Page 75 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

The little bells I tied to the door years ago chime as Tanner Moore enters. Wilder Builds and Renos’ office space is smack in the heart of Main Street, opposite, and four doors down from Cherry’s. I’ve developed an unhealthy addiction to her maple lattes.

Dad’s outdoorsmen gear shop, more fondly known as Foster’s Gear is now Foster’s Gear and Guides. Before Dad expanded, he’d had space just off main street. Now he’s closer to the perimeter of town, because not only does Dad sell gear, but he sells an experience. Alas, my addiction to all the sugary goodness at Cherry’s began when I manned the little shop Dad began over a decade ago.

My addiction has only gotten worse the last fourteen months. I’m aware it has everything to do with my inability to get a full night’s sleep, and the fact that life just goes on.

You either roll with the punches or you get the crap kicked out of you.

So, I roll with the punches. All the punches. Alarms. One kid that likes to sleep till noon and another that howls at the moon. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. School runs and daycare. Work. Making myself and my kids look not homeless. Different brands of concealer to hide the darkness under my eyes. Soccer practice…all year long. Dance on the horizon if Mabel’s chatter is anything to go by.

Oh, and my house is a mess even though I swear, I vacuum once a day. But the dog brings comfort to the kids. Mostly Owen, though he won’t admit it. And the cat…

Well, the cat is mine. He makes me feel not so alone at night, because he insists on parking himself in the nook of my legs, never getting pissy at the constant adjustments I make. He just moves with me.

I guess I’m saying I dodge a lot of punches in a day.

I’m tired.

Caffeine helps.

Tanner lifts the tray with two cups stamped with Cherry’s retro label. He pulls one from the tray and hands it to Elise. Then he walks across the gleaming tile to my desk. It’s supposed to be his day off, but Tanner’s boots are always muddy.

I’m going to have to dry mop when he leaves.

He pulls the second cup from the tray and hands it to me.

“Thank you.” I take the cup. Warmth oozes from the paper into my hands. I catch a whiff of yummy, sugary maple caffeine. My mouth waters.

It’s worth the dry mop.

“No problem.” Tanner leans into my desk. It scoots just a bit, and he shakes his head as he straightens. “Sorry.”

I can see Elise watching us from where she sits, sipping her own latte. I ignore her.

I also ignore the pinch that comes when my late husband’s mother watches another man attempt to woo me. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what Tanner is doing. I’ve been out of the game for so long, that I can’t truly be certain.

Actually, I’m not certain I was ever really in the game.

“No problem,” I parrot. His grin stretches.

I’m still woman enough to observe that it’s a nice smile. In fact, Tanner is a nice-looking man. He’s built well, with broad shoulders and a solid six feet of height. His hair is a dusty shade of blonde and cropped short. And his eyes are blue.

He’s nice to look at.

He was also Tate’s best friend.

The thought shoots a blade of cool sobriety through me, and I snuggle my cup.

I’ve been cold for fourteen months. The moment Tate went through that ice and didn’t resurface, something inside me froze, too.

They fished him out of the lake that spring.

It felt like I’d lost him again.

It’s almost automatic, the rearranging of my face to appear that I’m fine. Healed. Put together.

Would you believe it if I told you that grieving over a spouse was all well and fine, until the ten-ish month mark?

After ten months, people start to get antsy for you to move on. To be normal again. To just magically release your grief so they don’t have to feel uncomfortable around you anymore.