Page 10 of The Widower's Girlfriend
Diana: Just tell me this: is he hot? ; )
A winky face from Diana I can understand. But now the similarities between Walker’s emoji usage and Diana’s makes me wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. But I really can’t dwell on that right now. All I can think about is leaving this friendship on a high note. Like a quarterback retiring after a Super Bowl win.
I feel smug.
And it feels so good.
7
Walker
“Hang in there, Clarence. I’ll talk tomorrow about what to do with all those guilty feelings.” I shake his hand, pat him on the shoulder, and move on to the next group, working the room like the professional speaker I am.
Another attendee snags my attention and tries to tell me their death story. And it’s sad. It always is. But at some point, you have to grow a thick skin, otherwise you drown in their sadness, taking it on as your own. I’m not in this for the fame or the fortune, though I will admit that’s a nice trickledown effect. I’m in it to help people. To be someone they can talk to at their very lowest point in life. To be the person I didn’t have eight years ago.
So I look him in the eye and nod. A frown and a pursed lip when appropriate. A few words of encouragement, a clap on the back. And I let their heartache bounce off me. Heard, but not absorbed.
As I work the room, my thoughts drift to her. Not the “her” the attendees believe I’m thinking of, the one my whole blog and book is about, but the “her” from today. The one that wormed her way into my brain, intriguing me beyond all explanation.
I’d waffled since we parted ways, hoping I never saw her again to then checking my phone every few minutes to see if she contacted me. And when the text finally came in, I’d wasted no time saying yes, even though my brain was screaming no.
I walk over to a new group, a quick glance at my watch showing I have five minutes before I need to sneak out of this cocktail reception and take an Uber to the restaurant. Guilt immediately eats away at me, for wanting to spend time with Jemma, for wanting to ditch my responsibilities to these grieving people, for planning to speak to a crowd about my late wife while my thoughts all revolve around another woman.
I’ve never felt like a fraud writing or speaking about the subject of grief. I’ve always been upfront about not being a professional counselor or psychologist, just a man who was grieving his wife.
Until today.
Until her.
Because it’s one thing to talk about moving on, or to think that you have. It’s an entirely different thing to actually move on by way of action. A nuance I never understood before. A distinction I needed to explore, for my own sake, and for the sake of the thousands of grieving widows and widowers who looked to me for a roadmap out of the pit of depression.
At exactly ten till seven, I make my apologies and walk out of the ballroom, on the pretense of using the restroom. Instead, I sneak out the side door of the convention center and walk around the outside of the hotel to the lobby. I hand over my ticket to the bellhop and retrieve my jacket while selecting an Uber driver on my phone.
The whole way over to the restaurant, I’m convincing myself this dinner means nothing. I’m just pretending to be her boyfriend to help her out of a rough spot. My heart defies me and continues to race despite my logical explanation of tonight’s events.
Before I’m ready, the car pulls up outside Simon’s and I see her.
My gaze doesn’t waver as I climb out and slam the door behind me. She’s beautiful. A black dress clings to her body, the hem high enough to burn the vision into my brain. The heels, the makeup, the softly curled hair. It all adds up to one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen.
She shifts from foot to foot as I approach. Her shiver is visible from where I stand directly in front of her.
“Let’s get you inside.” I frown, seeing she’s in a jacket, but her bare legs must be freezing in this weather. My hand settles on her elbow and I steer her into the restaurant.
“I thought we should go in together so I stayed outside.” Her teeth are chattering and I roll my lips to keep a lecture from coming out. It’s winter in Denver. You shouldn’t stay outside with bare legs.
“Reservation for Ridgefield?” Jemma asks the hostess.
“Yes, I have you down for five people. Is the rest of your party here?”
“Um, no, not yet. We’ll wait here if you don’t mind.” Jemma smiles, but I can tell it’s forced.
We turn around and move to the benches in the waiting area. All I do is lift my eyebrow and she blurts out, “Don’t say it! I know they’re being rude.”
I lift my hands in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Mhmm.” She gives me a sour look, but then laughs.
I lean my shoulder into her for a moment. “You look beautiful, Jemma.”
