Page 97 of From Nowhere

“And Brynn’s parents blame you for being gone?” I whisper.

He rests a hand on his hip and squints against the sunlight. “I’m sure that’s part of it. They blame me for not getting help for my dad. But he didn’t want help. He served in the military, worked forty years as an electrician, and felt he’d earned the right to drink as much as he wanted.”

“It was nobody’s fault,” I say.

Ozzy tosses the hoe aside and kneels next to the garden, working one of the seedlings from its container. “It was ...” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe it was nobody’s fault. Maybe everyone was a littleat fault. What does it matter now? My father was a good man and an awful man. And that has left me feeling indifferent about him. But he’s dead. Brynn is dead. And that’s just the way life goes sometimes.”

I kneel next to him. “Do you miss him when you think of him? I miss Brandon, but only when I think of him. Sometimes I can go a few days without thinking about him—without missing him. But as soon as he pops into my head, I feel a little ache in my heart. And I pause to listen, as if he’s right here saying something to me. I think I’d feel this way even if someone had died on his watch. Does that make sense?”

Ozzy pauses his hands and whispers, “Yeah, I miss him. I miss the man he was before he fell in love with feeling numb.” He stares at the seedling in his hand. “But if he had lived and she still died, the hatred would have eaten me alive. His death, while tragic, was necessary. It was closure.”

I take the plant from Ozzy, and he sits back on his heels, head bowed, eyes closed. A moment later, he stands, kissing the top of my head before going inside to shower while I finish planting and watering them into the ground. When he comes upstairs in clean jeans and no shirt, running his fingers through his wet hair, I offer him a melancholy smile. His gaze slides to my bag by the front door.

“I’m going to head home before your family returns.”

“I scared you off.” His shoulders sag inward while he slides his fingers into his pockets.

“You didn’t. You should take some time to yourself for a few hours, since I’ve done such a nice job ripping open old wounds.”

“Maren, you didn’t say or do anything wrong.”

“I appreciate you saying that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I put a damper on the afternoon with my curiosity. And I’m not saying I regret asking you about the accident, but I knew when I asked that it wouldn’t be an easy subject.” I stroll toward him, resting my hands on his bare chest. “But I want to really know you, so sometimes I have to ask the hard questions.”

He cups my face, brushing the hair away from my eyes with his thumbs. “I’m going to make this work. I have no clue how I will make this work, but I will.”

I can’t help but smile before turning my head to kiss his palm.

“Do I get points for brutal honesty?” he asks.

“Oz, I’m giving you points for this weekend, but not for your brutal honesty.”

“Orgasms.” His eyes glimmer. “You’re giving me points for orgasms.”

“I was going to say your toaster waffles with peanut butter earned you the most points, but sure, the orgasms were fine.”

“Fine?” He quirks a single brow.

“Decent. Acceptable. Good enough.” I fight my grin.

His face falls flat, and just when I think I’ve won, a twinkle of mischief flashes in his eyes, and he says, “I did the best I could with what I had to work with.”

I already love him, even if there’s no way I’m saying it yet. But now he’s just toying with me. How does he know I’d rather be with a man who keeps me on my toes than sweeps me off my feet?

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ozzy

I didn’t mean to screw the life out of Maren, but she started it in the garage. All the close calls, teasing, dreaming, and anticipating didn’t disappoint. Did she leave thinking I couldn’t keep my dick out of her? The answer has to be yes.

For the record, there were so many times when I did control my urges.

But now, sitting in Brynn’s cream glider, alone in the living room with nothing but time and silence, a tsunami of guilt overtakes me, and I think of my wife.

Is it too soon? A decade after my uncle lost his wife, he still couldn’t say her name without getting choked up, let alone think of another woman. It’s taken me two years to feel ready again. But not just ready; I tried to screw someone else against every surface of the house my wife once lived in. What is wrong with me?

With my hands resting on the arms of the chair, fingers lightly drumming, I glide back and forth. The wind chime by the front door sings its gentle tune, and the kitchen still smells like burnt toaster waffles from the first one that got away from me.

When I close my eyes, I see Brynn moseying toward me in her short satin robe with tiny pink and yellow flowers.

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