Page 142 of The Games We Play
In all the time I’d known Sandy, she rarely talked about her husband. It never made me doubt how much she’d loved him—it just felt like maybe the loss was still too raw, the ache too deep to name aloud. I’d caught glimpses here and there—quick stories about the flower shop or their time in California, but never the full picture.
Maybe it was the rush of emotion from the last few days, or maybe something deeper, but I suddenly wanted to know more. I wanted a piece of her past to carry with me, something real and lasting.
She grew quiet, her gaze fixed on something far away, her expression soft with reflection.
“He was straight to the point,” she said at last. “That man didn’t sugarcoat a single thing.” She gave a dry laugh, then added, “But somehow, he was still the gentlest soul I’ve ever known. He knew how to be soft when it mattered. He was patient. Kind. Compassionate.”
A tender smile tugged at my lips as I listened—not just to her words, but to the way she said them, full of reverence and quiet love.
Without another word, Sandy stood. Instinctively, I moved to help her, but she waved me off with a look. Carefully, she walked to a wooden hutch in the corner of the room and returned with a photo frame in her hand.
Using the table for support, she extended the frame to me. I took it carefully.
Inside the glass was a portrait of a man—stocky, with a broad, easy smile that made him look instantly familiar. Therewas something teddy bear-like about him, a kind of gentle strength that radiated from his eyes. His hair was thick and dark, not a strand of gray in sight.
“He looks so cheerful,” I said, unable to hide the smile spreading across my face.
Sandy let out a short laugh as she sank back into her chair. “Cheerful? Oh, not a chance. But kind? Always.”
She let that hang in the air for a moment before speaking again. “Remember that story I told you the other day?” she asked.
Still holding the photo, I looked up and nodded.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately. And then this whole fall…” Her voice drifted off, but her gaze didn’t. She locked eyes with me, steady and clear, and reached out, placing her hand gently over mine.
“Don’t take life for granted, Penelope. Not a single day. No matter how young or how old you are. Live with grace and with gratitude. For everything. Every heartbeat. Every breath.”
Her words landed in my chest like a promise—one I wasn’t sure I knew I needed until now.
There was a knock at the door, followed by the soft scrape of it dragging against the hardwood floors. My head snapped over my shoulder just in time to see Mac peek around the corner, his familiar frame filling the doorway to the kitchen.
“Mac?” I asked, confused. “What are you doing here?”
There was no reason for him to be at Sandy’s this early. At least, not one I knew of.
He glanced at Sandy, then back at me, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to find the right words. Before he could sputter out an excuse, Sandy gave him some kind of look—one I couldn’t interpret, but he could because he cleared his throat and stepped into the kitchen like he belonged there.
“I got a bat signal that someone needed rescuing,” he said, flashing me a grin.
I turned sharply toward Sandy, my jaw dropping. “You did not,” I gasped. “You called Mac to save you? Fromme?”
Sandy gave me a look so smug I could have screamed. “Penelope, sweetie, it’s time for you to go home and take a shower.” She pinched her nose dramatically and waved her hand in front of her face like I was some unwashed barn animal.
My eyes widened in mock horror. “I donotstink!” I pointed at her accusingly.
Laughter erupted from her and then from Mac, his deep, warm chuckle rolling in behind me as he stepped closer and gently grabbed my shoulders.
“Let’s go, Pen. The truck’s still running,” he said, leaning in. He sniffed the air with exaggerated flair, then winced. “Oof. Okay, she’s not wrong.”
I gasped and smacked his chest with the back of my hand, earning another laugh from him. “You’re both impossible,” I muttered, spinning on my heel and stomping off toward the guest room with as much dignity as I could manage.
Behind me, their laughter echoed down the hall, bright and full of mischief. And just before I reached the door, I swear I heard it—smack—a perfectly crisp, unmistakable high five.
Sandy’s housewasn’t far from Petal Pusher, just on the outskirts of town, but the drive back to my apartment still took close to ten minutes, winding through quiet back roads as Mac’s beat-up truck rumbled beneath us.
I sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed loosely, eyes flicking between the passing scenery and the man beside me. The silence was soft, companionable until I broke it.
“Do I really stink?” I asked, suddenly very self-conscious.
