Chapter 11 #2
The kiss was cautious. Testing. His hand came up to my face, and I realized I’d stopped breathing. It was soft, brief—over almost before it began.
When we pulled apart, my hands were shaking. Patrick rested his forehead against mine.
“That was—” he started.
“Yeah,” I finished, because I had no words for what it was.
We sat like that for a long moment, foreheads touching. Finally, Patrick pulled back.
“I should walk you to your door,” he said again. “Before we do something foolish.”
This time, we moved.
The walk from the car to my front door felt like miles. Patrick kept his hand on the small of my back. My keys shook as I tried to find the right one for the lock.
“Theresa.” Patrick’s voice made me look up. “Thank you for taking a chance on this. On me.”
“Thank you for asking,” I managed.
He smiled, that crooked smile that made me forget how to think clearly. Then he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Goodnight, Theresa.”
“Goodnight, Patrick. I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“I’d like that.”
I watched him walk back to his car, waited until he’d pulled out of the driveway before I finally turned to my door. My lips still tingled. I felt reckless and exposed, like I’d crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.
I put my key in the lock and turned it, already thinking about how I’d describe this to Shelly, about whether I was ready to admit—
A small sound from above made me freeze.
I looked up at the second-floor windows. Rome’s curtains were open just a crack. Something glinted in the moonlight—binoculars. The ones Marco had given him last Christmas for bird watching.
And there, pressed against the glass behind them, was my seven-year-old son’s face.
Our eyes met. Even from the doorway, I could see his confusion, his surprise.
He’d seen us.
My stomach dropped.
Rome disappeared from the window, and I heard the pounding of small feet on stairs.
I barely had the door open before he appeared in the hallway, barefoot in his pajamas, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles. The binoculars dangled from the strap around his neck.
“Mom.” His voice was small. “You kissed him.”
Oh God.
I closed the door behind me quickly, checking to make sure Michael hadn’t heard. The TV was still on in the living room—I had a few minutes before he came to check on me.
“Rome, sweetheart—”
“You kissed that man. Patrick.” His eyes filled with tears. “But Dad just died. You’re not supposed to kiss other people when Dad’s dead.”
I knelt to his level, my hands shaking. “Come here, baby.”
“Are you going to marry him like Alyssa’s mom married that man after her dad died?” The question came out in a rush.
“No.” The answer came automatically. “No, Rome. Patrick and I are just—we’re figuring things out. We’re friends.”
“Friends who kiss.” He wiped his nose on his pajama sleeve.
I pulled him close, and this time he let me. “I promise you, I miss your dad every single day. Nothing will ever change that. Patrick isn’t replacing Dad. No one could ever replace Dad.”
Rome was quiet against my shoulder for a long moment.
Then: “I won’t tell. I don’t want Austin to be mad at you.
And I don’t want Paris to say mean things.
” He pulled back to look at me with those dark eyes so like Marco’s.
“But you have to promise that Dad’s still Dad.
That Patrick isn’t going to be our new dad. ”
“I promise, baby. Dad is always going to be Dad. No one else. Ever.”
“Okay.” He leaned into me again. “I’m tired.”
“I bet you are. It’s way past your bedtime.” I stood, taking his hand. “Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”
I walked him upstairs, tucked him in, and sat on the edge of his bed, stroking his hair until his breathing evened out into sleep. But even then, I could see the worry in his small face, the confusion that would still be there tomorrow.
I’d done this. I’d created this impossible situation by saying yes to dinner, by letting myself feel something for Patrick, by kissing him where my kids might see.
I closed Rome’s door quietly and leaned against the hallway wall, my hands shaking. My lips still tingled from Patrick’s kiss. My pulse still hadn’t settled.
But all I could see was Rome’s face at the window. All I could hear was his voice: You’re not supposed to kiss other people when Dad’s dead.
He was right. I wasn’t supposed to. I was supposed to grieve properly, to mourn for an acceptable period, to put my children first and my own feelings last.
But Patrick had looked at me like I mattered. Like I was more than just Marco’s widow or the kids’ mother. Like I was a woman worth pursuing.
And God help me, I’d wanted that.
I pushed off the wall and went downstairs. Michael was still in the living room, a late-night talk show playing at low volume. He looked up when I entered.
“Good dinner?” he asked.
“Yeah.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “Really good.”
He studied my face. “You okay?”
“Ask me tomorrow.”
I went to my room before he could ask anything else, before I had to explain the kiss or Rome’s tears or any of the impossible complexity of trying to move forward while everything in me screamed to stay still.
I changed into pajamas and climbed into bed. My wedding ring caught the moonlight from the window, a circle of gold that bound me to a man who was gone.
But my lips still remembered Patrick’s kiss.
And I had no idea what to do with any of it.