Chapter 7 Blythe
BLYTHE
Sam is unfairly attractive in his fitted navy pants that highlight some impressive thighs and a light blue button-up that leaves nothing to the imagination. I’m honestly amazed I got words out, let alone full sentences.
My hand is still in his much larger one, and even though we are done introducing ourselves, I have no real desire to pull away. I like the way it feels in his, but then the sound of Maggi yelling “the prince” from somewhere nearby has me reluctantly retreating back into my own bubble.
“Who’s the prince?” Martha asks, and I watch in horror as my daughter points up at Sam.
Martha’s gaze starts at Sam’s feet and slowly trails up to his head, a crooked smile playing on her lips as her eyes shift to me before she looks back at Sam with her hand outstretched.
“I’m Martha MacTavish, mother-of-the-bride,” she introduces herself.
“Sa–” he starts to say before my almost-brother-in-law steps in, his hand landing heavily on Sam’s shoulder, making him wince.
“This is my best man, Sam. He’s one of the reasons I made it to my first date with Sarah,” Colin says with his hand still firmly on Sam’s shoulder.
Everything about him right now screams that he’s uncomfortable, not with the situation but with Colin’s hand. Sam extends his arm and takes Martha’s hand, his body relaxing as Colin’s hand falls away.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Sam says, the warm, rich tone of his voice wrapping around me, which is odd since he’s not even speaking to me.
“Another Canadian,” she comments, glancing at me. “Our Blythe probably didn’t expect to share the spotlight.”
I can feel my face heat when they all turn and look at me, and I wish I was wearing one of those massive British hats so I could tip my head and hide away.
“Nah,” Sam says, his eyes firmly on me now, hands in his pockets. “That’s all for her.”
When I look back on this moment, I’ll die every single time because the minute the last word is out of his mouth, I actually guffaw.
Maggi giggles and calls me silly while my in-laws smile stupidly at me.
Sam, on the other hand, openly stares down at me with a wide smile, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. Unfairly attractive.
I need to do something with myself other than shift awkwardly from foot to foot in my suddenly very uncomfortable shoes. So I crouch down to Maggi’s level and beckon her to me. Using my daughter as a human shield from the attention.
“Did Nessie see anything good to eat?” I ask her.
Maggi looks down at her stuffie for a minute and then smiles. “Cheese,” she says, elongating the word and smiling maniacally at me.
“What’s her favourite cheese?” Sam asks, squatting next to me and gesturing at the stuffed animal.
Maggi looks from me to Sam and shrugs.
“What about you? What’s your favourite kind?”
She gets a silly look on her face, the kind she gets when she’s about to play shy, but then she shocks me and leans in to whisper in Sam’s ear. I watch as he tilts his head, listening while his gaze stays on me.
It feels like a caress, and I wonder if I feel this way because it has been so long since I’ve been touched or even looked at the way he’s looking at me. And maybe he’s not even looking at me that way. Maybe I’m imagining it because I want him to be looking at me that way.
“That’s my favourite too,” Sam replies, giving Maggi his full attention, and I swear the room cools. What the hell is that about?
I tell myself it’s because Maggi changes her favourite this or that every other day, and I don’t know what it is today. I’m jealous that this very hot stranger knows my daughter’s favourite cheese of the day and I don’t.
“What’s your favourite?” I blink out of my stupor to realize I’m being asked the question. Sam and Maggi are both staring at me, waiting for my answer.
“Well, I guess it depends,” I stammer.
His right eyebrow quirks up distracting me momentarily. “On?”
Good question, why did I say that? I clear my throat and stand up slowly, fixing my dress as I go.
Sam does the same, and I’m suddenly preoccupied by the way his hands slip back into his pockets.
Big hands, tight pockets… “Sorry,” I say, forcing myself to look back at his face.
“Depends on why I’m eating it. In a salad I like blue.
With crackers, I like a medium Gouda. Straight from the fridge, a really old cheddar.
On a burger or grilled cheese I—” I stop abruptly before I admit that I like the fake plastic shit best. This man looks like he’s never eaten fake cheese in his life.
His eyes narrow as he studies me. “Kraft Singles,” he says matter-of-factly. “That’s what I prefer on my burgers and grilled cheese. They mel–”
“Melt right,” I finish, earning myself another crinkly-eyed smile.
He chuckles. “Exactly.” He breaks eye contact with me and looks around the room. “This is wild, eh?”
“Ending up at the same wedding? Yeah, it’s definitely wild.”
Sam looks back at me, and as he’s about to say something, the sound of someone tapping a glass fills the air.
Saved by an impromptu speech from the maid-of-honour.
Martha offers to take Maggi up to bed after she falls asleep in an armchair in the corner of the library, but I decline.
I feel like I could do the same, and I’m tired of making small talk with people who don’t know who I am.
Telling people I’m Sarah’s sister-in-law to then receive the gentle pat on my arm and their words of pity loses its lustre pretty quickly.
In fact, it lost that lustre two years ago.
There is a cot set up in the room for Maggi, but I’m currently curled up with her in my bed.
I’m not a helicopter parent. I refuse to be.
But there are some days when I really need her nearby, and after having her off with her grandmother this evening, I find that I’m unable to overcome the need to keep her close.
I often wonder if that’s a symptom of my grief. Holding my daughter tight feels a bit like keeping Eric close, or maybe it’s that if she’s with me, it seems like nothing bad can happen. Which is, of course, preposterous. But then again, love makes one think preposterous things more often than not.
I assume life will get easier as the weeks go on.
We’ll establish a routine. Maggi will have time alone with her grandparents, freeing me up to do whatever I’d like.
Martha asked before we arrived if they’d be able to have Maggi stay with them the day and night after the wedding, and I agreed, confirming that she’d love that.
I have absolutely no idea what I’ll get up to, perhaps a long hike on my own without little legs getting tired too soon.
Maybe I’ll get a ride into Inverness and find a café to sit in and people-watch.
Explore the area alone. Buy things I don’t need.
Pretend that everything is normal for a few hours.
The thought slams into me in a way I don’t expect.
I’d joked to Eric once when he was grumbling about stopping in yet another village so I could take a picture of an old sign that I’d leave him in Glasgow next time.
A quiet, breathy laugh chokes me, remembering that there is part of him in Glasgow right now.
Half his ashes are here on a bookshelf at his parents house and half at our home in Oakville.
This is the one trip to the Highlands I know he’d be thrilled about.
He’d still be downstairs drinking with a bunch of professional rugby players and playing pool.
There is something cruel about his sister falling for a player in his favourite league two months after he passed. And his daughter and I are now here to celebrate that relationship, surrounded by athletes in a sport I never learned to enjoy.
My mind wanders back to a certain tall, dark, and handsome Canadian who should be jailed for how his ass looked in those navy pants when he bent over the pool table twenty minutes ago.
I wonder if Eric was a fan of his. I don’t recall a Sam, but then again, Eric never used their first names. It was always last names or some ridiculous nickname.
Maggi’s little hand tightens on my arm, and I pull back, expecting to find her eyes on me, but she’s still sound asleep, a little smile playing on her lips.
I’m half surprised she managed to fall asleep surrounded by so much activity, but she clearly wore herself out telling every person who would listen about where she was from and how long we were staying.
She danced with her stuffie to every song that played, even the ones I would have thought were undanceable.
Then, of course, there was the cheese delivery service she established for her new best friend, who seemed to catch my eye every time he popped another piece in his mouth. A crooked grin pulling the right side of his lips up as he chewed.
It’s odd to fall asleep questioning whether or not you're jealous of a piece of cheese.