Page 76 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

By a year, they start telling you about their single friends. Even family begins dropping little hints that it’s time to move on. Move forward.

My personal favorite: He wouldn’t want this for you. You deserve to be happy. To be loved. To love.

I do love. I love him. Still.

And being happy takes a lot of energy.

Right now, I’m fueled by coffee, and a will to see that my children are happy, healthy and feel loved.

I’m honestly not sure that I’ll ever have any energy to give to another man, much less space in my heart. Between the chunks Holt never gave back and the shards of ice that fill the gaping hole Tate left, I think I very well might be better off alone.

But alone looks bad. Maybe if I go on just one date, it’ll buy me another few months of peace.

Could be worth it. Tanner is nice enough and conversation comes easy with him. Probably because he was Tate’s best friend, so he’s always been around. It’s also probably why he’s been so cautious to push things between us. The ghost of Tate is a buffer neither of us is entirely comfortable shoving through.

“Things are getting busy.” Tanner defaults to work a lot.

“Mrs. Kepler was in just this morning.” I give him a warm wink and a smile. His blue eyes drop to my mouth, and I wait but—no tingles. Yeah, I’m broken. “I think we’re getting close.”

Tanner’s brows slowly rise. “That woman has been considering which flooring she wants for the last four years. Her first choices have been discontinued.”

I snort a laugh. It’s not attractive, but Tanner’s eyes light up.

“Well.” I clear my throat as I stand from behind my desk, moving across the space to where the samples of laminate flooring are currently on display. I bend to tap a finger on the rustic oak sample and tell him, “She’s been in here three times to look at this one. Even took the sample home today.”

I look up and find his eyes are on my ass, not the sample.

Tanner notices he’s been caught and claps a hand on the back of his neck. He wets his lips and grins the grin of a confident man that might be just a little embarrassed.

It’s my turn to cock a brow as I rise. Tate used to tell me I was itty-bitty in the height committee. Considering my growth capped at a whopping five-foot-three, he wasn’t wrong. I get a solid extra inch and a half by wearing heels most every day.

Tate had loved me in heels. Clearly, Tanner shares the affection, because his eyes drop to my legs—which look a thousand times better in pumps, by the way.

Currently, they’re a pretty, muted nude to compliment the tight, high-waisted, knee-length skirt I wear. The outfit is topped off with a blush blouse that I’ve tucked in to the skirt.

As many punches as I’m hit with—I seem to get up a little quicker when I’m dressed for the hits. I think there’s a hashtag on TikTok. #girllbosspower.

I don’t know.

I’d spent months wearing sweats and Tate’s oversized sweaters. Believe me when I tell you it’s a lot easier to fall with the punches when you’re dressed as a mess. It’s a lot easier to stay down when you’re not at least attempting to play the part of an active participant in your own life.

In my sweats and sweater months, it’d been easy to throw together pre-packaged everything into my kids’ lunch box, pawn them off on my mom or Elise to drive to school and daycare and take the punch of life all the way to my bed. And that’s where I would remain until Mom or Dad or Elise or Herman or anyone dropped them back off at home.

I’d quickly realized I was failing them. Choosing grief over them. My babies.

And I learned.

I learned that if I got up before them, ran twenty minutes on the treadmill, showered and put myself together—no matter how hard it was—that I’d stay standing after each and every punch life decided to dish out that day.

So, that’s what I did. Every day.

“I’ll believe it when I’m installing the flooring.” Tanner’s voice follows me as I make my way back to my desk. “Hell, I won’t even believe it when I’m ripping out her old flooring. Knowing Mrs. Kepler, she’ll back out mid-way through the tear-up and tell me to put it all back. I’ll spend the rest of my days getting the hairy eyeball because that won’t be possible, and I’ll be the sorry suck stuck having to explain that fact to her over, and over, and over again.”

I snort again. Elise laughs.

Tanner’s scenario isn’t that far away from the realm of possibility. Mrs. Kepler is an interesting character. Her poor husband trudges along behind her, quiet, and ever-present for the show. Not even he has the kahunas to tell her what’s what.

“You’re probably right.” I pluck a pen from my desk and make a show of scribbling on a hot pink sticky note. “Just in case, I’ve made a note to place you lead on the project.”