by Jewel E. Ann
“Great. Your place it is. Bye, Griff.”
He slowly shakes his head as I close the door behind me.
I arrive at Nate’s three minutes late thanks to traffic and my oversleeping. A shower and clean clothes would have been nice. I really need to keep more than a toothbrush and a stick of deodorant at Griffin’s, but he hasn’t asked me to move in, so actual clothes might feel a little too intrusive and presumptuous.
“Hello?” I step inside the front door and slip off my shoes.
“In here,” Nate calls from his office.
“Sorry I’m a few minutes late. Traffic was—”
“It’s no problem.” He keeps his eyes on the computer screen, fingers playing hunt and peck with the keyboard. Typing would have been a useful skill, but I’m not surprised he never learned it.
I’m only surprised that I know that. Here we go again …
“Where’s Morgan?”
“Sleeping. She was up early, so after her bottle she fell back to sleep.” He shuts the top to his laptop. “I won’t be gone long.”
“Meeting?”
“Cemetery.”
“Oh, you have an actual plot?” Last week Rachael told me Jenna was cremated. I suppose some people still want a physical place to feel close to the departed.
“No. It’s …” He shakes his head. “Hard to explain.”
“O-kay. No explanation necessary. I’m here, no major plans today so take your time.”
Nate studies me with that scrutinizing look that feels pained and confused at the same time. I glance around the room, out the window, at the shelves of books. Anywhere but directly at him.
“My best friend died.”
This statement demands eye contact. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head a half dozen times. “Thank you, it was many years ago, but I still go visit her grave every year. I named Morgan after her.”
My eyes widen a fraction. “Your best friend was a girl?”
“Yes.”
“That’s … wow. And you named your daughter after her …”
He nods again.
Thinking back, he did say “she” when he discussed his best friend’s favorite pizza. It didn’t sink in until now.
“That’s really … special. Did Jenna know your friend too?”
Nate hesitates, distracting me with nervous gestures like clearing his throat and checking his watch. “No,” he says so softly I can barely hear him. But I know that’s what he said.
“Well, I’m still very sorry for your loss. Clearly you must have been close if you named Morgan after her, and you still visit her grave every year.”
Nate stares at his feet while scratching his head, ruffling his already wayward curls. “We met when we were seven.” He sighs slowly and makes his way toward the windows.
I guess he’s not leaving quite yet.
“I never talk about her. I never told Jenna about her. She never knew about my yearly visit to Morgan’s grave.”
“You should share this with Dr. Greyson.”
With his back to me, Nate shakes his head. “My sessions with him revolve around Jenna and my ‘feelings’ about being a single parent—a widower. But …” He sighs again.
“But what?” I rest my hands on the edge of his desk and lean back against it.
“I need to tell someone. I need to let it go … I need to let her go.”
I’m a twenty-one-year-old girl he’s known less than a month. He can’t seriously be suggesting I’m the one who he’s going to tell—”
“The first time I saw Morgan she was picking a fight with a boy twice her size because he wouldn’t move his leg out of the aisle when she got on the school bus. She had room to pass, but nope, not Morgan …”
CHAPTER NINE
Nathaniel Hunt – Age 10
“Nate and Morgan sitting in a tree … K I S S I N G. First comes love, then comes—”
“Shut up before I knock your teeth out with my fist and you go crying to your mommy like a baby in a baby carriage.” Morgan spit on the kids below us as they marched toward the lake, fishing poles in one hand, tackle boxes in the other, dodging saliva bombs.
I ignored their snickers and smooching sounds. Morgan didn’t ignore anything. Her parents called her Little Firecracker, but not me—I called her Daisy because her middle name was Daisy and she hated it when I called her that.
“Have you ever hit anyone?” I asked as we continued our game of Go Fish, perched high in the old oak tree on the abandoned property a mile from our neighborhood. At least we thought it was abandoned. No one knew for sure. An old couple owned it, but there hadn’t been any sign of them in over three years. All that mattered to us kids was that we could hide from our parents in what had to be the best treehouse ever built and fish off their dock along the lake.
“Yes. I’ve hit someone. Do you have any kings?”
“Go fish. Who have you hit?”
She drew a card and grinned as she got her final match. Game over. “My cousin, Austin. He’s an idiot.”
“So you hit him because he’s an idiot?”
Morgan poked her head out of the glassless window. Her cheeks puffed out and rolled in waves as she collected more saliva for ammunition.
“Don’t.” I grabbed the back of her shirt and tugged her away from the window.
The cards on the floor scattered when she fell on them. Her giggles gurgled as she tried to swallow the excess spit without choking on it.
“Every time you act all tough, I end up in a fight, protecting you from them. I wish you’d hit them so I wouldn’t always be the one getting in trouble for fighting. I’m tired of my parents saying, ‘Why can’t you be more like Morgan?’”
“I don’t like them teasing us.” She sat up facing me, crisscrossing her legs. “You’re not my boyfriend. We’ve never kissed.”
“We did kiss.”
“That doesn’t count.” Her eyes narrowed at me.
“It counts.” I smirked because I could never forget the day I met Morgan Daisy Gallagher. We were seven. She’d just moved to Madison mid-school year.
“I whispered over your mouth. Remember? I asked you to scoot over and let me sit by you after I kicked Benji for not moving his stupid leg.”
“Our lips touched.”
Morgan’s brown eyes looked like marbles rolling around in their sockets. “The bus driver went over a speed bump and we…” she sighed “…bumped lips.”
“A kiss. You kissed me so I would protect you from Ben. You always try to fight with people bigger than you.”
More eye-rolling. “So what? You think you should be my boyfriend?”
“Yeah.” I grinned because Morgan was my best friend and pretty. Man was she pretty, like a real life princess with hair so long and blond it looked like a gold waterfall flowing down her back.
Boys chased her because they liked her, even if she kicked them in the balls, and girls wanted to be her—popular, pretty, smart.
“Fine. I’ll be your girlfriend, but only until I find a real boyfriend.”
“A real boyfriend?”
She pulled her hair over her shoulder and started braiding it. I could spend all day watching her braid her hair.
“Yes. A real boyfriend. One who brings me flowers and chocolate and opens doors for me like my dad opens doors for my mom. And one who kisses me right here.” She pointed to a spot on her neck just below her ear. “My dad kisses my mom there and it always makes her giggle.”
I shrugged. “I can get you flowers and chocolate and hold open doors for you.” My hand dug into the front pocket of my shorts and pulled out a half-melted candy bar. “Here, chocolate. And I call you Daisy which is better than giving you flowers.”
As if I were asking her to eat my vomit, she frowned in disgust. “Fine. But the next time your dad gets popsicles for you, you have to give me all of the good flavors.”
“The red ones?”
“And the orange.”
“That only l
eaves the purple. Nobody likes the purple.”
“Do you want me to be your girlfriend?” She finished her braid and tossed it back over her shoulder.
“Yeah.”
The grin that slid up her face was equal parts evil and sweet. “Then you’d better learn to like purple popsicles.” She thought she’d won. Morgan’s personality bled of competitiveness and confidence.
“Now the kiss.” I licked my lips and rubbed them together.
Everything that wasn’t her idea came with a heavy sigh. “One kiss. For two seconds.”
I leaned forward.
“Wait!” Her head jerked back. “Let me get ready.”
“Huh? What’s there to get ready for?”
She straightened her back, drew in a deep breath, and closed her eyes. “Now.” Her lips drew into a tight pucker.
As my lips neared hers they decided to take a last-minute detour landing on her neck just below her ear. In that moment, the best thing ever happened. Daisy giggled.
*
Nathaniel Hunt – Now
The smile from my face fades. The memories? They haven’t faded one bit.
“I should go.”
Swayze blinks but her smile doesn’t fade. “You’re a romantic, Professor Hunt.”
“I don’t know about that.”
She pushes off the edge of my desk as I head toward the door. “Look…” she holds out her arm “…I have goose bumps from your story.”
I continue toward the garage. “You have goose bumps because I keep my office five degrees cooler than any other room in the house—except my bedroom.”
“Well, at least now I know why you were so weird about me calling your daughter Daisy.”
As if she hears us, Morgan starts to fuss.
“I won’t be long.” I open the door.
“Has she met her?”
“What?” I turn.
Swayze rubs her lips together as her eyes narrow into a slight squint like she’s afraid to say anymore. “Has Morgan met Morgan?”
“One is dead and the other is a newborn.”
“Yet … you visit dead Morgan’s grave.”
“So?”
“Do you talk to her?”
“What does it matter? She’s crying. You’d better go pick her up.”
“She’s barely fussing, and I will get her in a second. Your best friend … you named your daughter after her. Hello? Of course you should introduce them. I introduced my boyfriend to my dead father.” Swayze cocks her head to the side. “It went much better than I expected. My father didn’t say much, and I felt certain he’d have something to say about my boyfriend’s tattoos.”
“You’re morbid.” I don’t want to laugh. It’s not the right time, and the context of this conversation has taken a wrong turn. She’s crazy. I’ve hired a crazy young woman to watch my child.
“Says the guy who has a skeleton standing next to his desk.”
My jaw clenches to keep myself in check. I refuse to laugh. “I’m an anatomy professor. Now, go do your job. She’s crying.”
“I’ll grab her, a bottle, and the diaper bag. You get her car seat.”
“No. I’ll see you both in about an hour.”
Swayze turns and jogs away, her voice fading as she retreats farther down the hall toward the nursery. “We can stop for iced coffee on the way. I need a pick-me-up. My treat.”
I’m the boss, yet no means yes in the nanny world. If I weren’t convinced Swayze is a true baby whisperer, firing her for insubordination would be the next logical step. But she’s magical with Morgan. I’d say it’s the breasts. Women have nurturing pillows that babies seem to love. But Rachael has them too, and Morgan fusses with Rachael as much as she does with me. That can only mean one thing: Swayze has magical breasts.
“What’s that smirk for?” she asks as we pull out of the garage.
I clear my throat and remove the grin from my face. Magical breasts. What is wrong with me? The thought entered my mind in the most maternal, anatomical way possible, yet … now that she’s unknowingly calling me out on it, I feel like a dirty old man.
“I didn’t realize I was smirking.” I slip on my sunglasses to hide as much of my face as possible from my scrutinizing nanny who doesn’t miss a thing.
“Were you thinking about Morgan, your friend? I can’t stop thinking about her. She sounds like everything I wasn’t. I’m a little envious of her.”
“She died.” I give her a quick sideways glance, my glasses hiding the slight raise of my brow.
“Yeah … okay, I’m not envious of that, but she had a boyfriend at ten. I had a boyfriend at like … I don’t even want to say. It’s embarrassing. Anyway, I was smart but not confident and I was never popular. She got a kiss on the neck and it made her giggle. I got my bra snapped and it nearly brought me to tears.”
“You seem to have turned out okay.”
“Sure.” She grunts a laugh. “Barely. It was close. Could have gone either way. Wanna know the crazy part? My father’s death was a pivotal moment in my life, but in a good way. And I know how morbid that sounds, but it’s true. I’ve discussed this with our shrink.”
Our shrink. That’s cringe-worthy. She makes us both sound like fuckups.
“When my father died, I was no longer the focus. The expectations died with him. I guess if something good can come from something bad, then my freedom came from his death. Like … someday if you find another woman to love, it will be bittersweet. Something good from something bad.”
I shake my head a half dozen times. “That won’t happen. I’m done.”
“Done?”
“Unless Morgan gives me a granddaughter someday, she is the last woman I will love.”
“Ouch. That’s a little pessimistic. You’re still in your thirties. A lot could happen.” She points to the coffee shop on the right side of the road.
I turn in. “I loved Morgan—Daisy—and she died. I loved Jenna and she died. See any pattern?”
“Oh … wow. I can’t believe Dr. Greyson has let you get away with that train of thought.”
“I haven’t told him. We’re still in the why-does-God-hate-me phase. I’m pretty sure we’re stuck there. What do you want?” I stop at the drive-thru to order.
“Grande caramel iced coffee with cream.”
“Two grande caramel iced coffees with cream,” I yell into the speaker.
Her jaw unhinges. “You’re getting the same thing?”
I shrug. “Sure. Why not?”
“Griff never as in ever gets naughty coffee drinks with me. He’s an icon of health. I’m not exactly complaining, but sometimes it’s fun to have a partner in crime. You know what I mean?”
“The boyfriend?”
“Yes. Griffin. He’s a mechanic and technician at the Harley dealership.”
“A guy with tattoos and a motorcycle? Now I too am surprised your dad didn’t have something to say about that.” And it’s happened. She’s brought me to a new low. I’m taking my newborn baby to meet my dead childhood girlfriend while indulging in copious amounts of caffeine, fat, and sugar—and making inappropriate jokes about dead people.
The laughter that fills the vehicle feels like Daisy is here with me, like Jenna never died, like God doesn’t have it in for me. I want to bottle it and save it for the nights that leave me wondering what the hell has happened to my life. This … this feeling is the remedy for my fucking pity parties that seem to creep up at the worst time, like when Morgan refuses to take a bottle from me or when she won’t stop crying and I swear she’s grieving her mom and … it. Fucking. Kills. Me.
“Jesus, Nate …” She sighs with a soft, satisfying hum. “I’ve missed your humor.”
I stop so fast at the drive-thru window my seat belt locks up. We stare at each other in silence. The same ghostly paleness washes down her face like it did that day in the nursery. It’s a strange familiar. She’s known me only as a single dad and grieving widower. That is the indisputable truth. But … she
looks at me like she’s been looking at me my whole life.
“Swayze …”
She shakes her head, eyes wide and unblinking. “That came out wrong. Don’t—”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The barista at the window smiles, holding up the two iced coffees. I roll the window back down and hand her a twenty, not waiting for change before handing one to Swayze and pulling out of the parking lot.
“Nate—”
“Nathaniel.” It’s not my intention to snap at her, but I’m on edge for some reason I can’t explain.
We don’t speak the rest of the way to the cemetery. As soon as my white Escalade is in Park, I open the door. “Just wait here.”
Swayze pauses. I can’t look at her because I don’t know whom I’m looking at, and I can’t handle the way she looks at me. It’s so fucking haunting. She shuts the door. Out of my peripheral vision, I see her nod once.
It’s a long walk to Daisy’s grave. She’s at the far corner next to her mom’s parents. They watch over her. Over two decades, a marriage, a baby, and the loss of my wife later … I still can’t visit her without a lump in my throat and an ache in my chest.
The only true love I have left fusses as I reposition her so she’s flush to my chest, head tucked under my chin. “Shh … you’re okay, sweet girl. I want you to meet my friend, Morgan.” I stop at the glassy black headstone.
Morgan Daisy Gallagher
Beloved daughter, dreamer, beautiful angel.
“Hey, Daisy.” I swallow back the lump as the wind howls through the tall trees. There’s so much to say. I’ve never allowed myself more than one visit a year. But a lot happens in a year.
Morgan continues to fuss, so I bounce her a bit. “I’m a dad. Can you believe that?” Damn tears. I cried in front of Daisy once in the eight years we were together. It was the day she died, so she couldn’t really see my tears. Since then, I’ve cried every year, just once—until Jenna died—on the anniversary of her death, here, where she rests for eternity. “So … you probably know by now … Jenna died giving birth to our daughter. We named her Morgan. Crazy right?”
Swallowing again and again, I try to keep my emotions contained. “Have you seen Jenna? I bet you’ve both been sharing stories and laughing about all my faults and the stupid stuff I’ve done.”
