Page 4 of The Meaning Of You

The light-hearted comment made me blink. It had been so long since I’d had sex, had another body in my bed, or even allowed myself to think about that side of me that I was lost for a response.

“Shit.” Jerry took both my hands in hers. “That was unthinking. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I lied, because it wasn’t her fault. “It’s still hard, I suppose. I can’t...won’t... well, you know. We made a promise to each other.”

“I know.” She drew me into a hug before I could stop her, bending me almost in two to match her sparrow-like frame. “It’s shitty. I get it.”

My eyes misted at the warm feel of her arms, and before I knew it, my hands were sliding around her tiny waist. A sigh escaped my lips. It had been a long time since I’d been hugged like that. My own fault, of course. I didn’t invite people into my space, didn’t need it, didn’t want it.

Not that I had to worry too much. My irritable personality kept most people at a distance, exactly where I wanted them. Hugs meant compassion, and I feared the tenderness might break me wide open. Eviscerate me in a way that couldn’t be fixed. At the same time, I craved exactly that, the evisceration part. It would at least offer an excuse to end this charade and get the fuck out of Dodge, but you didn’t hear it from me.

Jerry patted my back and stepped away, her shrewd gaze missing nothing, least of all the damp sheen to my cheeks. But she said nothing, which only highlighted the champ that she was.

“So, my age is in his file, huh?” I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket.

“Everythingis in his file.” She offered a warm smile. “You know that.”

I sighed. “Do I even ask how he is? If there’s been any change?”

“Since yesterday?” She shook her head, her eyes heavy with sympathy. “No. Not since yesterday.”

Or last week. Or last month. Or eighteen fucking months ago.

“He has that niggling chesty cough, but it’s no worse,” she continued. “Doc Paul saw him today.”

My heart dropped. “Oh god, he didn’t chart any?—”

“No,” she reassured me. “He didn’t. And he won’t. It was just his usual monthly visit. He did mention they might convene another round table discussion in a couple of months if there’s no change. See what the options are.”

Relief rushed through me. “Oh, that’s good news. He can’t go on and on like this. I’m not sure any of us can.”

Jerry patted my arm. “Go on in. Lizzie is with him.”

I glanced toward the hall. “Maybe I should wait.”

Jerry threw me a wry smile. “Coward. She loves you like you were her son, not son-in-law. She’s always talking about you. About you both.”

I continued to stare up the hall. Loving me wasn’t the problem. Lizzie had always loved me. She’d become a mother to me, in many ways more my mother than the one who’d walked out on me as a kid and left me with him. But the guilt I carried after every time Lizzie and I talked was getting harder, not easier, to bear.

Jerry elbowed me gently. “You know there’s this newfangled thing called talking about stuff. It might help. She doesn’t blame you, Nick. She never has.”

I stared into those sweet eyes. “Maybe she should.”

The doors behind me whooshed open and a man walked into reception, wearing faded but impeccably pressed jeans—the centre crease sharp as a razor blade—a white button-down shirt, black loafers, and a coat thrown neatly over one arm. With his nose buried in a book, the guy almost ran straight into me, looking up at the last minute.

“Shit, sorry,” he quickly apologised. “I was, ah—” He held the leather-bound book up and blushed prettily. “—distracted.” He shrugged and gave a wry smile. “Nothing new there.”

When I didn’t respond, the man’s blush deepened. He threw a questioning glance at Jerry who promptly cleared her throat and elbowed me again in the ribs, but I was too captivated by those beautiful green eyes to manage any kind of reply.

“That’s perfectly all right, Madigan.” Jerry filled the silence and the man visibly relaxed.

Madigan.It was a name I’d never heard before. I’d also never seen this particular man in the eighteen months I’d been coming here, which was kind of a miracle since I visited most days. So while Jerry answered a couple of Madigan’s questionsabout someone named Shirley—another name I didn’t recognise—I studied him more closely.

He was my age, mid-fifties or thereabouts, and... not to put too fine a point on it, he was hot. I knew that from the surge of guilt that roared through me for even noticing. It wasn’t in any sleek silver-fox, GQ, do-you-like-my-Rolex kind of way. But in that nerdy, still-waters-run-deep, and would-you-please-put-your-glasses-on-before-we-get-into-bed kind of way. Way, way better.

His greying hair was combed neatly back from his face, unlike my unruly silvering blond mop that refused any and all attempts at discipline, and a dense silvery stubble graced his jawline, the tips glinting almost gold in the late afternoon sun that flooded the room. He was shorter than me by a few centimetres, leaner too. But it was his eyes that held my attention, bright summer green and sharp as a blade when they landed on mine. I’d always been a sucker for intellect, a highly underrated sexual turn-on, in my humble opinion, and I’d bet my bottom dollar this guy had it in spades.

“Earth to Nick?” Jerry didn’t bother to hide her amusement.

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