by B. N. Toler
McKenzie, the second oldest, rolls her eyes, and takes a seat at the kitchen table. She looks just like Wendy at her age, all blonde hair, and rocking body. But she’s fifteen and McKenzie has reached those fun teenage years where everyone and everything is a nuisance. Oh, and she has it all figured out.
“Yay,” J.J. chirps. “Grilled cheese.”
“Grilled cheese again?” McKenzie moans.
“Not tonight, Kenz. Spare me your whining for one night,” Wendy begs as she grabs a pot from the stove and starts scooping green beans on the plates.
“Who are you?” Mary-Anne asks, and I look down to see her staring at Connor.
He bends to one knee, so he’s at her height and reaches out a hand, “I’m Connor Stevens.”
She looks at his hand for a brief moment before slipping her tiny one in his. “Mary-Anne Louise Tuffman,” she replies, giving Connor her full name.
He grins, and I’m oddly enraptured as I watch him talk with Mary-Anne. There’s easiness about him and mirth in his eyes. He’s good with kids.
“Nice to meet you,” he says.
Suddenly, J.J. lifts the back of Connor’s shirt before anyone knows what he’s doing and asks, “Who colored these pictures all over you?
“They’re tattoos you idiot,” McKenzie snips.
“Enough McKenzie,” Wendy growls in frustration.
Connor stands, tugging his shirt back down and informs J.J., “A bunch of different people colored them.”
“Cool,” J.J. says, giving him a toothless grin, before moving past his mother at the counter, fixated on his feast of grilled cheese. McKenzie groans, clearly wanting attention, and against my better judgment, I fold and give it to her.
“Hey, McKenzie,” I wave. “What’s wrong?”
“My cell got cut off. That’s what’s wrong,” she complains as she crosses her arms and pouts.
“Well, it would be lovely to have a phone that you can talk on but can’t charge because we couldn’t afford to pay the power bill because we paid for said phone!” Wendy snaps.
“I hate this house! I hate being poor,” McKenzie shouts as she bolts out of her seat and flies past us to leave. But Wendy’s oldest son, Mark, is in the doorway and seeing she’s super pissed, and only being dutiful, fulfilling his role as her older brother, decides now’s the best time to mess with her. He holds both hands on the doorframe as McKenzie tries to push past him. When she starts hitting him, he laughs. Mark is sixteen and almost as big as Jeff. He can take a few girly hits which up until this point, that’s all McKenzie has doled out.
“What’s the matter Kenz?” Mark teases pouting his lip mockingly. “Got your period?”
McKenzie stops hitting him, and her eyes go wide with rage. He just brought up her period in front a stranger—Connor—there will definitely be hell to pay. He’s busy laughing when her knee pops up giving him a hard hit to the balls. He folds to the floor and yells out in pain as she steps over him and leaves the room.
“McKenzie!” Wendy shrieks as she rushes to Mark. But McKenzie ignores her as she tromps up the stairs and slams her bedroom door. As Wendy tends to Mark, I look back and find J.J. gorging on grilled cheese and Grayson still lining up matchbox cars completely oblivious to all the commotion.
“We should probably go,” I tell Connor.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
Wendy stands, and we step over Mark to exit the kitchen where he’s laying in the fetal position, cupping his manhood. Wendy walks us to the door and hugs me.
“I’m sorry for all the commotion.”
“Don’t be,” I chuckle as I hand her the small paper bag of candy bars. “Connor bought these for the kids.”
“Well that was so nice of you,” Wendy grins.
Cutting me a sideways glance, Connor clarifies, “They’re from both of us.”
“Well thanks to both of you,” Wendy says, as she darts her eyes back and forth between us, her mouth quirked in a smirk.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“If I survive the weekend,” she sighs. “Good to see you again Connor.” She hugs him, and he’s slow to return it, a little surprised by her affection, But after a beat, his arms wrap around her, and he says, “You too, Wendy.”
Once we’re outside, and Wendy shuts the door we hear Wendy yell, “Get up Mark. You’re not that big; she couldn’t have done but so much damage.”
Connor’s brows rise, and we both burst out laughing as we make our way to my car.
By the time Monday rolls around, I’m ready to go back to work even if it’s only three days a week for a few hours. The county’s budget is always short and because of that, they can’t afford a full-time staff in the summer for the special needs kids. My work day flies by, and it’s noon before I know it. All of my students have been picked up when Shelly from the front office enters my classroom with a flat, square package.
“You were out last week when this came.”
“What is it?” I ask as she hands me the parcel, which is also surprisingly light.
“I don’t know. Some guy dropped it off. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she calls as she hurries out of the room, eager to leave work for the day.
Tearing open the paper, I realize it’s a painting. It’s a painting of the autism symbol; a multi-colored puzzle piece. I don’t see a note until I turn the painting and find a card taped to the back of the canvas.
My face hurts I’m smiling so big. The painting is lovely, and I decide I’m going to hang it in the classroom. My students will love the bright colors. I can’t deny I’m impressed. This is probably one of the most romantic things anyone has ever done for me. If he delivered this last week, he must think I’ve blown him off. I yank my cell out of my purse and shoot him a text.
Me: The painting is beautiful. Thank you.
A few minutes pass and I check the number to make sure I dialed right. Yes, it’s right. What if he’s not interested anymore?
Vick: I’ve given out a lot of paintings lately. Who is this?
My stomach knots. Does he always do this kind of thing for women he asks out? Should I even respond to this?
Vick: I’m just kidding, Demi. I haven’t stopped thinking about the gorgeous woman I stumbled upon in the grocery store, talking to herself.
I cringe as I remember how crazy I must’ve looked.
Me: You’re hilarious. I fell for it . . . again.
Vick: I like that about you. ;) So . . . meet me for dinner?
Me: Yes. I’d like that.
Vick: Tillie’s, seven o’clock on Wednesday?
Me: See you then.
Vick: Have I mentioned I’m really starting to love this place? ;) See you, Wednesday.
I stay in my classroom for a few more hours, organizing and cleaning. Mostly killing time until four when Wendy wants to meet for happy hour. I know times are tough, and she’s super stressed; with five kids I’m sure she’s busting at the seams to get out of the house. As I drive to Tillie’s to meet Wendy, the thought of going out with a man for the first time since Blake passed runs through my mind. While the idea of it is exciting, there’s also guilt. If Blake were still alive, there’d be no Vick, and there’d be no first date. I’d be on my way home right now to cook us dinner.
At a red light, I pull my cell out and dial Lexi.
“Helloooo, darling,” she answers in a British accent.
“I have a date,” I blurt out. I feel like this little fact has been bottled up inside me ready to burst free at any moment. Lexi is probably the worst person to tell, but she is my sister.
“You do?” The astonishment is extremely evident in her voice. She’s shocked.
“Yes. I met him at the grocery store the other day. His name is Vick.”
“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.
“Same here.”
“Grams said it was a nice funeral,” he notes as he stares at the headstone. He said this to me the day I picked him up in Arizona. I realize there’s a lot of guilt there for him. He wasn’t here to bury his cousin . . . or little brother as he considered Blake and he needed reassurance that Blake had the best; that his wishes were met.
“It was,” I assure him.
“Will you tell me about it? I know that sounds dumb, but . . . I just want to know.”
Moving beside him, I say, “He had a dark mahogany casket. The best we could buy. He argued with me about it, but I put my foot down.”
Connor’s eyes widen. “He helped pick out his own casket?”
“Yes. He wanted to feel in control of his death. And . . . he wanted me to be able to mourn without stressing about all of the details.”
Connor nods as he continues to stare at the headstone. I smile sadly as I stare down with him. “We buried him in his best suit, but no dress shirt under it. He made me promise to put his Avengers T-shirt on him.” We both chuckle.
“He loved his damn comic books.”
“He was buried with a photo of me and one of you and Grams and his favorite comic book. He said he’d need something to read when we were all sleeping, and he wasn’t watching over us.”
“Sounds like him,” Connor snorts. “Always thinking of everyone else.”
“I think he always knew he was going to die young,” I admit. “But the man spent every day trying to make someone else’s day a little better.”
Connor sniffles and wipes at his nose. “You must think I’m a pussy; I’m always crying.”
God, if he knew. Why his sadness is so devastatingly beautiful to me, I’ll never know. It’s like I get to know a secret; see something no one else does. I get to see this tough, tattooed man . . . let go. Feel. And I hate to admit it, but I find it so attractive. It’s not how he looks while he cries, I mean, he’s an exquisite looking man, there’s no denying it, but it’s more about the rawness of it. A beat of awkward silence falls between us, our gazes fixed on Blake’s stone, and staying true to myself, I try to fill it. “Wendy and I are meeting at Tillie’s in a half an hour. You wanna join us?”
Connor turns to me and shrugs. “I think I’m going to head home and work on the bike, but thanks for the invite.” Then he turns his head and looks back at Blake’s grave. “Later, cuz.”
He gives me a quick wave and leaves me with Blake’s stone.
Wendy is waiting for me in a corner booth when I arrive. I’ve known her my entire life and just looking at her as I approach the table, I know something is wrong. Hey eyes look puffy and an empty glass sets next to the beer in her hand. She’s in a drinking mood tonight.
“Hi,” I venture. “You okay?”
She gives me a sad smile. “I am. Just . . . had a bad couple of days.” Her blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail, and she runs her hand over it as she looks away from me, her eyes growing teary.
My brows furrow in concern. Wendy rarely gets emotional, so I know it must be bad. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She blinks a few times, trying to clear the emotion from her eyes. “I hadn’t told anyone,” she begins, “but I was pregnant. I found out a week ago, but I miscarried two days ago.”
I lean forward and take her hand, my heart breaking for her. “I knew something was wrong when I saw you yesterday. I’m so sorry¸ Wendy,” I offer.
“I couldn’t have been more than two months. I know it seems silly that I’m so upset about it when I wasn’t so far along.”
“It’s not silly at all,” I reply, firmly. I hate that women are made to feel like they can’t mourn the loss of a baby they miscarried early on. I’ve never been pregnant, but just the idea of finding out my child was growing inside of me makes my heart swell with love; I can’t imagine how it feels to actually see that positive pregnancy test. “That was your baby, Wendy. You have every right to feel sad and mourn this loss and don’t let anyone make you feel differently.”
She takes a napkin from the dispenser between us and wipes under her eyes. “Thank you, Demi.”
“How’s Jeff taking it?” I query, still holding her hand.
“He’s sad. We’re both
sad. But in a way . . . maybe it’s best. We’re having so many problems with Grayson, behavioral wise and with Jeff out of work we have no insurance. Money is so tight right now. It isn’t the right time for a baby.”
I frown. How sad that she has to think of money when she’s just lost her baby. I hate that they’re struggling so much. “I’m happy to give you money, Wendy.”
“No,” she states flatly. “I appreciate it, but no.”
I nod once, deciding not to argue with her. I’ve offered before, and she gave the same adamant answer. So instead, I make an offer I know she can’t refuse. “How about I keep the kids at my house this weekend.”
Her eyes dart to mine, riddled with disbelief. A person offering to watch her five children for a weekend are few and far between. I can’t help chuckling a little, even with the grim news she just shared. “Yes,” I assure her. “You heard me right.”
“You do understand I have five children, don’t you?”
“Are those who all those small people are that are always hanging around you?” I jest, my brows furrowed in mock confusion.
“Five, Demi.” She lifts her hand, all five fingers fanned out. “Five.”
“I was there when each of them was born,” I reply dryly.
“You don’t have to do that, Demi. I don’t want to put that burden on you,” she sighs.
“They’re my godchildren, Wendy. And they’ve spent the night with me before.” This is true. Each of them has stayed with me . . . just not all five at once. But I know I can handle this, and nothing would make me happier than to give her some time to mourn and heal in peace.
She gives me a skeptical look. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I confirm, pulling my hand away as the waitress approaches our table. After I order two beers—one for me, one for Wendy—and the waitress scurries off, I add, “Connor will be there to help.”
She smiles. “The kids liked him.” I’m surprised she’s so . . . relaxed about her children being around Connor. She’s only met him twice so it’s not like she knows him well. All she knows is he’s a convicted felon.
