just randomly show up at my house crying.” He takes the plate and sets it on the coffee table. “Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”

I sink down onto the couch. It’s comfortable as well as aesthetically pleasing. But everything about this place screams warm family home. “I wasn’t crying when I got here.”

Max’s hand moves up to his head, yanking on a curl. “Why did you start crying?”

Because I’m still hormonal, and it makes me cry over stupid stuff. “The picture of you and Hope’s mom is beautiful and bittersweet. She was so young and so happy to be pregnant.”

“Ivy wanted to have Hope more than anything in the world, even her own life.”

I reach out and place a hand on his arm.

“Do you know there are days I’m still mad at her for choosing Hope over herself? Which is the stupidest thing because Hope is my life. I’d die for her without a thought. It’s not logical.”

“Grief isn’t logical. Nor is pain. You’re entitled to feel hurt, angry, happy, sad. They don’t mean you love her or your daughter any less.” I give him a moment to process. “Now I’ve gotten you all emotional. Sorry about that. I meant to bring you a bribe and ask you a question.”

His head pops up. “What kind of question?”

“I got myself in a bit of a pickle, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“And you came to me for help?” His eyes widen.

Don’t tell him that he’s your only friend and you have no one else to ask but your mother. That would sound particularly pathetic. “You seem to give good advice. And my question really needs a man’s thoughts.”

“Ask away.” He leans back against the throw pillows.

“Have a cookie first.” I grab the plate off the coffee table and hold it out to him again.

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

He takes one off and smells it. “Is the whole thing soaked in bourbon?”

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