Page 8 of The Best Wild Idea
She shakes her head and runs the dirt-stained fingernails through her hair.
“You’ve been a real prick, you know? Even before . . .” She pauses, looking startled at the words that should come next. I don’t want her to finish that sentence.
“I know,” I interrupt. “I wish I could take it all back.”
“Plus, just seeing you here reminds me ofus. The three of us. It’s too weird to be standing here with you but not him, too.”
“Yeah, I keep wondering when Grant’s going to come walking around that corner.” I point my thumb down the nearest hallway. Her eyes follow my thumb into the dark, as if my saying it might actually bring him back. “I’m sorry, Jules. I shouldn’t have—”
She shrugs, and a shade of anger drains from her face when her shoulders fall.
“I keep feeling the exact same way. Normally, after spending an entire day with a bunch of people, I’d come back to the house and unload the day’s worth of gossip to him. Who was arguing with who. Who made a questionable comment about Aunt Rory’s dress length. You know, all that family drama that you just store up in your head to come back home to tell your person about. But when I got back to the house today—” Her voice cracks and she stops to collect herself. “When I got back from the funeral, I felt like a dam about to burst because therewas no one to talk to. No one to tell how awful it was. This whole stupid house just feels so fucking empty now, you know?”
“Yeah, I do know,” I tell her, quietly. Then add, “You can tellmeabout Aunt Rory’s dress length and the stupid fights your relatives were getting into if you want. Patrick is already sleeping out there. I can just stay. As long as you want. We can order some takeout if you’re hungry, although you’re probably not. God, neither am I but—”
I stop talking when the waterworks start streaming down her face. I take the smallest step toward her, not wanting her to shove me away again.
“Can I—” I start to ask if it would be okay to hug her, but she closes the gap this time. Crumbling into my chest. Big, heavy sobs work their way out while her forehead presses into my shoulder.
I close my eyes, wishing more than anything that I could replace my chest with his right now.
Fucking hell.
I wrap an arm around her, testing it out, then the other, more slowly this time, until I’ve enveloped her frame against me. She leans in more, like she needs me to hold her up, to stop her knees from buckling beneath her. Releasing whatever she’s pent up all at once, probably losing sight of the fact thatI’mthe one holding her up at all.
We stand like that until she’s ready for me to let her go.
Then she slides out of my arms looking bewildered and spent.
Embarrassed.
Unkempt.
“No,” she says, firmly, “I’m going to be fine.”
“I know.” I start to tell her to just forget what I said earlier. “Unless you really do need anything and then I’m—”
“Oh my God, no!” She throws her hands up. “I’m sorry, I don’t think you should be here right now.” Then her face twists, dissolving back into anger. “Just go. If Grant knew you were here, offering me your fucking money right now, he’d die.”
No, he wouldn’t, Jules.
She sniffs, looking painfully aware of the irony tucked inside her words.
But I don’t have it in me to argue. “You’re right,” I say, instead. “Forget it. I’ll go. Call me if you change your mind.”
She moves toward the door, finding that spot on the wall to focus on again without having to look directly at me, then she pulls the door wider not saying a word.
I step outside before turning back. “One more thing.”
Her eyes flick to mine, hope pooling inside them.
I open my mouth, but instead of telling her about everything she has barreling toward her at the end of this year, I don’t. Not yet. And not right now.
“Take care of yourself,” I say, stepping all the way off the porch.
Her chin quivers and she bites her lip to stop it. “I will.”
We both have more to say, clearly, but now is not the time.
