11. Weston
11
Weston
I hesitate before knocking on the door to Daisy’s room. She’s avoided me today, and I’m not sure why. I saw her watching me on the beach this morning, but when I went inside to say hello, she was gone. She spent the day out by the pool, and I’m sure she skipped lunch. I considered taking some out to her, but decided that was too much. She knows where the kitchen is, and if she’s in the mood to be alone, I want to respect that.
Besides, one glimpse of her in the white string bikini she wore by the pool was all I needed to tell me to stay away. I know better than to tempt fate.
Still, it’s been a whole day, and I know she hasn’t eaten. I won’t let the woman starve.
I raise my hand and knock. There’s a rustle inside, then the door swings open. Daisy stands there in a cornflower-blue sundress, her hair tumbling loose over one shoulder. I swallow, keeping my eyes locked on hers.
“I’m cooking dinner, if you’re hungry,” I say matter-of-factly.
She twists her lips to one side in thought, then nods. “Yeah, actually. I’m starving.”
“Do you like steak?”
“I do.” Her lips curve in a hesitant smile, and she rubs her elbow, shifting her weight. Something in her body language tells me she’s uncomfortable, so I step back.
“I’ll leave some on the counter for you. You can eat in here, if you’d like.”
“Oh.” Her brows dart together, and I feel like a jerk.
“I mean, you don’t have to,” I add quickly. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to be alone, or…” I know that Jess has gone out again because I saw Rex’s car pull up a few hours ago, but I doubt she wants me to dwell on that. “Or… you could join me.”
Her warm brown gaze moves over my face for a beat, and on instinct I straighten up and offer her a smile. It’s not until she nods her agreement that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
“Sounds good.” She pulls the door to her room shut and follows me down the hall to the kitchen.
“Wine?” I ask, hoping it might help us both relax a little.
“Sure.”
She hops onto a stool at the kitchen island, and I pop the top on the cabernet franc—a bottle from a winery local to the area. I decant it to breathe while I season the steak, Daisy sitting quietly. It’s so silent in here that I’m aware of every sound I make, every time Daisy clears her throat.
We need a distraction, like, now.
“Do you want to put on some music?”
“Uh, sure.” Daisy slides from the stool. “Do you have a Bluetooth speaker?”
I wash and dry my hands, leading Daisy into the living room. “I don’t, but I have a record player.”
God, all this does is make me appear ancient. My dad gave me his record collection when he and my mom moved to Florida a few years back, and sitting with a glass of wine while listening to his records has been one of my favorite ways to pass the time here since Lydia died.
I pick up the crate of records and lift the lid from the record player. “I know it’s old-fashioned, but—”
“I love it.” Daisy dives on the records, flicking through them with delight. “Ooh, how about this?” She holds up Steely Dan’s Gaucho with a grin, and I blink in surprise.
“You know Steely Dan?”
She gives me a strange look. “Of course.”
“Alright.” I chuckle, lifting the needle on the record player. “So, you put the record here, and—”
She laughs, a light, musical sound that instantly puts me at ease. “I know how a record player works, Weston. Step aside.”
I can’t help but laugh in response, and I raise my hands, taking a step back. I watch, impressed, as she places the record on the turntable and positions the needle with expert precision. The opening track starts, and after a few chords, Donald Fagen’s voice fills the room.
“You can call me Wes, you know.”
She lifts her gaze from the vinyl to me. “Wes,” she repeats, the lightest hint of a blush on her cheeks. “Okay.”
I turn back to the kitchen, forcing myself to ignore the way her voice sounds like a soft purr as she says my name.
I pour the wine and hand Daisy a glass, then busy myself taking the steak out to the grill on the deck. Music wafts through the open sliding door, but doesn’t drown out the sound of surf crashing onto the beach. The sky is apricot and pink as the sun inches toward the horizon, and the smell of sizzling steak mingles with the salty ocean air. Through the glass door I see Daisy on the sofa, glass of wine in her hand, eyes closed and foot tapping as she listens to the music, and for the first time since I can remember, my heart feels light. I let myself imagine, just for a moment, that this is my life.
Guilt engulfs me, and I tear my gaze away from the woman inside.
She’s your son’s girlfriend , I remind myself, fists tightening at my side. What is wrong with me? Why do I keep forgetting that?
I shake my head, turning the steak on the grill. I’m lonely, that’s all. It’s been three years since Lydia died—three years since I’ve felt the touch of a woman. Daisy is the woman I’ve most consistently spent time with over the past year—seeing her almost daily—so it’s natural that she’d take on that role in my head, but it’s inappropriate. Even if Jess decided he didn’t like her anymore, I could never be with her. She’d always be my son’s ex-girlfriend.
Even if I saw her first.
I push the thought from my head and shut off the grill, taking the steak inside to let it rest while I throw together a quick salad.
“Do you need help with anything?” Daisy offers, entering the kitchen. Just having her in the room shifts the energy, and I suddenly wish she’d declined my offer to eat together. This was a terrible idea.
“I’ve got it,” I mutter. “Thanks.”
I serve up our meal and consider taking my plate to my room, but that would be rude. I invited her to eat with me, and it’s not like she knows what I’m thinking. I just need to rein in my imagination and behave like an adult.
We sit on the stools and eat, the sounds of Steely Dan’s Hey Nineteen playing in the background. It’s not lost on me that the song is about an older man who’s interested in a much younger woman, and I silently pray Daisy isn’t listening to the lyrics as she eats. Although, given her unexpected love of the music, she probably knows all the words.
“I’m surprised you like the music,” I say around a bite of steak.
She gives me a faint smile. “I’ve always loved this music.”
“Are your folks into it?”
Her face darkens. “No.” Her lips close around her fork and she chews slowly, as if in thought. After swallowing, she adds, “My friend Beth and I used to listen to it. Her mom and dad were into music from the seventies and eighties. They were cool. She was cool.”
I pause. I don’t miss the way she uses the past tense, but that could simply be because they’ve lost touch over the years.
“She died when I was seventeen,” Daisy says, so quiet I almost don’t hear her. She’s stopped eating, instead pushing her food around her plate. “When she was seventeen.”
There’s a tight squeeze in my chest. “Oh, Daisy…” I set my fork down and reach out to touch her arm, then withdraw my hand, letting it hover. “That’s… I’m sorry.”
“She was my best friend. We’d known each other since elementary school, and we did everything together. She was the only person who truly knew me, you know? She liked me for who I was. I felt invincible with her. She was more like a sister than a friend. I didn’t know who I was without her. Then one day… she was gone.”
This time I let my hand land on Daisy’s arm, and squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”
Daisy shakes her head, as if snapping out of it, and glances up at me. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about this. Not when…” she trails off and reaches for her wine with another firm shake of her head.
“It’s okay.” I give her arm another squeeze and remove my hand.
“No.” Daisy sets her glass down, her mouth in a thin line. “This happened eight years ago. That’s ages, nothing compared to…” She looks at me, waiting.
“Lydia,” I say softly.
“Lydia. I’m sorry, Weston.”
“Wes,” I correct, and she chuffs a grim laugh.
“ Wes . I’m sorry. The music just took me right back there.” She inhales a shaky breath, then picks up her wine again.
“It doesn’t matter how much time has passed. Grief is like that. You think you’re doing fine, then it comes out of nowhere and completely blindsides you.”
She takes a sip of wine, her eyes sad. I’ve never seen her sad before, and it pierces something deep in my chest. Something I try to ignore.
“I don’t think about it often,” she murmurs, “but you’re right. Sometimes it hits me out of nowhere.”
I reach for my fork, thinking about the strong reaction she had to loading the film into my Nikon last night. “Does this have something to do with why you won’t use my camera?”
Daisy meets my gaze and nods. She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push her. The record stops and I rise from my stool to change it.
“Should I put something different on?” I ask, and Daisy gives me a melancholy smile.
“No, it’s nice. Do you have Aja ?”
I nod, slipping the next Steely Dan album from its sleeve and putting it on. Music fills the air, and with a deep sigh, Daisy returns to her food. I return to my stool and join her, thinking about what she shared about her friend Beth. It doesn’t surprise me. If anything, it explains more about Daisy. She’s always come across as more mature and worldly than her age—which I’ve now deduced is twenty-five. Grief will do that to you, especially if you experience it at a young age. It forces you to grow up, matures you beyond your years.
Unless you’re my son, of course. I don’t know what will get Jesse to grow up. I’m astounded that he went out without Daisy again, and thinking about that, I feel a sudden surge of indignation on her behalf.
“I’m sorry that Jess hasn’t been in a great mood,” I say. “He shouldn’t be out without you.”
Daisy lifts a shoulder. “He invited me. I just…” she trails off, poking at her food.
“Didn’t want to be around Rex?”
She emits an awkward laugh. “Yes, actually. I know it’s awful of me, but…” She grimaces. “I’m not sure about that guy.”
I give her a wry smile over my wineglass. “You and me both.”
“Jess is like a different person around him.” Daisy looks up as I nod. “And… you,” she adds, her cheeks coloring slightly. “He’s different around you.”
I twist my glass, letting my breath out in a long stream. “Believe it or not, Jesse and I used to be close.”
Daisy studies me. “Before his mom… Lydia… died?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
She rubs her forehead, confusion etched into her features.
“He still hasn’t told you, has he?”
Daisy shakes her head. “I’ve tried to talk to him, but he’s a closed book. Every time I bring it up, he gets angry.” She lifts her hands helplessly.
I stare down into my wine, contemplating her words. Poor Daisy. Jess isn’t making this easy on her, and it’s not fair.
“Jesse blames me for his mother’s death,” I say simply.
Daisy’s mouth pops open. “But… why?”
I rub my jaw, not wanting to paint Jess in a bad light, but wanting to be honest. “Lydia had stage four breast cancer. She was in and out of treatment for months, but it left her very unwell. Eventually, she decided to stop the treatment and make the most of her time left. It wasn’t long, but it meant she could enjoy every moment without being so ill. But Jess…” I let out a long breath, draining my wineglass and swallowing hard. “Jesse blamed me for not forcing her to continue treatment. I wanted to respect Lydia’s wishes, but he didn’t see it that way. He saw it as me giving up.”
“Oh, Wes.” Daisy’s eyes are moist and she reaches out to take my hand, squeezing. It mirrors the squeezing in my chest. I haven’t said these words out loud since I started therapy two years ago, and they’re making me feel raw.
“It’s hard enough watching someone you love go through that,” she murmurs, her face lined with compassion. “But to lose the support of your son… to have him blame you…”
I nod, looking down at her hand over mine. I don’t know what I was expecting when I told her, but it wasn’t this. This compassion, this empathy. As if she can feel the pain I’ve experienced the past three years, carrying the burden of my son’s blame on top of losing Lydia.
“You know it’s not your fault, right?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“I do,” I say, my throat tight. “I just wish Jess would see it that way.”
She gently withdraws her hand. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“So do I.” I give her a rueful smile, reaching for her empty plate. I stack it on top of mine and take them to the sink, rinsing them absently. Daisy is quiet while I load the plates into the dishwasher, then I pour myself another glass of wine and top off her glass. I lean against the counter opposite her, and we both sip our wine, listening to the music.
“You should take my Nikon and go shoot something,” I say at last.
Daisy glances up at me in surprise. “What? Why?”
I shrug. “I just… have this feeling you’ll feel better.”
She huffs a laugh, glancing down at her hands. “I want to. Really, I do. But… I don’t know.”
“There are some beautiful places around here that would be perfect.”
Daisy opens and closes her mouth, and I decide not to push her. Not now.
“There’s no pressure,” I add. “But it’s there if you want to use it. I hope you’ll consider it.”
Her gaze sparkles as it moves over my face. “Okay,” she says, pulling her long hair over one shoulder. “I’ll think about it.”
Just hearing her say that makes me smile. Her lips curve in return, and we gaze at each other across the kitchen island, the soft sound of Steely Dan’s Home at Last playing in the background. An unfamiliar sensation warms me from head to toe, and it takes me a good ten seconds to realize what it is.
I’m happy .
Shit, I haven’t felt that in years. I’ve wanted to, but it’s eluded me, blocked out by the dark clouds of grief. The only time those clouds have parted, and only briefly, is when I’ve seen Daisy smiling at me over her coffee creations at Joe’s. But even then, I wasn’t happy. I was just… less sad. Less numb.
But sitting here with Daisy, listening to this music after sharing a meal—and, it feels, sharing ourselves —has my heart feeling light and peaceful in a way I’d almost forgotten was possible.
God, I wish she were mine. I wish I could do this with her every night.
But the moment I have the thought, Jesse’s face appears in my mind and guilt slices through me. Because it doesn’t matter how much I enjoy her company. She’s not mine, and she never will be. I need to find my happiness elsewhere.
I clear my throat, setting my glass of wine down. “Well, I should get to bed.”
“Oh.” Daisy rises from the stool, dropping her gaze. “Yeah, I should…” She heads for the door without looking at me, then at the last moment seems to reconsider, turning back. “Thanks for dinner, Wes. And the music, and… you know. Talking.”
Warmth spills through my chest, but I smother the sensation, turning away. “No problem.” I listen as she leaves, letting my breath out slowly.
I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep hanging out with Daisy just because Jess can’t get his shit together. It’s not fair to Jesse, and it’s not fair to me. It’s not fair to my confused heart.
I turn off the music and kitchen lights, wandering to my room with a weight in my chest. It’s this time of night, when I have to turn in alone, when the bed feels so big, that I miss Lydia the most. She wasn’t only my wife and the mother of my child, she was my best friend. The person who understood me like no one else, who laughed at my shitty jokes, who didn’t mind spending hours together doing nothing. I miss having that.
I gaze at Lydia’s picture on the dresser. It’s been three years since she died, and I’m finally, finally starting to feel like myself again. And there’s only one reason for that.
Daisy Griffin. The one woman I’m not allowed to have.
I scrub my hands down my face, trying to see the positive. Maybe I’ll never be able to have Daisy, but I do know I’m ready to move on. Grieving Lydia was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I’ll always love her, but I can’t stay in limbo forever. She’d want me to be happy with someone else again, and for the first time since she died, I can imagine that happening.
I press a kiss to Lydia’s picture, feeling more hopeful than I have in a long time. And with a deep breath, I slip the ring from my left hand and place it on the dresser.