Page 27 of I Saw Her First

She hops onto a stool at the kitchen island, and I pop the top on the cabernet franc—a bottle from a winery local to the area. I decant it to breathe while I season the steak, Daisy sitting quietly. It’s so silent in here that I’m aware of every sound I make, every time Daisy clears her throat.

We need a distraction, like, now.

“Do you want to put on some music?”

“Uh, sure.” Daisy slides from the stool. “Do you have a Bluetooth speaker?”

I wash and dry my hands, leading Daisy into the living room. “I don’t, but I have a record player.”

God, all this does is make me appear ancient. My dad gave me his record collection when he and my mom moved to Florida a few years back, and sitting with a glass of wine while listeningto his records has been one of my favorite ways to pass the time here since Lydia died.

I pick up the crate of records and lift the lid from the record player. “I know it’s old-fashioned, but—”

“I love it.” Daisy dives on the records, flicking through them with delight. “Ooh, how about this?” She holds up Steely Dan’sGauchowith a grin, and I blink in surprise.

“You know Steely Dan?”

She gives me a strange look. “Of course.”

“Alright.” I chuckle, lifting the needle on the record player. “So, you put the record here, and—”

She laughs, a light, musical sound that instantly puts me at ease. “I know how a record player works, Weston. Step aside.”

I can’t help but laugh in response, and I raise my hands, taking a step back. I watch, impressed, as she places the record on the turntable and positions the needle with expert precision. The opening track starts, and after a few chords, Donald Fagen’s voice fills the room.

“You can call me Wes, you know.”

She lifts her gaze from the vinyl to me. “Wes,” she repeats, the lightest hint of a blush on her cheeks. “Okay.”

I turn back to the kitchen, forcing myself to ignore the way her voice sounds like a soft purr as she says my name.

I pour the wine and hand Daisy a glass, then busy myself taking the steak out to the grill on the deck. Music wafts through the open sliding door, but doesn’t drown out the sound of surf crashing onto the beach. The sky is apricot and pink as the sun inches toward the horizon, and the smell of sizzling steak mingles with the salty ocean air. Through the glass door I see Daisy on the sofa, glass of wine in her hand, eyes closed and foot tapping as she listens to the music, and for the first time since I can remember, my heart feels light. I let myself imagine, just for a moment, that this is my life.

Guilt engulfs me, and I tear my gaze away from the woman inside.

She’s your son’s girlfriend, I remind myself, fists tightening at my side. What is wrong with me? Why do I keep forgetting that?

I shake my head, turning the steak on the grill. I’m lonely, that’s all. It’s been three years since Lydia died—three years since I’ve felt the touch of a woman. Daisy is the woman I’ve most consistently spent time with over the past year—seeing her almost daily—so it’s natural that she’d take on that role in my head, but it’s inappropriate. Even if Jess decided he didn’t like her anymore, I could never be with her. She’d always be my son’s ex-girlfriend.

Even if I saw her first.

I push the thought from my head and shut off the grill, taking the steak inside to let it rest while I throw together a quick salad.

“Do you need help with anything?” Daisy offers, entering the kitchen. Just having her in the room shifts the energy, and I suddenly wish she’d declined my offer to eat together. This was a terrible idea.

“I’ve got it,” I mutter. “Thanks.”

I serve up our meal and consider taking my plate to my room, but that would be rude. I invited her to eat with me, and it’s not like she knows what I’m thinking. I just need to rein in my imagination and behave like an adult.

We sit on the stools and eat, the sounds of Steely Dan’sHey Nineteenplaying in the background. It’s not lost on me that the song is about an older man who’s interested in a much younger woman, and I silently pray Daisy isn’t listening to the lyrics as she eats. Although, given her unexpected love of the music, she probably knows all the words.

“I’m surprised you like the music,” I say around a bite of steak.

She gives me a faint smile. “I’ve always loved this music.”

“Are your folks into it?”

Her face darkens. “No.” Her lips close around her fork and she chews slowly, as if in thought. After swallowing, she adds, “My friend Beth and I used to listen to it. Her mom and dad were into music from the seventies and eighties. They were cool.Shewas cool.”

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