“They told me Jeff didn’t suffer,” I whisper, my eyes looking into the distance, not focusing on anything in particular. Turning my attention back to the man across from me, I continue, “I used to be jealous of him. How awful is that? Of course, that was only after the guilt. All-consuming and debilitating guilt. I survived. Or at least, I didn’t die. Survival was not part of the beginning. Not the first year anyway.”
“I’m sorry, I’m being a buzzkill. It’s just . . .”
Just what? Why am I compelled to tell this man about my past? To share with him my guilt and dark thoughts of being jealous of death. There’s no reason other than I trust him. I see something in him that tells me he understands and won’t judge.
Grant reaches across the table, his hand resting on the table, palm up. I slip my hand atop of his as he says, “Dakota, you don’t have to tell me anything. I like you. I enjoy the time we spend together and hope that after tonight I can convince you to do this again. Then, after that I’ll ask you again.”
My heart, the same one that used to be shredded into pieces feels whole. Hopeful and full of promise. I don’t feel sad or alone. This man, who has faced loss of his own as he fought for our freedom, makes me feel safe and like he truly understands.
Without moving my hand, I offer him a tentative smile and push forward with my story. “I was terribly injured. Broken and shattered bones with internal injuries, the recovery was slow and painful. Burying Jeff broke something in me like nothing I had ever experienced. My children were babies. I just checked out. Thank goodness for my sister and our parents. Jeff’s parents came to town immediately and were able to step in and handle the arrangements while my parents and Minnie cared for the girls.”
“Weeks turned to months, and I was a shell of who I used to be. Lost and alone, I felt like a burden but couldn’t care for myself, let alone the girls. Minnie attended appointments with me, asked questions, spoke to my doctors. Actually, she was resilient at each appointment, lists upon lists of topics and alternative methods she had researched for my recovery. I took the path of least resistance and the one that took no effort.”
“I was dependent on pills.” I huff out a laugh, but it isn’t funny. Yet, sometimes all you can do is laugh. “Looking back, it’s a little frightening to see how quickly it happened.”
Grant squeezes my hand and it’s the encouragement I need to continue. “Truthfully, I think it was within weeks that I couldn’t function without them. Each time I would slip one in my mouth, I’d think to myself it would be the last one. But then either the pain would really hit and I needed it or emotionally I would break. Overwhelmed and depressed, I stopped caring.”
The server appears and I pull my hand away, setting it in my lap while she presents our entrees. After she’s left us alone again, we focus on our meals, the sounds of forks and knives on the china cutting through the tension my story has created.
Wanting to end my baggage-filled trip down memory lane, I sit back in my chair and continue. “I’m not really sure exactly what happened but one morning I woke up, looked at my pills, and broke. I sat on the bathroom floor and cried until I had no tears left. Then I called Minnie, and we made a plan. She gave up her life for me. Did you know that?” I don’t wait for him to respond.
“It’s funny but needing to lean on her changed her life for the better. It’s how we ended up in Lexington and how she met Owen. I never want to relive that time of my life; it’s nothing I would wish on my worst enemy, but I’ll never regret the good that came from it all. I’m stronger than I knew I could, or needed, to be.”
Reaching for my glass, I lift the water to my lips and wait for him to react. Will he excuse himself and leave me with the bill? Nobody would blame him. I took our first date to a new level. That’s the thing. I, too, want there to be more nights like this. I want to date; I want to feel beautiful and cared for again. But, I’m not a kid, and I have two little ones at home to think about. There isn’t time for games and skirting around the big stuff.
“Thank you for sharing that with me. I cannot fathom the level of loss you experienced. I’m sorry you had to live through all of that.”
“I appreciate you saying that. I know this is some pretty heavy stuff for a first date. It’s been more than a decade since I’ve been out with anyone or contemplated something outside of friendship. I have no idea what I’m doing here.”
“Dakota, I’m a forty-three-year-old man with no family, no job, and I just bought a house with cocks in the kitchen. It’s obvious I have no idea what I’m doing.”
We both laugh. He may be laughing to ease the awkward tension, but we both know I’m laughing because it’s not the time for hysterics. At least I’m consistent.
Wiping tears from my eyes, I take my knife and fork, cutting into the beautiful steak on my plate. Grant clears his throat and catches my attention.
“So when you say, ‘first date’ are you agreeing there will be more?”
Shrugging with the fork poised to my lips, I reply, “Maybe. We should probably get through this one first.”
Chapter 21
Grant
In my life I’ve experienced dozens of firsts. The first of many homeruns in Little League. My first kiss—G-rated of course—behind the large oak tree on the playground in fifth grade. My first car and so on. Each one holds special meaning in my life, and a brick lays in the path that brings me to this first.
My first official date with Dakota Jennings. Funny, witty, kind, smart, and devastatingly beautiful Dakota. The woman who just sat before me and poured her heart out. Candid and honest, she didn’t hold back. Every word she spoke was like a poke to my gut with a rusty knife. An overwhelming sense of loss for all she’s experienced, for the moments her children will never have with their father, and for the future that was stolen from her hit me the hardest.
Yet, none of that seems to be affecting her now. Looking at her across the table, I see someone who has proven to herself and others her strength and determination. There’s no doubt everything she’s experienced was a contributing factor to the other obstacles she faced, but you wouldn’t know it looking at her. There are no signs of distress or sadness as she speaks.
Switching gears, her storytelling changes to one of Minnie and her as teens and their competitiveness. From grades to who mastered cooking at their mother’s side, it sounds like they had a great rivalry.
“How about you? Any stories about growing up?”
“Not really. I’m an only child as were both my parents. No cousins or extended family. It wasn’t until I joined the military that I understood what it was like to have siblings.”
“Wow. You went from none to thousands. What a change. I can’t imagine growing up without my sister and little brother. They drove me nuts, well Minnie did, anyway. By the time Lincoln was born, we thought he was a real live doll and spoiled him rotten.”
The server returns with the check and I slip my credit card into the folder. Dakota comments on the dessert she had packaged to go. Her tone is different, and she’s nibbling on that lip again.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“That just made this all feel real.”
Confused, I tilt my head as I ponder her words. I thought this was real from the moment I took Scarlett’s advice on what shirt to wear.
“Sorry. It’s just been a long time since a man other than my father bought me dinner. I’ve made this awkward again, haven’t I?”
“Not at all. I quite enjoy your honesty. It’s rare these days. People seem to be overly consumed with appearances and avoid the hard truth by only saying what they think others want to hear. It’s refreshing to be with someone who isn’t afraid to speak her mind.”
“Well, if I’ve learned anything these last few years, it’s that there isn’t time to skirt the big stuff. Shit happens whether we play it safe or not.” Huffing a laugh, she shakes her head. “Wow. I can’t believe I said that. I should take a cue from myself. I’ve been doing nothin
g but playing it safe. Until tonight, that is.”
It’s not worth trying to hide the huge grin on my face. I’m a peacock, thrusting my chest out, flocking invisible feathers to show everyone I’m the man. Okay, not so much I’m the man, because that sounds super douchey and nothing like me at all. The server slips the folder in front of me, allowing me to quickly add the gratuity and scribble my signature.
“Should we go? Get you and that dessert home?”
Dakota bounces a little in her seat, joy evident. “I cannot wait to dive into this cake. Hopefully Mrs. Larson has the girls tucked in already so I can be ridiculously selfish and eat the entire piece myself.”
Her excitement for this chocolate cake has me wishing I would have grabbed a piece for me. Maybe our next date will have to be a dessert only restaurant. Do they have those in Lexington? If not, they should. We should. I guess I’m a resident now and need to think of Lexington as home.
Pushing my chair out, I rush around the table to help Dakota with hers. A small smile over her shoulder shows me she appreciates the chivalry. I’m grateful for my mother in this moment, her reminders of treating a lady like a lady when I was young have been responsible for putting that look on Dakota’s face.
With my hand on her lower back, I lead her through the restaurant toward the lobby. She stops suddenly and spins, I stumble a step, and my hands reach out instinctively, grabbing onto her arms.
“Whoops. Sorry. I have to grab my coat. There’s a small closet over there,” she comments, pointing behind me. “Would you mind holding my cake while I fetch it?”
“Not at all.”
Taking her container and snagging her handbag before she steps away, she makes her way toward the closet. Not wanting to look like a creep, I step aside and lean against the wall. I’m not waiting long before she returns, wearing a black coat with a belt tied around her waist.
Without speaking, she snags the box from my hand and opens the lid.
“Just making sure you didn’t sample the goods.”
With my hand once again on her lower back, I lean down and say quietly, “I don’t sample. If I am having dessert, I’m having it all.”
By the look of lust on her face, my flirtation isn’t unwelcome. A slow blush creeps up her neck, but her eyes . . . they contract, her beautiful bright blues widening. Motioning her forward, I follow her out the door and to the parking lot.
“I’m just parked over—”
“There,” I finish for her. “I saw your car and am just a few spots over.”
As we walk, the gravel crunches under our feet and I hear little hiccups coming from my date. Peering down at her, I note she isn’t hiccupping, she’s holding back laughter. Her nervous tell. I’m willing to admit, I’m a little nervous as well. This is that moment in a date that we figure out how we’re moving forward. I can just walk her to her car and say goodnight. That would be simple. Of course, I could pull her into me for a hug, letting her body meld to mine and tell her I’ll call her later. What I really want to do is kiss her. Hold her in my arms and connect with her physically to end this date on a high note.
Instead, her swears pull me from my thoughts as she comes to an abrupt stop.
“Wha—ah, shit.”
Her small SUV leans to the left because of a flat tire. Not exactly the romantic gesture I had planned, but it looks like changing a tire will have to work. Unbuttoning my dress shirt, I walk toward the front of the car to inspect the flat.
“Umm . . . Grant?”
“Hmm?” Squatting down, I inspect the tire, looking for a nail or screw. Nothing is visible but it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. As I begin to slip my shirt off to get to work, I turn to Dakota, peering over my shoulder.
Her face is scrunched up like she smells something bad. Pausing with the shirt halfway off my shoulders I stand. “What’s wrong?”
“Why are you undressing?”
“To change the tire. It’ll be easier with the T-shirt I’m wearing instead of this button down.”
“Oh.”
“Want to open the back so I can get the spare?”
She looks from me to her car and then back again. Raising my brows in question, I wait, but she never moves.
“It’s there.”
“What’s where?”
“The spare. It’s on the car. I actually had a flat last week after driving to a new build site. I meant to stop by the shop, and have it replaced but I haven’t had the time.”
Pulling the shirt back on my shoulders, I rebutton it into place. “Well then, looks like you need a ride. I’ll take you home and we can make arrangements to have your car towed in the morning. Sound okay?”
“I should call now, and have it towed. I’m sure my sister can pick me up. No need for you to go out of your way.”
Her insistence that I leave her at the restaurant, and she call a tow truck and a ride lasted longer than I expected. Who in their right mind would do such a thing? I cannot fathom leaving anyone stranded, let alone the woman I’m on a date with.
Now, as she sits in the passenger seat, she’s quiet. With her eyes focused out the window, she’s humming along to the music but not engaging me in conversation. I’ve tried to lighten the mood, but she’s not having it. I have a feeling as soon as I turn in her driveway she’s going to bolt from the car and leave me confused.
That’s why I’m doing the only logical thing—pulling to the curb three houses away from her own and putting the car in park.
“What are you doing?” Dakota asks, twisting in her seat, brows furrowed. Her little nose is scrunched and if the sun were shining, I bet I could count her freckles. Instead, the glow of the moonlight and the lights from my console are all that lights the small space.
“Not giving you an opportunity to end the best first date I’ve had with the silent treatment. I’m not sure what I’ve done, but you’re clearly upset with me. Please clue me in so I can apologize.”
Sighing, she slouches in her seat, head down, and shakes her head. Tentatively, I reach over and take her hand in mine. Her eyes fixate on my gesture before she looks up at me, eyes glistening with tears.
“You haven’t done anything. It’s me. I’m a mess.”
“Dakota, you are not a mess. Talk to me. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what I’ve done.”
“That’s just it. You want to fix it. The tire, me, everything. You’re a fixer, a caregiver. I’m not used to that. I’ve grown accustomed to handling things on my own or leaning on my sister and Owen. When you took charge, I felt relieved. Grateful and happy to have someone else take control of the situation. Then I felt guilty. Horrible for having those thoughts. It made me feel ungrateful for the help I’ve had and, truthfully, a little weak.”
“Hey,” I prod as I cup her cheek with my hand, turning her to face me. “You are not weak. Dakota, you are one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. Never doubt that. But you have to know that accepting help from people who care for you isn’t a sign of weakness. If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that people will give only what they’re able to, but it’s your choice to accept it.”
She nods slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. Slightly moving forward, I rub the pad of my thumb on her cheek. It’s tacky from her tears.
“I should get home,” she whispers, her eyes on my mouth. Exhaling, I release my hold and turn back in my seat, putting the car in drive.
Once we’re parked in her driveway, I round the front of the car, and open her door. Taking my offered hand, she slides out of her seat, feet touching the ground. To my surprise, she doesn’t immediately take her hand back and instead leads us to the porch.
Ignoring the loss of her hand in my own, I slip my hand in my pocket. It’s a casual look. At least that’s what I tell myself. We almost kissed in the car; I want to kiss her now. I’m not sure Dakota is there yet. Turning, she smiles at me.
“I had—”
“Would you—?”
I motion for her to speak first.
“Would you like to come in? All that talk about this cake was for show. I can’t eat all of this,” she says, holding up the container. “I mean, of course I can but I shouldn’t.”
“It seems like I’d be doing you a disservice if I left you alone with that cake. I’d love to come in.”
Her eyes light up and she turns quickly, opening the door and stepping into the house. It’s quiet. Eerily quiet compared to when I was here last. Kicking off her shoes by the front door, she falls about four inches from the height she was seconds ago.
I follow her lead and slip off my shoes before following her into the house. A lamp illuminates the living room, a woman lying on the couch with a book in her hands looks up at us.
“Hi you two.”
“Mrs. Larson, this is Grant Ellison. Grant, Mrs. Larson.”
“Dakota, I’ve told you to call me Charla,” the woman chastises as she places a bookmark in her paperback and stands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Grant. I understand you’ll be one of our newest residents.”
“Yes, ma’am. Dakota helped me find the perfect house. I’ll be renting a place just down the street from here while doing some renovations to the house.”
Smiling, she walks around the couch to stand before us. She’s shorter than Dakota, her dark hair sprinkled with silver, and each time she smiles the slightest lines appear beside her eyes. Kindness spills from her, and I understand why Dakota trusts her with the girls.
“The girls were lovely as always. We baked some cookies, which are in a container on the counter. Arizona was a little quieter than usual, but she was also quizzing me on why you were dressed up for dinner. I dodged her questions, but I’m not sure she bought it.”
“Thanks for trying. I’ll talk to her in the morning.”
“You two have a great rest of your evening. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Goodnight.”
Cherish Her Page 12
