To Say Goodbye (12 page)

He shook his head. “It’s fine. I knew what you meant.”

“You hungry?” she asked.

“Yeah. I planned on heading home for some frozen pizza after our walk.”

“Frozen pizza?” She crinkled her nose. “That’s sort of sad.”

“Yeah, sort of is.”

“So let’s skip the walk today, huh? I actually have a roast in the crockpot that’s about done. Stay for dinner.”

“Sounds good.” Deep down, he’d been hoping for an invitation, for an extension of their time together. Standing by Sophia, he realized how much he didn’t want to go home to his gloomy apartment to watch reruns.

Sophia sipped her coffee before speaking again. “I’ll warn you, I’m going to put you to work though. I hate mashing potatoes.”

“Well, lucky for you, there’s a gourmet chef in the house,” he teased, raising his chin just a bit.

“Well then, what the heck am I doing getting anything ready at all? The kitchen awaits.” She beamed at him, sipped her coffee, and gestured toward the kitchen.

As he sauntered toward the kitchen, he realized how good it felt to see her smile.

_______________

One hour later, they’d properly served the roast, mashed the potatoes—which were quite lumpy, to his chagrin—and set the table. They now sat across from each other, ready to dig in.

“This looks awesome,” Jackson said. “But I will say, I think the potatoes clearly make the meal.”

“Ha! Don’t you wish. They look a bit lumpy.”

“Questioning the master chef? Who do you think you are?”

She grabbed a fork and fluffed the potatoes, whipping them a bit before taking a bite. “Okay, so they don’t taste too bad.”

“Too bad? I’m insulted.”

She grinned. “They’re pretty damn good, I’ll admit. Better than mine would be.”

They ate for a few moments in silence before he spoke. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a real, home-cooked dinner.”

“God, me too. The grief books don’t tell you how cooking for one is so much more depressing than cooking for two.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Yeah, but you’re a bachelor. It’s acceptable for you to eat takeout every day.”

He nodded quietly, staring at the roast beef.

“Oops, sorry. Now who’s saying the wrong thing?” she said, embarrassed.

“It’s fine. It’s not like I’ve forgotten.”

“So was Chloe your first real love?”

“At the time, I thought so. I had a few girlfriends before her, but none like her. I thought it was the real deal.”

“How’d you meet?”

“At a bar.”

Sophia laughed a bit. “That’s never a good sign.”

He shot her a glance.

“Sorry. There I go again. I’m sure it was romantic.”

“Not really. There was just something about her from the first second I saw her.”

“Careful, soldier, or I might think you’re a hopeless romantic.”

“How do you know I’m not?”

“You? Muscular army man? It doesn’t fit.”

“Glad you can appreciate my muscles.” He flexed, teasing her. Their banter was playful, easy, natural. It didn’t feel like he was sitting down to a dinner with his late best friend’s grieving wife. It felt like they were...

He stopped himself, exhaling as he put his bicep down.

“I’m sorry.”

She looked at him like he was crazy. “For what?”

“I feel weird, sitting here, at Tim’s table, with his wife. Being flirtatious.”

Her face fell. “That wasn’t my intention, I’m sorry.”

He looked up at her, her eyes swimming with confusion, with sorrow, with guilt. He smiled.

“Look at us, two wrecked souls, an awkward mess of potatoes and apologies.”

She nodded. “We sure are. I bet Tim’s looking down laughing at us right now.”

“Or he’s pissed.”

“Hey,” she said, reaching across the table. “Nothing’s going on. We’re just friends, right? Just two friends helping each other through a rough time. I think Tim would be glad you came into my life. You make me smile, Jackson. I like spending time with you. But nothing’s going on. We don’t have to feel guilty.”

He nodded, feeling better about the situation. She made him feel better about everything. She was right. They were just friends. It wouldn’t do to tiptoe around each other.

They finished eating while talking about his work at the restaurant and about how she started her salon. They laughed. They smiled. It felt good to be carefree for a change.

After dinner, she cleared the plates. “It’s too damn quiet in here.” She found her phone, hooked it up to the speaker in the kitchen, and put on Pandora.

“What is this crap?” he teased as the latest pop song came on.

She scowled at him. “It’s not crap. Maybe you’re just old, soldier. What, you want some 1960s songs?”

Before he could even think, he charged across the kitchen, grabbing on to her arm, playfully poking at her. “Are you calling me old?” She screamed and wriggled to get away, both of them laughing and joking as they poked and tickled at each other, her shrieks filling the house with a warmth that certainly hadn’t been there in a while.

When they both grew tired, he let up, his face actually hurting from laughing. She wriggled back slightly, her wrists still in his hands. Her face was glowing with joy. It looked good on her.

The song changed, as if on cue. James Bay’s song, “Why Don’t You Be You,” filled the kitchen, and her face softened.

“I
love
this song.”

Before he could reconsider, rationalize, or tell himself it was wrong, he pulled her in, putting her hands on his shoulders, putting his hands on her waist. The move was smooth, easy, and as they looked into each other’s eyes, the questions melted away. The guilt melted away. The fears, the rejections, the hurt, and the grief faded into the measures of the song. They fell into step, an easy sway, a silent dance on the ceramic tile. There was some tension between them. They were afraid to give in too much, to cross the line they knew was firmly planted.

He told himself they were just friends, again, just so his heart didn’t get any ideas. People danced all the time. It didn’t mean anything.

Looking into her face, he didn’t see shame painted on it like he would expect. He didn’t see regret or sorrow. He saw a softness that said she’d been missing this. A warmth radiated through his biceps, through his hands that were on her waist. The song lulled them into a quiet solace, something both had been missing.

When the song ended, they silently parted, neither knowing what to say. He didn’t want to admit what his heart was feeling, didn’t want to admit he could feel the friendship status between them threatening to become something more.

He wouldn’t do that to her.

Besides, what would ever become of it? He would always be Tim’s best friend in her eyes, and that would prevent anything from happening.

Not that he wanted anything to happen.

But as she pulled away, he could still feel her tight waist in his fingers, smell her perfume floating up from her neck. He could see those perfectly pink lips. He wondered what they would feel like...

“I should go,” he said before he was swept away, before he ruined everything between them.

She nodded, the glow in her eyes slowly fading into confusion.

“Thanks for dinner. I’ll call you?”

He rushed out the door, not looking back. The song had changed to a more upbeat song, and the moment was over.

Or was it?

_______________

The night of the pot roast, of the dancing in the kitchen, had thrown him a bit. He’d managed to convince himself his visits were all about helping Sophia, all about his sense of duty to Tim.

Now, though, he couldn’t stop thinking about her waist between his hands, about the way her eyes looked up at him. He silently asked the question he’d been avoiding, the “what if” question.

He stopped himself. This was madness. He wasn’t this kind of man. Hell, he wasn’t even a good enough man for Sophia, even if she weren’t his best friend’s wife. He was a broken-down excuse for a man, a lost man. He, as he had told Sophia, was no saint.

He was a wreck, flailing through life, trying to figure out where he was going. Sophia’s life was already complicated and dilapidated. She needed a man who was settled, who was perfect. Not him.

Try as he might, he couldn’t stop himself. Like his addiction to the feel of alcohol gliding down his throat, he was addicted to her presence.

He recommitted to his “just friends” theory, promised himself the night of the roast had been a moment of weakness. It wouldn’t happen again.

So a few nights later, when Sophia called out of the blue and asked if he wanted to go out for dinner, he accepted. He tried to ignore the fact he was smiling from ear to ear at the sound of her voice, tried not to stress out over what to wear or what cologne to spray on.

He tried not to think about it like a date.

His heart, well, his heart was a different story.

_______________

“Well, I do hate when you turn down my dinner invitation, but I will let it slide this time,” his mom replied. She’d called to invite him to dinner—meatloaf.

“Don’t make a big deal out of this, Mom. We’re just friends.”

“Okay, whatever you say. But tell me, when are you going to bring her over for dinner? Oh, maybe you could skip the going out thing and just come over for meatloaf?”

“No.” In hindsight, he should’ve just told his mom he had to work when he turned down her dinner invitation. What the hell had he been thinking? He hadn’t.

“Well, you can’t keep this girl to yourself forever.”

“She’s not my girl, Mom.”

“Bring her over. And soon.”

“Okay. Gotta go. I’m picking her up soon.”

“Flowers? Did you get flowers?”

“Mom...”

“Listen, friends or not, every girl loves flowers. Go get some. I raised you to be a gentleman, didn’t I?”

He sighed. When he talked to his mom, he always felt like he was fifteen again. Perhaps that was her goal. “Okay, Mom. I’ll get flowers.”

“Is that Jackson? Does he have a date?” His sister’s obnoxious voice blared in the background. His mom turned from her conversation with Jackson to fill Gretta in. While he was still on the phone.

“Mom!” he yelled, trying to get her attention, listening to Gretta and his mother plan and plot about what was not even a relationship.

“Sorry, honey. We’re just so excited for you. Okay, you two lovebirds have fun. Don’t get too wild. Or do. I mean, if she’s gorgeous...”

“Okay, I’m hanging up.” He clicked the phone, squeezing his brow, trying to shuck the idea his mom just hinted at sex from his mind.

He would never publicly admit it, but he did decide his mom was right about a few things.

One: Flowers wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Two: Sophia was gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.

_______________

“Thanks, Jackson. You didn’t have to do this,” Sophia said when she answered the door. She was wearing skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and a royal blue sweater. Her hair was down, disheveled in a sexy way. She looked perfect.

Of course, his feelings were strictly platonic.

He shrugged, handing the white daisies to her. They were simple. Friendly. Non-romantic.

“So are you ready?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Where to?” She’d never really specified where she wanted to go.

“Well, I was hoping to go to Sean’s.”

“Really? Are you sure you don’t want to go somewhere nicer?” Sean’s was a run-down local restaurant, known for its basic bar foods and sometimes unsavory crowds.

“No. I kind of wanted low-key.”

“That low-key?”

“I’ve heard they have good wings. And... well... to be honest, I’ve never been there. It’s one of the places around here Tim never would take me.”

He smiled. She wanted somewhere without memories. He could understand that.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

She paused.

“What is it?” he asked, waiting for her at the door.

“I’m sorry. This... I just feel... is this weird for you?”

He shrugged. “No. It’s two friends going for wings.”

She nodded, seeming to think for a moment. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being all crazy.”

“You’re not being crazy. Let’s go have some wings.”

“To the wings,” she said, following him to his truck.

_______________

Three dozen wings later, they were laughing at the horrific entertainment—a biker gang band, by the looks of it, singing on the karaoke machine up front—and some of the sketchy patrons. They probably should’ve been terrified. The crowd was certainly eying them with suspicion.

“I feel like we’re going to end up in a horror novel,” Sophia laughed. “Guess this is why Tim would never bring us here.”

“I mean, the wings are good. If we survive,” he whispered, laughing. He was thankful for his military training and muscles at this point. Most of the sketchy patrons were either scrawny or really old. He felt like he could take them.

“This was a terrible idea,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just thought... I thought if I went somewhere new, I wouldn’t be thinking about him all night.”

“It makes sense.”

“Yeah. But we shouldn’t have to come to some creepy place just so I don’t bring him up.”

“Stop being so hard on yourself,” Jackson said, putting the wing down.

“I know. I just... I just feel like I need to be normal again. Do normal things. Go out. It’s just so damn hard.”

“It’s always going to be. It’s okay to struggle, Soph. I get it. Please don’t feel like you can’t struggle. You don’t have to be perfect.”

She smiled, nodding. “You’re right. You’re so right. Thank you. You want to get out of here? Go somewhere else?”

He looked at her, thinking. “No. I don’t think I do.” The biker gang had finished their final Sonny and Cher song, and the machine was empty. He wiped off his hands, and ordered her to do the same. She looked at him questioningly but complied.

He yanked her out of her seat, heading up front.

“Jackson, what the hell are you doing?” she hissed, her face paling.

“Come on. Let’s do something crazy,” he said, grabbing the mics up front. The rest of the bar stared at them like they were aliens.

“How you all doing tonight?” he said into the microphone. He handed the other one to Sophia. She refused.