Page 29 of I Saw Her First

She rubs her forehead, confusion etched into her features.

“He still hasn’t told you, has he?”

Daisy shakes her head. “I’ve tried to talk to him, but he’s a closed book. Every time I bring it up, he gets angry.” She lifts her hands helplessly.

I stare down into my wine, contemplating her words. Poor Daisy. Jess isn’t making this easy on her, and it’s not fair.

“Jesse blames me for his mother’s death,” I say simply.

Daisy’s mouth pops open. “But… why?”

I rub my jaw, not wanting to paint Jess in a bad light, but wanting to be honest. “Lydia had stage four breast cancer. She was in and out of treatment for months, but it left her very unwell. Eventually, she decided to stop the treatment and make the most of her time left. It wasn’t long, but it meant she could enjoy every moment without being so ill. But Jess…” I let out a long breath, draining my wineglass and swallowing hard. “Jesseblamed me for not forcing her to continue treatment. I wanted to respect Lydia’s wishes, but he didn’t see it that way. He saw it as me giving up.”

“Oh, Wes.” Daisy’s eyes are moist and she reaches out to take my hand, squeezing. It mirrors the squeezing in my chest. I haven’t said these words out loud since I started therapy two years ago, and they’re making me feel raw.

“It’s hard enough watching someone you love go through that,” she murmurs, her face lined with compassion. “But to lose the support of your son… to have him blame you…”

I nod, looking down at her hand over mine. I don’t know what I was expecting when I told her, but it wasn’t this. This compassion, this empathy. As if she can feel the pain I’ve experienced the past three years, carrying the burden of my son’s blame on top of losing Lydia.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“I do,” I say, my throat tight. “I just wish Jess would see it that way.”

She gently withdraws her hand. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“So do I.” I give her a rueful smile, reaching for her empty plate. I stack it on top of mine and take them to the sink, rinsing them absently. Daisy is quiet while I load the plates into the dishwasher, then I pour myself another glass of wine and top off her glass. I lean against the counter opposite her, and we both sip our wine, listening to the music.

“You should take my Nikon and go shoot something,” I say at last.

Daisy glances up at me in surprise. “What? Why?”

I shrug. “I just… have this feeling you’ll feel better.”

She huffs a laugh, glancing down at her hands. “I want to. Really, I do. But… I don’t know.”

“There are some beautiful places around here that would be perfect.”

Daisy opens and closes her mouth, and I decide not to push her. Not now.

“There’s no pressure,” I add. “But it’s there if you want to use it. I hope you’ll consider it.”

Her gaze sparkles as it moves over my face. “Okay,” she says, pulling her long hair over one shoulder. “I’ll think about it.”

Just hearing her say that makes me smile. Her lips curve in return, and we gaze at each other across the kitchen island, the soft sound of Steely Dan’sHome at Lastplaying in the background. An unfamiliar sensation warms me from head to toe, and it takes me a good ten seconds to realize what it is.

I’mhappy.

Shit, I haven’t felt that in years. I’ve wanted to, but it’s eluded me, blocked out by the dark clouds of grief. The only time those clouds have parted, and only briefly, is when I’ve seen Daisy smiling at me over her coffee creations at Joe’s. But even then, I wasn’t happy. I was just… less sad. Less numb.

But sitting here with Daisy, listening to this music after sharing a meal—and, it feels, sharingourselves—has my heart feeling light and peaceful in a way I’d almost forgotten was possible.

God, I wish she were mine. I wish I could do this with her every night.

But the moment I have the thought, Jesse’s face appears in my mind and guilt slices through me. Because it doesn’t matter how much I enjoy her company. She’s not mine, and she never will be. I need to find my happiness elsewhere.

I clear my throat, setting my glass of wine down. “Well, I should get to bed.”

“Oh.” Daisy rises from the stool, dropping her gaze. “Yeah, I should…” She heads for the door without looking at me, then atthe last moment seems to reconsider, turning back. “Thanks for dinner, Wes. And the music, and… you know. Talking.”

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