Someone Like You: Wild Widows Series, Book 1

by Marie Force

  Wynter shrugs as if she doesn’t care, but I’m sure she probably cares far too much. I can’t imagine going through such a searing loss at her young age. “I’m not interested in meeting someone else, so I don’t even qualify for membership.”

  “We still want you here,” Kinsley says.

  “That’s a dumb rule anyway,” Wynter says. “It’s effed up to expect people to want to fall in love again after what we’ve been through. I never want to put myself through that shit again.”

  “I can totally understand why you feel that way.” I speak up before I lose my nerve. “You lost your husband shortly after I lost mine, which means it’s way too soon for either of us to be thinking about a Chapter 2, or anything much beyond getting through today. But for me, the rules of this group have given me a tiny kernel of hope to cling to that I won’t always feel as bad as I do now and that there might be a chance for happiness again in the future. Granted, it won’t be the same as it was. Nothing could be the same for me without Patrick or for you without your Jaden. But it could be a different kind of happy. Maybe.” I shrug because I’ve run out of words, but I hope I said something she finds helpful.

  “I guess,” Wynter says, “but that isn’t something I want.”

  “Which is perfectly okay,” Iris says. “We’re all on our own journeys, but the point of the group is to be on those journeys together. While we’re on the subject, does anyone have any Chapter 2 news they want to share?”

  Kinsley raises her hand. “I went on a date.”

  The others congratulate her with a round of applause, which has poor Kinsley blushing and holding up her hands.

  “It was just that—a date. I don’t think there’ll be a second one with him, but I got the first one out of the way.”

  “That’s so huge,” Brielle says. “I did it recently just so I wouldn’t have to think about what it would be like to go out with someone else. It sucked, but I’m still glad I did it to get it out of the way.”

  “Don’t you feel like you’re cheating?” Wynter asks.

  “Nah,” Brielle says. “Mark would be the first to tell me to get back out there and find someone who makes me happy. He loved me, and he wanted me to be happy. We never got the chance to talk about this stuff, because who does that when they’re twenty-seven and twenty-eight and think they have their whole lives ahead of them? But I know he’d want this for me. I know it.”

  I nod because I feel the same way about what Patrick would want for me. I have absolutely no doubts about that, even though we never talked about it either. He put me first in his life—always.

  “If Jaden were still here, you’d never have given anyone else a second thought for the rest of your life, hopefully,” Iris says. “But since he’s not here, now you have to put yourself first and figure out who Wynter is without him.”

  Wynter blinks furiously. “I have no idea who she is.”

  “You’re going to figure that out, sweetheart,” Gage says. “And when you do, I can’t wait to get to know her.”

  I think that might be one of the kindest things I’ve ever heard anyone say.

  “I made a huge mistake posting that I’d broken the seal and gone on a date,” Kinsley adds. “Someone I don’t even know commented, ‘Boy, that was fast.’”

  “Stop it,” Adrian says. “That’s such bullshit, and you know it. Tell me you know that.”

  “I do,” Kinsley says. “But it still hurt to think that people are judging me when it required every ounce of courage I have to take this step.”

  “Don’t let some asshole who has no idea what you’ve been through do that to you,” Derek says fiercely. “They don’t pay rent for space in your head, so don’t give it to them for free.”

  I can’t help but glance at him, stunned by his powerful and thought-provoking words.

  “Thank you,” Kinsley says softly. “I needed to hear that.”

  “So sorry I’m late,” a woman says as she comes bursting in the front door. “Freaking traffic!” She’s tall, mixed race, strikingly pretty and wearing a power suit and heels so high, I wonder how she can even walk. But she struts into the room like a badass on those four-inch heels, bringing a rush of cold air with her.

  “Joy, this is Roni,” Iris says. “She’s new tonight.”

  She comes right over and bends to hug me. “I’m so sorry you’re here.”

  Bowled over by her, I return her embrace. “Thank you.”

  When she stands upright, she says, “I brought the chicken wings you savages devoured last time.”

  As they offer an enthusiastic round of applause, she takes a dramatic bow.

  I love her instantly.

  She takes her bag into the kitchen and returns with a glass of wine, taking a seat next to Lexi. “What’d I miss?”

  11

  Roni

  The others take turns filling Joy in on my story, which I appreciate. Telling it once was hard enough.

  “I really am so, so sorry, honey,” she says softly. “I know what it’s like to have your entire world suddenly tipped upside down. My thirty-four-year-old husband, Craig, went to bed one night and never woke up. The autopsy was inconclusive. Natural causes, they said. I’ve since learned it happens far more often than anyone realizes and to people too young to die that way.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, too.” I’m touched by the change in her when she speaks of her late husband. She’s gone from high as a kite when she came in to wilted like a balloon that’s lost all its air.

  “Thank you. It was a couple of years ago now, but some days, it’s like it just happened. Other days, I have trouble remembering the sound of his voice, which is the worst. How can I not remember that?”

  “That happens to me, too,” Derek says. “Sometimes I have to really stop and think about what her voice sounded like, which sends me to the videos, which sends me into a tailspin.”

  Before I take one second to think about what I’m doing, my hand is on his arm, offering support and friendship.

  He sends me a small smile in response, and I remove my hand, lest it get weird—again.

  His last comment reminds me of my wedding video. Perhaps these amazing people will know what I’m supposed to do with that. “Speaking of videos, my wedding video recently arrived in my in-box, where it’s sitting like a nuclear bomb waiting to detonate. What the hell do I do with that?”

  “Forward it to someone you trust, one of your bridesmaids maybe, and ask them to hold on to it for you until you’re ready to see it,” Iris suggests.

  “And then delete it from your in-box so it won’t be taunting you every time you check your email,” Adrian adds.

  “When you’re ready to see it, you can go to the person you entrusted with it and watch it together,” Kinsley says.

  “I like that plan. I could send it to my sister and ask her to hold it for me.” I look around at the faces of people who were strangers to me an hour ago and wonder how it’s possible they already feel like old friends. “Is it strange that in my old life, pre-disaster, I wouldn’t have needed advice on how to handle anything?”

  “Nah, baby,” Joy says. “We’ve all been there. Grief does crazy shit to your brain.”

  “Widow brain,” Lexi says. “It’s a thing.”

  “The grief takes up a lot of space, a lot of emotion,” Brielle says. “It doesn’t leave much room for anything else.”

  “It messes with your sense of time, too,” Derek says. “You ever notice how when you’re doing something fun, the time just flies, but when you’re running on the treadmill, thirty minutes goes so slowly, you think you’ll never get there? Grief time is like being on the treadmill. It moves so slowly. Days feel like weeks. Months feel like years. Everything moves in slow motion.”

  “Yes,” Gage says. “That was so well said. I dream about being underwater, trying to find the surface and gasping for air when I finally break free of the depths.”

  “The dreams are the worst,” Hallie says. “Es
pecially the sex dreams.”

  Everyone groans in agreement.

  “Why do we gotta dream about what we can’t have?” Iris asks. “It’s almost cruel.”

  “It is cruel,” Wynter says.

  We all look to her, hoping she’ll say more.

  After a long pause, she says, “The whole goddamned thing is cruel.” Every word she says drips with rage.

  “Yes, it is,” I whisper. “It’s the cruelest thing ever.”

  “But we’re still here,” Gage says. “We’re still here, and it’s a decision we have to make to carry on, to make them proud of us by living lives full of meaning and possibly even joy again someday. We have to go on. We have no choice.”

  “Yes, we do,” Wynter says. “We can check the eff out and stop feeling like shit all the time. And before you call my mother and tell her I’m suicidal, I’m not. I’m just saying… It’s an option.”

  “Please don’t consider that an option,” Hallie says gently. “You mentioned how cruel this is, and it is. But that… It’s an incredibly cruel thing to do to the people who love you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wynter mumbles. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s fine that you said it,” Hallie says. “Of course, it’s an option for all of us.”

  “If you feel that way,” Iris says to Wynter, “please talk to someone. We need you to stay with us, no matter how bad it gets. We’ll be here for you as long as you need us.”

  “I swear I’m okay,” Wynter says tearfully. “I was just venting. And I’m sorry if I was insensitive, Hallie.”

  “Don’t be. I understand.”

  “I think it’s time for dessert,” Iris says.

  As the others stand and head for the kitchen, Derek and I hang back. “That got intense,” he says.

  “She’s so, so young to be dealing with something so heavy.”

  “She is.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Nineteen, I think.”

  “I was only a year older when I met Patrick. I can’t for the life of me imagine what it would’ve been like to go through a loss like this at her age.”

  “I know. Same. It was bad enough at thirty-six.” He looks down at me with gorgeous golden-brown eyes that are nothing like Patrick’s baby blues. Now that I’ve gotten to know Derek, he doesn’t remind me of my husband at all. “The group is helpful, no?”

  “Oh God, yes. It’s like I’ve found my people.”

  “That’s how I felt the first time, too. It was such a relief to be with people who truly understand.”

  “I loved what you said to Kinsley about giving people rent-free space in her head.”

  “That’s been one of my favorite sayings since long before I was widowed, but it applies liberally to our situation. People say the most screwed-up shit to other people going through immense loss. A lot of the members say it helps them to share their thoughts on social media, but that’s not for me. I don’t need people judging me, especially after how public my loss was.”

  “I think you’re wise to protect yourself from that.”

  “Who needs the extra drama? I’ve got enough without asking for more. Every time there’s a development in the Patterson case, I get calls from the media looking for comments. I’ve never commented. I’m never going to, and even though I tell them that every time, they still call me.”

  “Jeez, that sucks. Maybe you should issue a statement that says that while you understand the intense interest in the Patterson case as it winds through the courts, the loss of your wife was a very personal thing for you and your daughter. You could say that you’ll never comment publicly on the case now or in the future, so please stop asking me. ‘My daughter and I request privacy as we continue to mourn the loss of our wife and mother.’”

  He rubs at the late-day stubble on his jaw. “I suppose I could do that, but I’d hate to draw any more attention to myself.”

  “It might shut it down for good if you issue a blanket statement asking for privacy. Anyone who hits you up after that is just a dick.”

  His snort of laughter pleases me. I get the feeling he doesn’t do that very often.

  “Do you think maybe you could write that down for me?”

  “Sure, I can do that.”

  He reaches for his wallet, withdraws a business card and hands it to me. “My work email is on there. It’s the only one I have.”

  “I’ll send you something in the morning.”

  “Put it on Sam’s tab.”

  Laughing, I say, “Will do. Now I need some sugar.”

  “Lead the way.”

  We end up walking out together when the group disbands half an hour later. The night is cold and clear, with an abundance of stars overhead.

  “Where’d you park?” he asks.

  I point to the left. “That way.”

  “Me, too.”

  As we walk down the quiet street together, I wonder what he’s thinking, but I don’t want to pry. I feel like we’ve traveled a million miles since he thought I was a stalker. I’m beginning to seriously value our fragile new friendship.

  “It’s good that you came here so soon after your loss,” he says, breaking the silence. “I wish I’d done it sooner than I did. I had to be talked into it.”

  “Who invited you to come?”

  “A woman named Taylor, who’s since remarried. Like I said earlier, my mom knew her from yoga, and when she heard about Vic’s murder, she told my mom about the group. It took a lot of persuasion to get me to go, which turned out to be the best thing I could’ve done for myself.”

  “Self-care doesn’t always come easily to people, but it’s so important.”

  “I’ve learned that. Before I lost Vic, I was so focused on external things—my job, the president, Congress, the daily grind of managing work, marriage, fatherhood. I was like a robot in some ways, going through all the expected motions. Except for when Vic and I were alone together. That’s when I truly came alive.” He gives me a side-eyed look. “Which is probably TMI.”

  “Nah, I get it. It was like that with me and Patrick, too. We worked hard, but the minute we got home, it was all about us until we had to leave again. That’s a difficult void to fill.”

  “Yeah, that’s the toughest part of the day for me, after Maeve is in bed, and it’s too early for me to go to bed. I usually just drown myself in work that could’ve waited until the next day. If there’s any upside to widowhood, I’ve never been more on top of the rest of my life than I am now.”

  “I’m still working on that.”

  “You’re probably in the thick of the estate shit and the death certificates and all that.”

  “Yep. Just when I think I’ve told everyone, here comes the alumni association, or the fraternity brother who was working in Egypt just heard the news, or the registration on his car needs to be renewed, which means I have to switch it into my name, which apparently takes an act of God. It never ends.”

  “It does, eventually, but it takes a while. It was easier for me because Vic didn’t have any family of her own or much in the way of stuff outside our marriage.”

  “Patrick belonged to six different professional organizations for IT professionals, not to mention three for law enforcement professionals. It’s been a lot.”

  “Sounds like it. I read he was with the DEA.”

  He read about me? Or, I should say, he read about Patrick? “Yes, and one of the most overwhelming things that’s happened since he died was finding out just how well-respected he was in his field. The outpouring was nothing short of a tsunami.”

  “That’s really nice.”

  I’m still trying to process that Derek read about us.

  “Listen, I know you’re still in the early days of this, and I’m further down the road, even if at times it feels like I’m still at square one, but…”

  I wait with breathless anticipation for what he’ll say next.

  “Do you want to get a drink and talk some more?”
r />   “Like now? Don’t you have to get home to Maeve?”

  “My parents are sleeping over, so I can do it now if you want to.”

  I’m extremely torn between wanting more of his comforting presence and feeling disloyal to the husband I lost three months ago for even talking to another man—even if we’re talking mostly about grief and everything that goes with it. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  * * *

  Derek

  The more time I spend with Roni, the more I enjoy talking to her. Not to mention she’s so damn pretty. It’s way too soon after her loss for me to ask her for anything, but I like being with her, and I get the sense she feels the same way. Since I’m so sick and bloody tired of feeling like total shit, I grab the lifelines where I can find them.

  And then she says the dreaded words there’s something I need to tell you that make me want to plead with her not to do anything that will mess with the nice new groove we’ve found together.

  She steps up to a sleek silver Audi and leans against it, her breath making a crystal cloud in the cold.

  “Whatever you want to say, Roni, just put it out there. I’ve learned from the Wild Widows that it’s so much easier to air out the stuff that’s weighing us down rather than trying to cope with it on our own.”

  “I can definitely see how that’s true, but this is kinda big.”

  “Isn’t everything these days?”

  Her soft laugh touches me in a place deep inside that’s been walled off from the outside world since I lost Vic. Roni touches me with her sweetness, her obvious love for her late husband, her determination to press on despite her grief. “Yeah, I guess it is. So, I found out recently that I’m pregnant.”

  I didn’t see that coming. “Oh. Wow. That is big. How’re you feeling about it?”

  “Name an emotion. I’ve had every one of them since I got this news. I’ve gone from denial to elation to despair to joy to fear and back to despair, and that was the first five minutes.”

  I smile at how lovely and funny she is, despite having all the reason in the world to be bitter and angry.