10. Josiah #3
For a second, she looked like she wanted to receive that. Her lips parted, then closed. Her hand went to the appointment cards again.
There it was.
A wall coming down halfway, then stopping because fear had stuck its foot in the door.
I walked closer but left enough space between us for her to breathe. “Did I do something wrong?”
Her head came up fast. “No.”
“Celeste.”
“No,” she said again, softer. “You didn’t.”
“Then talk to me.”
She looked away, and that told me more than her denial had. The woman who had looked me in the eye over margaritas and grief was standing in front of me now with her heart somewhere behind her ribs, trying to decide if honesty would make a mess she couldn’t clean before morning.
I reached for a crooked appointment card on the counter, straightened it with the others, and gave my hands a harmless job so they wouldn’t try to reach for her too soon. “I can fix a lot of things in this building, but I can’t repair something I don’t know I damaged.”
Her eyes came back to mine.
The sentence reached her.
Good.
She took a breath and pressed her palm flat against the counter. Her nails were polished deep burgundy, and one thumb worried the edge of a receipt until it bent.
“I panicked,” she said.
I waited.
The shop seemed to still around her words. Outside, a car rolled past with music thumping low. Somewhere in the back, the building gave its usual evening creak. The lights held steady above us, no flicker, no warning, but the air between us carried its own charge.
She swallowed. “This morning, the kids asked where I was last night, and I lied. Not all the way, but enough for it to feel ugly. Skye was being Skye. JJ looked like he knew exactly what was going on. But Kayden, . . . he got serious. Protective. Then I started thinking maybe I shouldn’t have gone to dinner.
Maybe I shouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as I did.
I don’t want my children feeling like I’m leaving Jamal behind because somebody new made me smile.
And I don’t want you thinking I don’t like you, . . . because I do.”
I smiled despite the heaviness. “That sounds like Skye.”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
There it was.
No music. No dramatic lighting. Just the truth standing between us with shaky knees.
“I like you, Josiah. That’s part of the problem.”
My chest tightened, but I stayed where I was. “Why is that a problem?”
“Because it doesn’t feel small.” Her voice thinned near the end. “And I don’t know what to do with something that doesn’t feel small.”
I looked at her for a long second, letting her see I wasn’t backing up because she had given me honesty. If anything, it made me more certain. Not because she was struggling, but because she trusted me with the struggle instead of performing ease she didn’t feel.
“I’m glad you told me.”
Her brows pulled together. “You’re not upset?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“I’m human, Celeste. I’d be lying if I said hearing you question dinner didn’t tug at something. But your fear isn’t disrespect. It’s information. I need to know where the tender places are if I’m going to move right around them.”
Her eyes shined.
I stepped closer then, still slow, still careful.
“And I need you to hear me. I didn’t ask you to dinner because I thought your life was simple.
I asked because I wanted to know you. The mother who checks her phone every few minutes.
The widow who still speaks her husband’s name with reverence.
The business owner trying to hold everything together.
I saw enough to know there’s weight there. ”
She blinked, and a tear slipped before she could catch it.
I wanted to wipe it away.
I didn’t.
Not yet.
“Kayden is scared. He’s not my enemy for that.
” Her lips parted. “He loves you. He misses his father. He’s probably been trying to stand in a place no son should have to stand, and now he sees a man near his mother and doesn’t know what that means for the space Jamal still occupies. I can respect that.”
Her hand went to her chest, fingers pressing there like she was holding something in place. “He’s being unfair.”
“He is.” That surprised her. I nodded. “He’s doing too much. We can tell the truth. But grief makes people overcorrect. He’s trying to protect what he couldn’t protect before.”
Her face changed.
That got in.
I kept my voice steady. “I’m not offended by a boy loving his mama hard. If God lets me get close enough, I’ll earn what he’s willing to give me. I won’t demand what he’s not ready to release.”
She looked away, breathing through whatever that had touched.
I gave her a few seconds, then added, “But you can’t lie to them to protect everybody from the truth. It’ll make the truth feel scarier than it is.”
She nodded, tears bright along her lashes. “I know.”
“And you can’t lie to yourself either.”
Her eyes came back to mine.
There was the heavier part.
I let it sit between us before I spoke again. “If you’re not ready, tell me. I’ll respect that. I don’t want to pull you into something you have to survive. I don’t want your yes if it costs you peace you’re not ready to spend.”
The tear fell then. She wiped it away fast, almost irritated with herself.
“But don’t call fear wisdom just because it sounds responsible,” I said.
Her breath caught.
“That’s what God dealt with me about today,” I admitted. “I asked Him for patience, but I also asked Him not to let me hide behind patience if He’s telling me to move. Waiting can be holy. So can obedience. The hard part is knowing which one God is asking for.”
Celeste stared at me, and the tension in her shoulders eased by degrees.
“What did He say?” she asked.
I gave her a small smile. “He told me to keep my hands clean and my ego out the way.”
That pulled a wet laugh from her.
I smiled wider because I would take whatever laughter she could give me, even if tears came with it.
“He told me to honor what was planted before me, not uproot it, nor to compete with a man who loved you right. And if I’m going to ask for a woman with children, I need to be prepared to love everything attached to her heart.”
Her mouth trembled.
I moved closer then, close enough to see the tiny flecks of gold in her brown eyes, close enough to smell the oil in her locs and the peppermint on her breath. Still, I didn’t touch her.
“I’m not here to replace. I’m here to love and restore.”
“Restore what?” she whispered.
“Whatever God allows me to. Peace. Trust. Laughter. I’m not arrogant enough to think I can heal everything you’ve lost. But if He lets me, I want to be one of the ways He reminds you life didn’t end when grief showed up.”
She studied me through wet lashes.
“And if He doesn’t?” she asked.
“Then I’ll still do right by you.”
Her chin dipped.
I saw the moment she believed me.
Not fully. Not without fear. But enough for her hands to unfold from around herself. Enough for her shoulders to lower. Enough for her to take one small step closer, then stop as if her body had moved before her mind finished voting.
I looked down at the space between us.
“You want some ground rules?” I asked.
She let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “Ground rules?”
“Yes, ma’am. Since your children have a Senate hearing scheduled, and your heart is over there filing appeals.”
That got a real laugh from her, small but present.
I kept going. “Rule one. We don’t sneak. Not because your children get to control your life, but because anything built in secrecy starts feeling guilty, even when it’s not.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Rule two. Your babies get time to feel what they feel. And Jamal’s name never becomes forbidden around me.”
Almost.
She covered her mouth, pressing her fingers there until the emotion passed enough for her to breathe. “Josiah.”
“I mean that.”
“I know.”
“Rule three. If you get scared, say scared. Don’t say busy. Don’t say tired. Don’t say it’s nothing. I can work with scared. I can’t work with a locked door and no explanation.”
She nodded again, slower this time. “That goes both ways.”
“Absolutely.”
“If you feel like this is too much, say that. Don’t disappear and call it giving me space.”
I smiled because there she was, meeting me with honesty instead of hiding behind emotion. “Fair.”
“And don’t let me make all the decisions because you’re trying to be patient.
” I lifted my brows. She wiped beneath her eye and looked almost embarrassed by her own boldness, but she kept going.
“I don’t need another child. I need a man.
A patient one, yes. A respectful one. But still a man who knows how to lead without dragging me. ”
My chest heated.
Not desire only.
Respect.
“You want me to lead?”
“I want you to not make me responsible for every step just because I’m scared.”
That was a word.
A heavy one.
I nodded. “Then rule five. I’ll lead, but I won’t drag. I’ll ask, but I won’t beg. I’ll wait, but I won’t pretend I don’t want you.”
Her breath shifted.
There it was.
That current again.
The one I had already taken to God. The one that had been moving beneath every word, every pause, every careful inch of space between us. I saw her feel it too. Her eyes dropped to my hands, then lifted to my face. She swallowed, and her fingers tightened lightly against the edge of the counter.
I smiled, just enough. “And I do want you, Celeste.”
Her lashes fluttered, but she held my gaze. “I know.”
“Good.”
“You always this direct?”
“When clarity is merciful.”
That made her still.
I stepped closer, slow enough for her to step back if she needed to.
She didn’t.
The shop felt different around us. The front lights glowed over clean stations and polished mirrors.
The back wall sat open, wiring exposed, old danger being pulled apart and made honest. It felt too fitting to ignore.
Here we were, standing between what had been damaged and what was being repaired, trying to decide if the next thing between us could be built without burning somebody’s peace down.
I looked toward the open wall, then back at her. “You know what bad wiring and grief have in common?”