Page 27 of Tempted By the Single Dad Mechanic
"For her. For us. I don't know." She wipes at her eyes. "I'm sorry. You didn't ask for my life story."
"Hey." I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine before I can think better of it. "Don't apologize. I asked."
She looks down at our hands, and I start to pull away, but she turns hers over and holds on.
"Everyone keeps telling me I should go home," she says. "My parents are worried. My friends don't understand why I'm still doing this when Annie's not here to do it with me. But I can't stop. Not yet. It feels like if I stop, if I go back to my normal life, then it's really over. She's really gone."
I understand that more than she knows. The fear that if you stop moving, stop pushing forward, you'll have to actually feel everything you've been running from.
"For what it's worth," I say, "I think it's brave. What you're doing."
She lets out a watery laugh. "It doesn't feel brave. It feels terrifying and lonely and like I'm failing at honoring her memory because I'm doing it all wrong."
"There's no wrong way to grieve."
"People keep saying that, but I don't think they mean it. I think they mean 'there's no wrong way to grieve as long as you do it quietly and don't make anyone uncomfortable.'"
"Fuck that," I say, and she blinks in surprise. "Sorry. But seriously. You get to grieve however you need to. If that means driving around the country for six months, living in your car, seeing all the places you promised to see together? Then that's what you do. Anyone who has a problem with it can mind their own business."
She's staring at me like I've said something profound instead of just common sense.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?"
"For getting it. For not telling me I should go home or move on or any of the other things people say when they don't know what else to say."
"I'm not going to tell you how to handle your grief." I squeeze her hand gently. "But I will tell you that you're allowed to rest. To stop moving for a little while. To let people help you."
"Is that what you're doing? Helping me?"
"Trying to."
She's quiet for a moment, her thumb absently tracing circles on the back of my hand. Then she looks up at me, and there's something vulnerable in her expression.
"Can I ask you something now?"
"Fair's fair," I say.
"What happened with Riley's mom?"
I should have seen it coming. She told me about her sister, about the grief she's carrying, and now she wants to know my story.
It's only fair.
But that doesn't make it easier.
I look down at our joined hands, trying to find the words. I don't talk about Sarah. Not really. I give people the bare minimum. She left, we're fine, end of story. But Morgan just trusted me with her pain. The least I can do is return the favor.
"Her name was Sarah," I say finally. "We met in Boston. I was working at my dad's shop, and she was a waitress at this restaurant I went to every Friday. We hit it off, started dating, and... it was good. Easy. Or I thought it was."
Morgan doesn't say anything, just waits.
"She got pregnant with Riley, and I was terrified but also excited, you know? I thought we'd figure it out together. Get married, raise our kid, build a life." I shake my head. "Sarah said all the right things at first. Smiled in the right places, let me paint the nursery, picked out names. But looking back, I don't think she was ever really there. Not emotionally."
"What happened?"
"Riley was born, and for the first few months, Sarah seemed okay. Tired, overwhelmed, but I thought that was normal. New parent stuff. But then Riley turned six months old, and Sarahjust... shut down. Stopped getting out of bed. Stopped holding Riley. I'd come home from work and find Riley crying in her crib and Sarah just staring at the wall."
