Page 45 of All's Well that Friends Well

I almost recognize a faint spark of humor deep down inside when she says this, but I move past it. “I suppose by that logic, you would be correct.”

“Excellent,” she says happily. “Well, what if I bring my bars over later, when you’re back? Just run them by?”

I shake my head, glancing up at the clouds in the distance. Maybe they’ll usher in a bit of cool air. “I won’t be back for a while,” I say, turning onto the Delaneys’ street, “and in fact, I need to go. I’ll see you at the breakfast, Miss Marigold. Just bring the food then.” I make my voice as businesslike and official as possible, and when I’m done speaking, I hang up.

I ignore the twinge of strange regret I feel. Even stranger than regret is the bizarre thought that just for once, it might be nice if her presence lingered—if I were with her rather than pulling into the Delaneys’ driveway.

But I’m not. I’m here, and there’s a bouquet of flowersin my passenger seat, and the back of my neck is still sweaty. There’s something like disgust at myself rising in my chest, too, as I battle the dilemma that haunts me night and day.

Where is my self-respect? I come here every month. I let myself go through this.

And yet if I stop—if I cut these genuinely wonderful people out of my life just because seeing them hurts—where is the self-respect in that, either? Where is the strength, the tenacity that I expect of myself?

I’m giving myself a headache. So I kill the engine, climb out of the car, and slam the door with too much force. Then I round to the other side, grab the flowers, and head to the front door. With every step I take, I fortify myself; I put up all the walls I can so I’ll be ready for the emotions that lie ahead of me.

I metMaura Delaney when I was in college. I was just starting to get my life back together after the death of my parents a few years earlier. Rod had reentered the picture, and I was working with him, completing my studies, trying to figure out what I wanted to do.

Maura’s appearance was something I hadn’t planned on, but I went to her immediately. She was beautiful, with dark hair and dark eyes and an infectious smile. She laughed too loudly and too much. When I was with her, the rest of the world faded away, and I loved every second.

Because while the rest of the world was starting to come together for me, it still hurt. She took me away from all ofthat pain and confusion. She was an escape, a coping mechanism.

Maura was always amused by my natural frown; she laughed at me with ease, made it her mission to make me laugh too. She didn’t conform to anyone or anything, but those qualities looked darker on her than they do on Juliet. She was defiant, unyielding, unwilling to compromise, even when the two of us needed to meet in the middle to make things work.

Still, we got engaged, and then we moved in together, and that was when things started to go downhill.

I like to think Maura loved me—and in her own way, I know she did—but I’m not sure she ever could have married me. Not really. Maura didn’t like anyone in her space; she didn’t like being accountable to anyone but herself. She wanted to do what she wanted to do, and she didn’t want to be tied down. These were things I’d known about her, to some degree, but it wasn’t until we moved in together—and until we started planning the wedding—that they became apparent.

Then she got sick. She got sick in a way I’d never been prepared for, and everything fell apart.

Mr. and Mrs. Delaneyboth come to the door when I knock, and I know they’ve been waiting because it’s not even a second before they appear in front of me. It’s starting to rain, too, cool gusts of wind pushing this way and that.

So I put my best smile on the way a southern grandmother dons her best dress for church. Then I pass Mrs.Delaney the bouquet—yellow daisies, her favorite—as she pulls me into a bone-crushing hug.

No one turns down a hug from Mrs. Delaney. It’s not even worth the effort to try. So I return her hug with one uncomfortable hand, patting her back awkwardly until she lets me go.

She’s as unlike her daughter as it’s possible to be, and sometimes I wonder what it says about me that I find relief in this knowledge.

“Come in, sweetheart,” she says, finally releasing me. Her dimpled smile beams up at me, her dark hair graying, eyes magnified behind spectacles attached to a beaded necklace.

“Good to see you, son,” Mr. Delaney says, clapping me on the shoulder. I nod at him and shake his hand, and then the three of us head to the dining room. It smells like they’ve made beef stew, and despite my reluctance, my stomach rumbles.

I’ve been hungry since Juliet mentioned her peach breakfast bars.

“It smells delicious,” I say. My voice is gruff, but the words are genuine, and I think they know that.

“We know you like stew,” Mrs. Delaney says, and I nod, giving her another smile. “Sit, sit—here.” She pulls out the chair at the head of the table for me, and I swallow thickly.

The head of the table. The place of honor. The seat I take every time, not because I ask but because they insist. I sink heavily into the wooden chair without argument.

Mrs. Delaney doesn’t even let me help with the cooking. Sometimes she lets me do the dishes—I always try—but even then, it’s rare. They treat me like a king in their home.

I thank Mr. Delaney as he hands me a steaming bowl ofstew with a hunk of what I know to be sourdough wedged on the side, already soaking up broth. I keep my eyes on that bread, because it stops them from wandering elsewhere, all the places my gaze tries to go.

But I’m an onlooker to a car crash, not wanting to look yet unable to stop. And sure enough, three bites into my meal, I find my eyes being pulled to the portrait on the wall opposite me all the way in the living room.

The engagement picture Maura and I took. She’s in a carefree orange dress and I’m in a shirt she made me wear—dark blue except for a few peeks of orange at the cuffs and neck. Although I’m not sure anyone else would notice, I can tell how different I looked back then; my smile was easier, more free, and I clung to Maura with a longing I’m not sure was good. We’re looking at each other in that photo, mid-laugh, the happiest we ever thought we would be.

Because we didn’t know. We didn’t know then what I know now, and what I suspect she knew at the end.

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