She didn’t know what else to say or ask. They were so close to saying good-bye that her mouth wouldn’t move.
“Aren’t you going to ask if I was having an affair?”
She lay down in the wet grass, her fingers tasting the texture of it, the thickness of the blades, the damp earth it sprang from. “Two days ago, it might have mattered. Two years ago, for sure. But today?” She shook her head against the carpet of green, tasting dew on her lips. “Today it doesn’t matter. I don’t care about Izzie’s letters. I don’t care what she wrote in your yearbook. I don’t care if there were other women. I never thought you deserved to die that night, no matter what crossed my mind in that split second. I can’t fix that thought. I can’t fix what happened between us back then. I can only tell you that I love you. I always have and I always will no matter the pain we caused each other when you were alive. Or when you were dead.” A wayward leaf crackled beneath her cheek. “I love you enough to let you go.”
“Don’t forget me.”
“I’ll miss you with all my heart.”
A tick of silence, then, “Going to buy a DVD player, Max?”
Symbolism. She laughed despite the pain of it. “Yeah, I think so. Maybe Witt will like Lost Horizon. I’ll actually buy the DVD.”
“Try Bullitt. He’ll appreciate the chase.”
The sense of his voice inside her head faded with each word. His weight lifted from her body. She might have floated away with the incredible lightness. Terror seized her chest, then eased. She willed it to ease.
Tears bathed her face, tears she’d refused to shed for him, tears that would release him. Silent tears that soothed and cleansed.
When they stopped, the scent of peppermints had vanished.
Cameron was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Max woke to the scent of rain in the air and Witt’s unsophisticated yet totally male aftershave. She didn’t open her eyes nor wipe the evidence of her tears from the side of her nose or her temples.
“How’d you know where I was?”
She heard him sigh. “Truck just seemed to drive itself. Like it had a mind of its own.”
Or ghostly guidance.
“I should change before we go to meet your lawyer friend.”
“You’re not gonna need one now.” That was all he said, offering nothing as to whether Bud’s body had been found, if Dennis had run to the roof, or if the police thought she had something to do with it all. He’d said enough to let her know she was safe. He’d tell her the rest eventually. After they talked about the important stuff.
“I’d like to help Ladybird cook.” She cringed at the thought of overcooked turkey.
“She’s cooked a turkey before.”
With her eyes closed, her brows shot up. “A real one?”
“A real one.” He paused. “It was a few years ago.”
“I hear another story in there. What happened?”
“Burned it.”
“How can you burn a turkey?” Overcook it until it was dry as shoe leather, yes, but burn it?
“Forgot to put it in the oven on time, and since she didn’t want dinner to be late...” He stopped with a dramatic pause.
“What did she do?” She chanced a glance at him.
His back against Cameron’s headstone, Witt rested his elbows on his knees, hands dangling between his legs. “Put it on broil to make up the time.”
Max smiled. Ladybird would have made a great grandmother, but you wouldn’t want to leave your kids alone with her.
Kids.
“I can’t have children.” She stated it though they’d never talked of marriage or a future.
He didn’t rush to answer, the weight of consideration in the length of his silence. “I don’t need kids in my life.”
“But you divorced your wife because she had an abortion.”
“She lied. She didn’t give me the right to choose.”
“But you wouldn’t have let her kill it if you’d known.”
“No. The baby was innocent. I would have protected it no matter what.”
Still, he would understand her own crime. He would understand she’d been a child herself. “I’ve lied to you about a lot of things, too.”
“There’s a degree of lying. You know the difference I’m talking about.”
He meant the quality of the lie and the reason it was made. Yeah, there was a difference. “Because I can’t have kids, I’m taking away any choice you have in the future.”
“You’re giving me the choice to walk away now if it’s something I can’t live with.”
That sounded reasonable. “I have secrets, things I’ve done, things I’m ashamed of.” Her uncle, her baby, the men she’d been with, too many men.
“So do I.”
“What if I never have the courage to tell you all my secrets?”
“You’ve the courage to tell me they exist. The rest will come.” God. Using full sentences and all the nouns, he knew all the right words to give her. So serious, but not pissed.
His belief in her would make the rest come. “I’m not normal,” she told him.