Page 17 of Love Resurrected
“Excuse me?” Tell me she’s not bringing up what I think she is. I mean, yeah, it’s common knowledge that Kat passed. But it’s not something we talk about. Outside of my basic core group, that is.
“Your wife died, right?” Tenley asks.
“We never married.”
“Oh. Well. I’m sorry for your loss,” she stammers.
“For all intents and purposes, she was my wife. Fuck, she was my entire life. We just, for some stupid reason, we never made it official. We were engaged. We felt married. It just didn’t happen. Because I’m an asshole.”
She nods her head as though she understands my pain. “My mom left us when I was young.”
She doesn’t get my pain at all. “My mom died,” I respond, feeling that death versus leaving gives me the upper hand in some weird, cryptic way.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. When?” Tenley asks.
“I was young, like, ten years old,” I tell her. “Breast cancer.”
“Oh, god. The same . . .” Her voice trails off and she puts the pieces together. Both the love of my life and my mother died from the same vicious disease.
“Yeah, well.” I let our thoughts settle there, unfinished.
We dance in silence. It’s uncomfortable, Kat and my mom just hanging there between us. I take a breath and force myself to politely ask, “How . . . er, uh, what happened with your mom?”
“Came home from school one day and she was gone. She left a note for my dad, but nothing for me. I haven’t heard from her in over twenty-three years. My father gifted me with three different stepmothers before I was even out of high school though. And another two since. All have been equally vapid and disappointing gold diggers. He’s super good with commitment.” The sarcasm and frustration are clear in her voice.
I stay silent.
I’m such a dick.
I can do better than this.
I promised Remi I would try. For Kat, if for no other reason.
I lean my head down to whisper that I’m sorry about her mom, that I know how hard it is as a kid to lose a parent. My lips end up in her hair, and her hair smells great. For just a moment, I let myself enjoy the feel of a woman in my arms—her scent surrounding us, her hair against my face, my lips brushing against her ear.
Then I snap out of it.
And instead of whispering my sympathies, I end up asking, “We about done here?”
“Is the song over?” she asks.
“No.”
“Then no, we aren’t about done. Just shut up and try to have a good time.”
“I don’t havegood times,” I say.
“Well then, it sucks to be you, doesn’t it?”
“You always this pleasant?”
“Are you?” She looks up at me, her eyes wide and tone challenging.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I just, I really don’t want to be here.”
“Then why are you?”
“Remi made me.”
