He inhaled.
“Your brother blames me, you know. That’s probably fair. I blamed me for a long time too.” Luc clasped his hands in front of him as he stared at the ground. “But you know what, Shayna? The only person to blame is the guy behind bars. And I helped put him there so he can’t hurt anyone else, okay, honey?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I did my best. You know that, don’t you? I did my best, I swear to God.”
His voice clogged. It always did when he was here.
“She knows.”
Luc’s head snapped around, his eyes taking in the rubber flip-flops through the haze of unshed tears, his gaze moving up long, slim legs to short-shorts, a fitted yellow tank, and…
Ava.
Slowly, he stood, his eyes looking beyond the casual clothes, beyond the fresh-faced girl-next-door look, with her ponytail and flip-flops.
His brain registered that this was a far cry from the polished, plastic Ava Sims she’d chased so desperately, but his heart registered that she was happy.
Which made him happy.
Luc didn’t even try to fight the realization that swept over him.
There was no fanfare, no blaring horn. Just quiet understanding and acceptance that his family was right.
He was so far gone over this woman it wasn’t even funny.
“Shayna knows you did your best,” Ava said again, her voice quiet but not condescending.
Luc’s eyes dropped to the flowers in her hands. Tulips.
“You brought the flowers,” he said.
“Last week,” she said, her eyes going beyond him to the small gravestone. “I wondered who the other were from. I assumed her parents.”
Luc shook his head, moving aside slightly so she could move past him, setting her flowers next to his. “They…it’s too hard. They carry her with them, always, but being here, her final resting place…I think it’s too raw for them.”
“But you come.” She laid her tulips next to his roses, then stood so they were standing shoulder to shoulder.
“As do you.” There was an unspoken question in his words. Why? You didn’t even know her.
“I probably don’t belong here.” Her voice wobbled. “I used those people’s pain for my own gain, Luc. And I hate myself for it. But even that’s not why I’m here. It’s just, a little girl died, you know? I couldn’t not come.”
He knew the feeling.
They were silent for a long while, lost in thoughts in a quiet, deserted cemetery in the Bronx.
“Mike was cremated,” Luc said eventually, breaking the silence.
Ava nodded.
“Bev scattered his ashes a ways off the coast of Maine. They used to go there every summer. It was his favorite place.”
At first he thought he imagined it. The soft brush of her pinkie against his. He glanced down to see her little finger reach for his, just briefly. In solidarity. In kindness.
Because despite what she thought about herself, Ava Sims was a kind woman. A good woman.
He saw his own pinkie brush back. Followed by his ring finger, then his third, until they were standing palm to palm, not quite holding hands, but almost. It was more intimate than holding hands, somehow. More intimate even than kissing.
“I’ve missed you,” he heard himself say.
Her hand twitched as her breath quickened a little, then it slowed, as though she forced herself not to react.
She said nothing.
Why should she? He’d all but planted his boot on her ass and kicked her out the door when she’d told him that she loved him.
Luc closed his eyes.
This woman loved him. And he’d thrown it back at her like a fucking grenade.
And not because he didn’t love her back.
He did.
Desperately.
It was strange, how one could spend months…years…believing one thing with every fiber of one’s being, only to have your entire paradigm changed in a moment.
This was that moment.
Luc was still more aware than ever that this could be his grave that Ava would one day be bringing flowers to. Although hopefully not pink tulips.