Page 3 of From West, With Regret

Damn. He noticed that much within a few seconds of meeting me?

“Well.” I sit forward and rest my elbow on the lacquered bar top, pressing my hand to my forehead, looking up at him with hesitation, and I breathe a little easier staring into his eyes. I can’t explain it, but I feel like I can share my secrets with him, and he won’t judge me for them. Besides, I don’t ever plan on coming back to this bar, so what harm can it do? “My husband’s funeral is today.”

He clamps his mouth shut as he swallows. After clearing his throat, he grips the edge of the bar again and frowns. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I nod and give him a tight smile, forcing my confession down. I want to tell him the truth. That he, a stranger behind the bar, is sorrier for my loss than I am.

“Thanks.”

“What are you writing?” He points to my napkin.

I stare at the paper, running the tip of my black painted nail across the number ‘one’. “I’m supposed to speak at the funeral and give a eulogy.”

“Looks like you’re making a list more than a eulogy.”

I lift one shoulder. “I figured it would be easier this way. Short and straight to the point.”

“Why?” he asks, curiosity piquing his interest. “I’m sure the family will give you plenty of time to say whatever you want about him and your life together. You were his wife.”

I avoid his gaze, looking back toward the front of the bar. “I’ve actually never met his family. Today will be the first time.”

“Oh. So, were you not together very long?”

I turn back to him. “Not even a year. We were married for six months, together for a few months before then. He just never seemed to talk about them, and when I would ask, he’d shut me down.”

He nods, glancing toward the front window himself. My attention falls to the silver chain wrapped around his neck. Whatever is dangling from the end of it is concealed by his black, button-down shirt. I fight the urge to ask him about it, wondering why, in the back of my mind, the sight of the metal causes my stomach to flutter.

He keeps his focus on the front of the bar. “Well, I’m sorry your marriage was cut short.”

“You don’t have to keep telling me that.” I look down into my lap and eye the enormous ring on my fourth finger.

“Telling youwhat?”

I lift my gaze, and now he’s staring at me again. My cheeks flush. “That you’re sorry for my loss. I’m not.”

Fuck, I’m beingtoohonest with this stranger.

He keeps his mouth closed, but I feel like he’s cut me open and unearthed my deepest, darkest secrets. Like he already knows how I truly felt about Heath.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter.

“You don’t have to tell me that.” The corner of his mouth lifts into an unnerving smirk.

A small chuckle climbs up my throat, and I blink. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Honesty reveals itself faster than fabrication. You were just being honest.”

“I think I’m just nervous. I don’t know why considering…” I trail off.

“Considering what?”

I smooth my hands down the front of my black dress.My funeral dress.A short sleeve wrap, with ruffles that hit mid-thigh. I’ve considered burning it after the ceremony is over. It’s a beautiful dress, but it’s hard to love anything Heath gave me.

The silk feels like butter under my fingers, and a shiver breaks across my bare shoulders.

I close my eyes and remember the way Heath spat in my face, angry when I’d worn my forest green dress to his company party instead of this one.

Suddenly, I’m regretting my decision to wear it. Or maybe, deep down, my subconscious wanted me to wear this dress to spite him.

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