Page 57 of When Wildflowers Bloom

Then Sam, who has been watching me the entire time Bo has been talking, says, “I went to Nashville once. That whole damn city is too loud if you ask me.” The man formerly known in my mind as grouchy Sam winks at me.

The music shifts to a slow song, a cover of “Unchained Melody,” and a handful of couples move to the dance floor, shuffle-swaying as they cling to each other. I turn to Sam. “Should we show them how it’s done?”

His eyes bounce from me to Bo as he rolls his cane between his hands. “Bah!” He lifts one hand from his cane and swats it through the air. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Not mine,” Bo says.

Before I object—before I say anything—he stands, grabs my hand, and pulls me toward the small dance floor.

His fingers from both hands splay across the small of my back and mine interlace behind his neck. Every part of our bodies is touching but all I can think about is a wife he has that I don’t know.

“You’re upset,” he says softly, his words mingling with the moody lines of the song. Our sway falls into the beats of the music and our eyes lock.

“You’re married.”

“I am.”

“And even if I didn’t spend my days trying to outrun the cancer that I know is chasing me, you’d still be married.”

“I would.”

“And I don’t know what the hell to do with that,” I snap.

He nods; I look away. Staring at the other couples, some over twice my age, that somehow figured out how to make it. I’m jealous of them. So jealous it makes a sour taste fill my mouth.

“Maybe we were stupid to think this could be anything more.” When I say the words I know make logical sense, my insides twist at the same time his muscles tense beneath my hands.

The way his body reacts tells me I’m right, even though I don’t want to be.

The song ends, and I pull away. “I have to get Sam home.”

I don’t wait for his answer.

I gather Sam, say quick goodbyes to the table, and get into the minivan. Bo doesn’t chase me or try to stop me.

My jaw is clenched so tightly as I start to drive, I physically prevent asingle tear from falling.

“I was married to my first wife when I fell in love with my second,” Sam says in the quiet of the drive.

My hands wring around the steering wheel, annoyed by how perceptive he is.

“She was dying, and I couldn’t leave her,” he continues.

Stopped at a red light, I glance over at him. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He barks out a loud, “Ha!” then smiles. “My first wife was a pain in my ass. Complained about everything. Nag, nag, nag. She had some kind of heart condition. Bonnie was her name.”

“Bonnie? Really?” My voice drips with sarcasm. The name he always calls me is that of a dead wife that he apparently loathed.Swell.

He grins as the light turns green.

“Anyway, Bonnie was sick, and Margaret was the nurse. I loved her from the moment I saw her. Even though Bonnie was the bane of my existence in the end, she gave me children I loved, and we had good years before we didn’t. I couldn’t leave her—wouldn’t,” he says, looking out the passenger window.

“What happened?” I ask, blinker clicking as I turn. “With you and Margaret, I mean?”

“Well, she took care of Bonnie like she was supposed to.” He pauses. “And she waited. Her faith in me was stronger than her worry over what we should or shouldn’t do. How it would look. She waited. Bonnie was gone within six months, and I married Margaret three months after that. We had twenty-seven beautiful years together before she passed.”

Then it’s silence that stretches the rest of the drive and as I help him into his house.

---