Page 80 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

I was such an idiot.

“I promised,” I said, as though that were an excuse. “I’m sorry. I heard all the gossip. Everyone knows you’re a Hart. And I just…I wanted to make sure you were okay. After everything. It’s fine if you don’t want the cookies. They won’t go to waste. I mean, they’re chocolate chip, so I’ll definitely eat one myself.” Or the whole plate of them, more likely. Stop babbling and get the hell out of here. I took a step backward. “I’ll just…go.”

His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, keeping me from making a quick exit. “You are exactly what I need.”

My heart gave another painful bound in my chest. “I am?”

“Well, you—and cookies.” He took the plate from me and stepped back, jerking his head. “Come inside. There’s something I want to show you.”

I followed him inside to the living room, where he put the plate down on the coffee table next to a stack of photo albums. He sat down on the couch, tugging my arm until I sat next to him.

“My cousins…” His lips quirked in a bemused smile, and he shook his head, like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “They had photos of my mom and their dad when they were kids. They let me bring them home. I couldn’t look at the photos with them watching me. It was too much.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. God, it must have been hard for him. I squeezed his hand. “I understand.”

His green eyes were as warm as summer grass when he looked at me. “I know you do.”

The moment stretched and lengthened as we stared at each other. I wet my lips, and his eyes dropped to my mouth. If he kissed me now…but then he pulled back, clearing his throat, and the spell was broken.

“I meant to look at them alone, but I…couldn’t.” He ran his finger over the leather binding. “I mean, it’s my mom.”

“We can do it now. Together.” I bit my lip. “If you want to, I mean.”

“Yeah. I want to.” He pulled the album onto his lap. “I can’t do it alone. I need a friend. You.”

“Are we friends?” I whispered.

“I don’t know. I never really had friends before you.” His voice was rough. “But relationships are about showing up for someone. You taught me that. And here you are, showing up. When that doorbell rang, I thought of you. You were the only person I wanted to see on the other side of that door. Is that friendship?”

Love, I thought. That was love.

The truth knocked the air right out of me.

I loved Max.

I loved Max, and Max loved me. If this were one of those rom-com movies I adored, that would be enough. Once upon a time, I had truly believed in that. Love was all that mattered, and if you loved someone enough, it could see you through all the hard times. But I knew better now. Love hadn’t been enough then, and it wasn’t enough now.

I wasn’t enough.

Because I couldn’t be Max’s girlfriend for him and George’s widow for everyone else. It didn’t work. I couldn’t make everyone happy. Not like that.

But maybe there was another way to make Max happy. Maybe I couldn’t be his girlfriend or his lover or his wife, but I could damn sure be his friend.

Even if that felt remarkably similar to scraping off my skin with a cheese grater. Because how the hell was I supposed to sit next to him and not touch him? How was I supposed to keep my hands and lips to myself when he was right there, looking and smelling all Max-like? Honestly. Was this something people actually did? Be friends with an ex? I was only two minutes into it, and it was torture.

But for Max, I would do it. I would be his friend, because that was what he needed me to be right now. If I could give him nothing else, I would give him this.

“Yes,” I said, finally answering his question. “Friends.”

Chapter 29

Kate

I had been wrong about the bench for George. I had thought it anachronous when Maria first told me about it. Seriously, we were going to commemorate a man who never stood still with a place to sit down? But now, seeing Maria and Juan sit there together, their arms around each other, I understood. The bench wasn’t for George. It was for Maria and Juan. Maybe even for Jessica.

Memorials were for the living.

People were beginning to gather. The commemoration would be held inside the clubhouse, which had floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the rolling green hills of the golf course and the Great Smoky Mountains in the distance. There would be speeches from George’s parents, the manager of the country club, and, terrifyingly, me, followed by a video of his life created by Steven.

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