Page 13 of The Widower's Girlfriend
We finish dinner and the girls stand to leave, inviting us to some club with them, but we both decline, saying we want an early night. Walker waggles his eyebrows at that and the girls leave in a bustle of giggling and innuendo.
We wait until they’re gone before calling our own ride. Once we put on our jackets and hustle to the car, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Thank goodness that’s over!”
Walker chuckles. “And you didn’t have one spaz moment the whole evening. Absolute success, don’t you think?”
I laugh, loving that he doesn’t mind my moments of complete craziness when the worst that could happen, often does. “True. I was so focused on our charade that I didn’t get nervous and knock things over or trip over nothing.”
Walker sobers quickly. “Are they always like that?”
I tilt my head back and forth. “Yes and no. It wasn’t always like that, but the last few years have been.” I take another deep breath. “I just can’t keep doing that. I’m officially done.”
Walker gives me a smile I can’t define, I just know it warms my belly and feels a little like my second-grade teacher giving me a gold star sticker.
He grabs my hand and holds it, the gesture familiar now. His eyes seek me out in the darkness of the back seat. “High school is long over, Jemma. Whatever you feel you owe them has long since been paid. Besides, you have it all backwards. They’re the lucky ones for having your friendship for so long. Not the other way around.”
His words fill me up, making my eyes mist over. “Thank you, Walker,” I whisper.
We hold hands in silence for a few minutes while I collect myself.
I huff out a laugh, the tears no longer threatening to fall. “You sure did a good job in there, boyfriend.”
He looks down at our hands, his face in the shadows and unreadable. “I don’t know how much of that was—”
He stops abruptly as the car turns into the drive of our hotel. I crane my neck and see a few people standing right outside the automatic doors, but no other reason for Walker to have cut himself off.
The car stops at the curb and before I can question him, Walker disentangles our hands and hops out. I scoot over and get out, careful to keep my skirt from flying up and my heels from sliding on the wet pavement. Walker glances back at me, but doesn’t offer a helping hand. Instead, he walks off toward the entrance to the hotel, leaving me behind. He shakes hands with the people outside the hotel and then goes inside, completely unconcerned that he’s left me out in the cold night air to fend for myself.
That sinking feeling is back, this time full force. I have no idea who Walker is: the guy at dinner whose eyes light up debating with me and holds my hand in support when I need it most or the jerk that walks away like none of that meant anything.
Logically, I know we’re just pretending to be dating, but I’ve never felt more alive and aware of the things I ultimately want in life than when I’m with him. He’s either the best actor I know or something’s very wrong with him. Hot and cold, much? Either way, I can’t keep letting myself get hurt like that. I refuse to even pretend to be with a man that would act like a different person around other people. Like I’m not good enough to even be seen with. Please. If I needed that judgement, I’d call my mother.
I slip into my hotel room, inhaling the cigarette stench, finding it more favorable than more time spent in Walker’s presence and all his woodsy cologne deliciousness. As I get undressed and put on my pajamas, my mind is made up.
No more texting.
No more pretend boyfriend.
No more Walker.
I’ll handle the rest of the weekend on my own. I don’t need him to fight my battles. I’ll face my friends head-on and do what I need to do. I’m glad he forced me to look at the issue and make a decision, but his help is no longer needed or wanted. If they wonder where he went, I’m sure I can come up with believable excuses.
I just spent the night pretending he was my boyfriend. I’m sure I can pretend his absence doesn’t bother me.
9
Walker
I tossed and turned all night, thoughts of Jemma twisting bizarrely with nightmares I’d had for years after my late wife passed away. In every nightmare, I was responsible for Jemma’s injury or death, not by my hand, but because I’d walked away and let harm come to her.
It didn’t take a psychologist to tell me what my dreams meant.
I felt guilty for ditching her last night.
In my defense, I’d been blindsided by the attendees standing outside the hotel when our Uber pulled up. I told Jemma right from the start I couldn’t be seen with her at the hotel. For that very reason. The attendees at the conference would be milling about and I couldn’t be seen wooing a gorgeous woman. They’d never take my speech seriously if they saw me off gallivanting with a woman like my late wife meant nothing.
Added onto my guilt about ditching Jemma so abruptly was my guilt about so thoroughly enjoying my evening with another woman. Yes, our vows were till death do us part. And death had parted us, no doubt about it. But it had been so easy to think I’d moved on when in fact, I hadn’t even been on more than a first date with a woman since my wife died.
