Chapter 17
Seventeen
Kinsley
Damn her! I thought she was my friend! I have about two seconds to prepare myself for his arrival. He is carrying a small plate with several of Naomi’s chocolate chip cookies and offers me one.
I take it. “Thanks.”
“They’re crazy good.”
“Naomi makes them. We can’t get enough.”
“I can see why.” He looks toward the living room, where Wynter and Adrian are still seated and talking quietly. “Will she be okay?”
“I think so. She was like that all the time when we first knew her. She’s climbed mountains since then, and we’re so proud of her—and Adrian.”
“They seem like a great couple.”
“They are.”
He shifts his gaze back to me, and I feel as if I’ve looked directly at the sun. What the hell is that about?
“I appreciated your text the other night. You couldn’t have known, but it arrived at a moment when I really needed it. So thanks for that.”
“Oh, um, sure. I’d been thinking of you and had been meaning to reach out. Cancer is a heck of a thing to have in common with someone.” Stop talking, Kinsley.
“Yeah, for sure. Would you want to get a coffee or lunch sometime?”
“I’d love that. Any time.”
He smiles, and I’m done. Finished. “I’ll text you.”
“Okay.” How will I live until I get that text, and when did I transport back to middle school, anyway?
“Let me ask you something…”
“Sure.”
“Has hearing about what happened to Taylor’s husband have you all…” He waves his hand as if searching for the right word.
“Fucked up?”
He laughs. “Yeah. That.”
“Big-time. It’s been rough for all of us.”
“So it’s not just me feeling grief-stricken for someone I don’t even know?”
“Not at all. After what we’ve been through, you can’t help but put yourself in her place and then run from that thought as fast as you have it.”
“There you go, making me feel better again.”
“Oh, well…” I can’t remember the last time I blushed. That’s Brielle’s thing, not mine, but damn if my face doesn’t feel hot.
Roni and Derek come to say good night, forcing me to focus on something other than Luke, which is a relief. He’s overwhelming in the best possible way.
“I’ll walk out with you guys,” he says. “I might make it home for bedtime. Thank you, Iris and Gage, for hosting. Appreciate all the support from this group.”
After he says goodbye to the others, he comes back to me. “Talk soon?”
“Sounds good.”
I watch him walk away, noting the way his faded jeans fit just right.
Iris reappears next to me. “So…”
“We’re having coffee. Soon.”
She lets out an excited squeal that has everyone else looking at us. “Nothing to see here, folks. Just Luke asking Kinsley out for coffee.”
“Iris!”
“Sorry, did I say that out loud? I didn’t mean to.”
“Yes, you did.”
She laughs, and I can’t help but join her because her laughter is so infectious.
“Is Iris minding other people’s business again?” Gage asks as he puts an arm around her.
“You need to do something about her.”
“I’ve tried. She’s incorrigible.”
“I’m sorry, Kins,” Iris says. “I couldn’t help myself. We’re in bad need of good news around here.”
“It’s just coffee.”
“Okay.”
“Iris!”
“What? I said okay.”
I shake my head with amusement and go to get the plate I brought with the brownies that are all gone. Good thing I held some back for the kids, who are at home with my mom.
I say my good nights, dodging questions and comments about Luke, and head out to my car, wondering how long I’ll have to wait to hear from him.
Angela
I drive home toward the District, thinking about Wynter’s outburst and how on the mark she was with what she said. I haven’t been part of the group for long, but I already know her message is not the one they promote. The Wild Widows are all about moving forward with optimism and courage and hope.
On most days, I agree with Wynter. It’s all bullshit.
The stuff about optimism and hope gets old when you’re taking care of three young kids without the person who was supposed to be your partner in all things.
Hope is the last thing on my mind when I have a hungry baby, a crying toddler and a little boy suffering from tremendous grief that seems to be getting worse with time, not better.
I’m so worked up that I decide to call Brad, because he’ll understand exactly how I feel.
“Hey,” he says, “how was the meeting?”
“It was good, but tougher tonight because we were talking about Taylor and Will. People who knew them well are really upset, and people who hardly knew them are traumatized from hearing about it.”
“I get that. I didn’t know them, but it’s all I’ve thought about since you told me. I read some of the news coverage of the accident, and that didn’t help.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Professional curiosity, I guess.”
“That was dumb.”
He chuckles. “I realized that pretty quickly.”
“One of the younger members went off on how something like this brings home the fact that the whole hope-and-optimism message is total bullshit.”
“Yikes, how’d that go over?”
“There’s this one guy, Gage, who’s a bit older than the rest of us. He lost his wife and twin daughters to a drunk driver.”
Brad’s wince is audible.
“He agrees it’s all bullshit, but then he said something to the effect of, What choice do we have but to at least try to make something of the life we have left? He said it much more eloquently than I did, but that was the gist.”
“He’s the one who writes the Instagram posts, right?”
“Yes.”
“I read all his posts one night recently. If he says we have to make something of the life we have left, I’m down with it. The guy gets it like no one else I’ve encountered since this happened.”
“He’s great, but they all are. I still say you should come to a meeting. Tonight was an exception, but I usually leave feeling uplifted and energized to face the days ahead. That doesn’t last for long, but I’ll take the temporary high where I can get it.”
“I’ve been thinking about checking it out.”
“Can’t hurt to come once and see what you think. Next week?”
“I’ll see how I’m feeling.”
“Sounds good. I won’t pressure you.”
“It’s okay if you do. I like being pressured by you.”
I can’t contain the nervous laughter. “Whatever that means.”
“I enjoy your company, Angela, and not just because you get what I’m going through in a way that no one else in the world can.”
“Oh, well… I enjoy yours, too, and not just because of how we met.”
“Would you consider…”
“What?” I ask, feeling as breathless as I sound.
“It’s probably too soon.”
“For what, Brad?”
“To ask you out on a real date. No kids, just us.”
“Um…”
“It’s too soon. I know it is, but you’ve been the brightest light to me in this hellish situation, and all I seem to want lately is more time with you.” After a long pause, he adds, “And I’ve said too much and made it weird.”
I laugh because how could I not? He’s too funny. “You’ve been a bright light to me, too, and I find myself wondering all the time what you’d think of whatever is happening at the moment.”
“So it’s not just me?”
“Definitely not.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Another long pause follows. “But it’s still too soon, right?”
“My Wild Widows have taught me that there’s no such thing as too soon or not enough or too much or whatever the rest of the world dictates widowhood should look like.
Our journey is ours and ours alone, and we’re not bound by rules set for us by people who’ll never know what we’ve been through—and are lucky not to know. ”
“I wish I was taking notes right now. That was very well said.”
“I can’t take credit for Wild Widows material. It’s validating—and freeing—to hear them say there’re no rules, no expectations, no need to meet anyone else’s requirements.”
“I like the way they operate.”
“I do, too. It’s why I keep going back. I need to hear that I’m allowed to do this my way, not the way someone else thinks I should do it.”
“My wife’s sister is judgy about everything. She actually said to me, ‘If you start dating, don’t tell me. I can’t bear to picture you with anyone other than Mary Alice.’ Like, gee, thanks for the support. That was the last thing I needed to hear from her.”
“That’s her own grief talking. She’s so lost in it that she can’t see the forest for the trees. I have to think if she was thinking clearly, she’d never say such a thing to you.”
“I’d like to think so, but who knows? Maybe that’s what she really thinks, that I should be alone for the rest of my life in some sort of tribute to Mary Alice.”
“If she cares about you, she’d never think that.”
“Anyway, enough about her. Are you going to answer my question or leave me hanging like an eighth-grade boy who asked the prettiest girl in school to the dance and didn’t get an answer?”
“Did that happen to you?”
“More deflection, Angela.”
Speaking of middle school, my nervous giggle is right out of seventh grade, except that nothing this exciting ever happened to me then. “I’d love to go out with you sans kids for once.”
“Phew. That was a long wait from question to answer.”
“It was kind of a big question.”
“True, but let’s not make it into the big deal that everyone else will. Let’s just go out and have some fun. Can you think of any two people who deserve that more than we do?”
I pull into the driveway at home, cut the engine and turn off the lights. “I can’t.”
“Do you have someone who can watch your kids who won’t need to know every detail of where you’re going and with whom?”
“I can tell my sister Tracy that I’m meeting friends. She’ll be glad I’m getting out. She and Sam worry about me too much.”
“They love you. That’s why they worry.”
“I know, but it can be too much at times. They want me to say I’m okay, that everything is all right, that things are getting back to ‘normal.’ Whatever that is now.
What I’ve learned from Iris and Gage and the other widows is that I’ll never again be who I was before I lost Spencer, and I’m still figuring out what my new normal looks like. ”
“Again, I feel like I should be taking notes because I’ve been trying to explain that to some of the people in my life.
They’re hovering on the periphery waiting for it to be safe to reengage with me.
They’re waiting for the old me, the guy I used to be, and they haven’t figured out yet that he died along with Mary Alice. ”
“Yes, he did, and now New Brad is figuring out the rest of his life.”
“He’s trying, anyway. What should we do on our big night out?”
“Let’s not put pressure on it by calling it big.”
“Right,” he says with a chuckle. “What should we do?”
“I’d be up for a dinner where I don’t have to cut anyone’s food or wipe faces.”
“That’d be nice, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You said you love Mexican, right?”
“I did.”
“There’s a place we used to go… before everything happened. The food is really good, and it’s quiet, off the beaten path. We could check that out.”
“Will you be triggered by memories if we go somewhere you’ve been with her?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been to some of our places and done okay. But thank you for thinking of that.”
“It’s the little things that make for a successful outing for a widow.”
“Life is like a minefield for us.”
“Yeah, seriously. Hopefully, the mines won’t always be active.”
“That’d be nice.”
“So I’m home, and I need to let my sister go home. Can I call you back in a bit?”
“I’m here all night.”
I laugh at a line we’ve said to each other frequently. Without a partner to rely on, we can’t go anywhere once the kids are in bed.
“Okay, talk soon.”
“I can’t wait.”
My heart is in my throat as I end the call and get out of the car.
So, that happened. He asked me out, and I said yes.
In truth, we’ve been heading toward this for months.
Not that I actively thought of him as a potential romantic partner.
I’ve been too busy surviving every crazy day with two traumatized kids and an infant.
Who has the time to think about romance?
But one phone call at a time, one playdate with the kids at a time, a thousand texts later, a friendship has blossomed into the possibility of something… more.
Am I ready for something more? Probably not, but when will I ever be ready for such a thing?
Until Spencer died so tragically, it’d never occurred to me that I might one day have to date again.
That I’d have to start over with a new partner—or not.
If I were to stay permanently single, I feel like that would be fine, too.
It’s not like I need a man to make me complete.
I’ve never been that girl. I needed Spencer, not just any man.
But as I find myself on the precipice of whatever this might be with Brad, I’ve begun to wonder if maybe I’ve become that girl who can’t be without a man—not that I’d ever judge such a girl. I never would, but I didn’t think that label applied to me. Maybe it does now.
And so what if it does?
I like Brad. I like talking to someone who freaking gets it in this strange aftermath of disaster. We both had our lives upended by the same criminal enterprise.
Are we building something real for ourselves, or is it a house of cards built on shared catastrophe? And how would I even know the difference at this point?