Page 128 of Bloom

He does anyway, years living in a big city hammering that habit home, before striding across the street—completely devoid of traffic, he notes—and into a building that has a sign saying ‘Bishop’s Bar’ hanging above the door.

The guy behind the counter greets him like they’re best friends, taking his order with a smile on his face. He bets the guy would pepper him with endless friendly questions if he didn’t turn his back and pretend to check his phone even though he knows there’s nothing to check—only his momma and Kelsey have his new number, and it’s the middle of the working day back home.

Once the bartender disappears to help someone else, he lets his eyes wander. It’s busy for an early morning in a small town establishment—for an early morning in abar. Full of chatting, friendly people who eye him with unnerving interest.

Avoiding their gazes, his snags on the wall directly in front of him, on some kind of bulletin board, and curiosity draws him forward. Of its own accord, almost, his hand rises to sift through the stacks of pinned advertisements for everything from businesses to services to… jobs.

A business card catches his attention. Small with a simple logo and plain writing, only a handful of words.Serenity Ranch, Help Wanted.

Instinct has him tucking it in his back pocket. It has him asking the bartender about this ranch too. With breakfast and directions in hand, he shoulders his way outside again, making it all of two steps before abruptly stopping.

He saw the flower shop while he was parking; it’s hard to miss an orange building with an array of colorful flowers blocking half the sidewalk. But he didn’t see the woman crouched over a bucket of daisies, even though she’s pretty hard to miss too.

She’s alone, but she’s smiling, her mouth moving like she’s talking to herself, to the flowers, who knows. A skirt pools high on her thighs, a cropped shirt showing off a sliver of midriff, cowboy-style boots molded to her calves. The late spring light hits a dark blonde braid and sun-kissed skin in a way that makes the strangerglow, and the sight socks him in the gut. The fact that he notices her, that his brain chantspretty girl pretty girl pretty girl, hits him like a slap to the face, because he can’t remember the last time he noticed,admired, someone who wasn’t his wife.

It makes him panic. It makes him feel guilty, as if that’s something he deserves to feel. It makes the ring still on his finger burn the skin beneath—psychosomatic or real, he’s not sure, but either way, he finds himself slipping it off. He finds himself staring at it, then the girl, then the business card.

He finds himself relishing in the clink of metal hitting metal as he drops the circle of silver into a sewer grate.

39

He doesn’t tell her that very last part.

He keeps it close to his chest, a secret to hold onto.

Something to tell the kids one day, his momma would say.

“I’m sosorry about your dad,” is the first thing I say, the first thing I can think of to say, after a long, long moment of contemplative silence.

I’m not sure at what point during the story-telling we relocated upstairs, but I know I regret it. It’s too small up here, too warm, too hard to resist the urge to take the few short steps from the kitchen to where Hunter sits on my bed, stroking two snoozing dogs, and hug him. When he lifts his shoulder in a sad half-shrug, I have to clutch the counter tightly to hold myself in place. “Thanks, honey.”

Drawing my bottom lip between my teeth, I contemplate where to go from here. Should I ask what happened? I want to. Call it morbid curiosity. Call it insensitive. Call it none of my business.

Call it written all over my face because without being asked, he softly says, “Heart attack.”

“Oh.”

“It was quick.”

“Quick is good.” My face drops. “Notgood. I mean better. Better than—”slow, I was going to say. My mom went slow and watching her fade away was so hard—and I’m an asshole for comparing the two. “I’m sorry.”

With a wave of his hand that’s far too nonchalant for the subject matter, he shrugs again. “I know what you mean.”

Hunter would’ve been around my age when he died, I think. So much older than I was when I lost my mom. They had so much more time together—that must’ve made the loss so much harder. I remember my mom, but I don’trememberher. Not in any kind of vivid detail. What little memories I do have haunt me, and I can’t imagine having—

“Caroline,” Hunter calls softly. “It’s okay.I’mokay. It was a long time ago, and we weren’t all that close.”

I whisper, “He was still your dad.”

“That’s just a title, honey. Not a relationship.”

Is it in my head, or did that sound particularly pointed?

“I loved him,” Hunter continues. “I miss him. But I don’t let him haunt me. And he’s not what I wanna talk about.”

Right.

I drop my gaze, watching myself pick at a loose piece of the linoleum countertop. “That was the last time you saw Cheryl?”

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