Page 6 of The Best Wild Idea
Her jaw clenches, but she swings the door open, stepping to the side so I can pass her on my way in.
She doesn’t close the door behind me.
I stand in the foyer, unsure of how to say what I need to say. This all could— and should— have waited.
She runs a hand through her hair, and I catch sight of a small crescent of dirt still stuck beneath one of her fingernails.Jesus Christ.It’s from that handful she tossed onto Grant’s grave earlier. Some type of honor or symbol as his fiancée, although watching her do it nearly broke something in me. Probably broke something in everyone who was there. The sound of it hitting that thick wooden box echoes between my ears.
“How are you?” I ask, immediately feeling like an idiot. “Sorry. That was a dumb . . . I mean . . . obviously you’re exhausted.”
She clears her throat to stop a sarcastic snort, but fails, and we both look down awkwardly. The black heels she was wearing earlier have been swapped out for a pair of fuzzy white slippers withBride To Bespelled out across the toes.
Christ.I swallow a lump in my throat.
“Yeah, but I don’t know ifexhaustedis the right word,” she admits, then all but adds the wordidiotat the end with a brow raise. Then she pulls at the neckline of her dress like it’s suddenly too tight. “Why are you here, Si?”
Because I seem to be a glutton for self-punishment,I nearly say.Because even after all the water under the bridge between us, you and I are all that’s left, and that has to mean something right now.
Instead, I take a harsh inhale and mutter, “Fuck it,” under my breath. “I know this is probably the worst timing but before I leave town I wanted you to know that I’d be happy to give you, uh,whateveryou want or need to get through the next year or so. Longer if that’s what it takes. Seriously, take aslong as necessary to get back on your feet, I won’t care. There’s more than enough, um . . .” I pause, silently screamingfuck everything about this moment,but somehow manage to go on. “Um, there’s more than enough. I know we haven’t really been in touch much recently, but I just want you to be able to take your time without having to worry about—”
“Are you kidding me right now?” she interrupts. The words fire from her mouth like a cannon — one that was already loaded and ready to take aim. “I don’t fucking need your money, Silas, but you never change, do you? Not even . . .” She trails off, shaking her head like my offer revolts her. “You know, when I saw you out there, before I opened the door, I actually thought that maybe, just maybe, theoldyou was showing up. Especially after losing him.” She points through the open door to the driveway. “And is that afuckingdriverout there? Did you take a fuckingdriverto my house tonight?”
I follow her finger to Patrick, who appears to be drooling now behind the wheel.
Shit.
“Jules, you know I didn’t come here to offer you money. There’s more I have to—”
“Do I know that? Really? Because it sure as shit sounds like that’s exactly what you just did.”
“Okay, notonlythat.”
I take a step toward her, but she matches it with a quicker one back.
Then she tightens her jaw, glaring up at me like she’s not afraid to take me on. Jules is a solid twelve inches shorter than me, probably a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, and from what I remember, she’s pretty damn scrappy.
I stare back, hands splayed by my sides, a white flag on the battlefield.
“Come on,” I plead gently, angry with myself for not using my better judgment and getting back in the car when I still had the chance. But that’s not what he would have wanted.
I shift back and forth then slip my hands into my pockets, darting my eyes around her foyer for a distraction.
A long table against the wall is covered in a collection of stark white flower arrangements and cards. Roses, daisies, gardenias, and tulips. Some I don’t even recognize. Like the whole damn flower shop was ordered to send every variety to her in the same stone-cold hue.
I hadn’t sent her any.
It’s a shitty trade, if you ask me. A show of support, but a glaring reminder of what — and who — was lost just sitting there, waiting to greet you each morning until they, too, wither up and die.
I would know.
“They forgot the lilies,” I tell her, gesturing to the table, rocking back on my heels, wishing I had the good sense to shut up.
“What?” She narrows her eyes at the table of flowers.
“Lilies. They brought every other kind of flower but it looks like . . . they . . .” My mouth goes dry.
She closes her eyes and inhales sharply, tucking her teeth behind her lips as if she’s ready to drag me back out to the curb.
“Silas, I really can’t do small talk right now.”
