Chapter Seven
Chloe
When Shaw showed up unexpectedly after work, I wasn’t sure how to react. I’d blinked and nodded, and then when he asked me if he could come inside, I’d said yes. Now we were sitting side by side on the edge of my bed and my heart was pounding like a bass drum.
Hope-filled thoughts ran rampant in my brain. Maybe it was because it was a Monday, or because it was still light outside, or because of that apology text he sent me, but part of me hoped he was finally here to talk about something real.
“Are you okay?” he asked, watching me carefully. I was sure he could see the way the wheels in my brain were spinning out of control.
“Fine. Why?”
“You never responded to my text yesterday.”
I shrugged. “I know. I’ve been busy.”
What a total lie. It had been slow at the inn today. I wrote him back six times and deleted the texts before sending. I was trying to be strong, and now it seemed that maybe the strategy had worked.
Shaw chewed on his lower lip and gazed out the window at the blue horizon beyond our little stretch of beach. He was contemplative¸ and I wondered if he was ready to open up to me after closing me out emotionally for all these months.
I decided to be bold and take the first step. “I feel like there are some things we should talk about.”
“Related to me and you?”
I took a deep breath. “No. About you and Samantha. About you, and how you’re doing.”
She had died on a Wednesday night. The sobering thought kept me awake at night, wondering if the day of the week he always came to me held a deeper significance, if the empty spot in his heart was soothed by my presence. I wanted to understand more.
He ran his hands through his hair and continued looking out the window. “What’s there to say?”
“I just want to hear about how you’re feeling, how you’re coping with everything . . .”
I remembered back to six weeks after the funeral. He’d asked me to come by his place, and when I got there, he asked if I would mind taking all of Samantha’s things and boxing them up. Her parents were coming by that weekend to pick up her stuff.
I figured it would have been too painful for him to do, so of course I said yes. That was the last time we’d talked about her.
“I think you know, Chloe,” he said, his gaze swinging over to me, and a small chill raced down my spine.
“Do you miss her?” I asked, my voice small.
That day almost seven months ago, Shaw took off in his boat while I made my way through the small house with only a half dozen cardboard boxes to keep me company. I boxed up her clothes, makeup, and toiletries, and little knickknacks out in the living room that I knew weren’t his. Even her toothbrush was still in its spot by the sink, her pink razor in the shower. I couldn’t imagine why he’d waited six weeks to remove some of the stuff.
I could only imagine how difficult living with those constant daily reminders had been. My guess was that he’d loved her so completely, he couldn’t bear the thought of removing even the tiniest of mementos, those items she’d last held in her hands.
Strangely, she hadn’t been wearing her wedding ring when she died—a detail that was whispered about at the funeral. It still sat in a crystal dish on her dresser. That, I left in its place, certain that Shaw wouldn’t want to part with it. He’d since sold the little house and now slept in the back bedroom at his marina. I had no idea what he did with the ring.
I was still waiting for him to answer.
“Sometimes,” he said finally.
It was a strange response, and my brow crinkled.
“I just need to know you’re okay,” I said, “and if you’re not okay, that maybe you’re getting there.”
He let out a deep sigh. “Okay? You want to know if I’m okay?”
I nodded, careful to keep a neutral expression.
“I shouldn’t be, right? Isn’t that what people think?”
I kept mute. I had a feeling he was on the verge of snapping if I pushed too hard.
“Is that what you think too, Chloe? That I’m destined to become this grieving, hardened widower incapable of feeling real happiness ever again?”
“Of . . . of course not.” I found my voice. “I just want you to know that I’m here to listen if you ever want to talk.”
He grunted out a response.
It was always this way. Just as I started to gain some traction with him, he shut down the conversation.
We sat on my bed with the low hum of the TV in the background and talked about mundane things. The new Cuban restaurant that recently opened in the downtown district, the hurricane season that had almost come to an end without even a blip on the radar. I began to relax a little more, my shoulders not so tense now.
“And how about you. How are you feeling?” he asked after a moment of silence with just a hint of a smirk on his lips.
His question was so unexpected, I stuttered, “W-what do you mean?”
“Is work okay? Business good with the inn?” he asked.
“All that’s fine.”
He nodded. “And your brother?”
“Fine.”
“And your friends?”
“Good.” What is with the game of twenty questions?
He nodded. “And us?”
I sighed, then took a deep breath. I’d feared this was coming. “I’m glad that I can be here for you to help, but—”