“You’re going to make me cry again.” I flipped out a hand. “Being a nice guy and all.”

“I’m afraid I can’t stop being that,” he said.

“Fantastic,” I mumbled, and he smiled.

There was no bright that could cut the dark that had very recently consumed my life. Or, I should say, very recently re-consumed it.

Except that smile.

He took me out of my amazement of that fact, and captivation with his smile, when he pushed, “You’re going to get someone over here?”

I nodded.

He kept pushing. “And you’re going to call me and tell me when you can come to the station?”

I nodded again.

“You’ll get through this, Lillian.”

I wanted to believe that.

But I wasn’t so sure.

His voice dipped, and honest to God, the way it sounded, it felt like I was back in his arms. “I’ll get you through it, honey.”

“You’re being nice,” I warned.

He smiled again, reached out and touched the back of my hand like he was sending out a search party. He found what he was looking for, seeing as his fingers wrapped around mine and he pulled me out of the bathroom.

Still holding my hand, he led us to the great room and asked, “Where’s your phone?”

I looked to the kitchen counter.

He drew me there.

When he stopped us by my phone, I looked up at him. “Are you going to wait for me to call Kay?”

Or Jenna, Janie or Molly.

“No, I just wanted you in your pretty kitchen with your pretty flowers before I leave you.”

Oh my God!

This totally sucked!

Years, I’d been watching this man, thinking he was the bee’s knees.

I did not need to find out my parents were (very likely) irretrievably gone after denying for nearly two decades my parents were gone and then find out how much of the bee’s knees this guy was.

He read my annoyed expression, I knew, when his lips twitched and he muttered, “Sorry, I’m being nice again.”

“It’s irritating,” I snapped, taking odd comfort in being peevish rather than being a slobbering, wailing mess.

He bit his lip, but that didn’t stop his smirk.

I narrowed my eyes at it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he stated.