“Holy shit, Dem,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “You okay?” She knows I’m okay and even though she’s been pushing me to get back out there, she knows this is a huge step for me. I’m touched she at least thought to ask how I’m holding up.
“I’m okay . . . I think,” I answer honestly as I push some of my hair behind my ear. “We’re meeting for dinner Wednesday.”
“I’m coming over to help you get ready,” she volunteers.
“You don’t have to do that, Lex.”
“I’m coming over,” she insists.
“Okay,” I give in.
“Demi’s gonna get laid. Demi’s gonna get laid,” she sings obnoxiously.
“I gotta go. Bye,” I hang up even though she’s still singing.
A date. I’m going on a date. My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I inhale deeply. My mind runs with thoughts of right and wrong, and before I know it, I’m at the cemetery. Days before he became incapacitated, Blake held my hand and gave me the talk. The talk giving me permission to move on.
“One day, Demi . . . another man will come along.” I tried to pull my hand from his, but he squeezed, preventing it. “I want you to be happy . . . to meet someone that can give you the things I couldn’t.”
“You gave me everything, Blake.” Tears broke loose and streamed down my face. This was my dying husband giving me permission to move on and love again. It was brutal. My hand squeezed his tighter as if I could somehow keep him here.
“I didn’t give you children. And I know how badly you want them,” he smiled sadly. “I know you want at least one.”
And I did. But I wanted one of his children. I wanted a piece of him to continue to exist even after he left me. When I told him, he refused. Blake grew up without a father. And he believed every child deserved one, not just the memory of a father that other people shared with them.
“One day, Demi . . . he’ll come along and love you. Don’t be afraid to love him back. He won’t be anything like me . . .”
I stared up at him and wondered if he had some vision of what he thought the next man in my life would be like. And then I sobbed. My poor, dying husband was torturing himself with visions of a man that might take his place.
“Blake . . . please—”
“Shh,” he soothed me. “I love you. I always will.”
Slowly, I walk through the large graveyard, delaying having this conversation with Blake. I don’t know if he’ll hear me, but I feel like I need to let him know. I come here, often, and speak to him. I tell him about work, complain about my mother, crack jokes about Lexi. I’m two rows over when his grave comes into sight. I stop when I realize Connor is standing in front of it, his large hands stuffed in his pockets.
I don’t want to impose on his time, but I feel rude just standing here, staring at him. I debate if I should leave, but when he kneels and puts one hand on Blake’s stone, I can’t stop staring. What is it about this man showing emotion that gut checks me? My goal has been to fulfill Blake’s wishes; to help Connor any way possible. The plan has always been to make Connor feel at home yet keep him at arm’s length at the same time. But with every day that passes, I’m more and more fascinated by him. I can’t deny a physical attraction to him; I mean . . . he’s sex on a stick, as Lexi would say. But there’s more there; so much more. When he stands again, I make my way toward him when I begin to hear him speaking faintly.
“I’m grateful. So fucking grateful, Blake. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you . . . in the end. I’m sorry—”
A lonesome twig snaps under my foot and Connor whips around, his eyes red and swollen; on the verge of crying.
“Demi,” he croaks before clearing his throat, as he turns and wipes his face quickly.
“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
When he turns back around, he has a smile plastered on his face, but his sad eyes don’t quite match it. “I was just passing by and thought I’d stop,” he explains.