Page 13 of Now That It's You
She raised her gaze to his, and Kyle felt his guts do a somersault. “These were supposed to be our wedding flowers. Matt brought me daisies on our first date. He used to buy them for me every year for my birthday, sometimes in these wild colors like fuchsia or neon orange.”
Kyle swallowed down the lump in his throat and nodded. “Maybe Mom remembered that. It’s as close as she’ll get to an apology.”
Meg pulled the flowers to her chest and shook her head. “She doesn’t need to apologize. She lost her son, for heaven’s sake. She’s hurting.”
“She still could have handled things a little better.” He bit back the urge to say his parents needed the money. They’d lost a fair chunk of change in a Ponzi scheme run by a pair of prominent Portland lawyers. Suffice it to say, his folks weren’t as well-off as Meg might remember. “Mom’s just really focused on getting Matt’s estate in order because it gives her something to do. Something to help her feel useful. Otherwise, I’m not sure she’d even get out of bed right now.”
He thought about the look on his mom’s face when he’d found her going through a box of old photos at Matt and Chloe’s place that morning. “I just can’t believe he’ll never sit across from you at another Christmas dinner,” she’d said, holding up a faded snapshot of her two sons wearing hideous matching reindeer sweaters the year they were both in middle school.
Kyle had put his hand on his mother’s shoulder, wishing like hell there was something he could say to make her feel better. To make Matt come bursting through the door again with his trademark grin and a story about a client who hired him to photograph a collection of famous sports legends’ cast-off jockstraps.
No one was better than Matt at cheering people up.
Now, Kyle looked at Meg and saw some of his mom’s sadness in her eyes. Her fingers clenched tight around the flower pot and a familiar bracket of lines carved the space between her eyebrows. “Your mother’s grieving,” she said softly. “Grief makes people do odd things.”
“Like running around a forest throwing marshmallows and pretending to be a medieval warrior?”
One corner of her mouth tugged up. It wasn’t quite a smile, but Kyle felt something shift warm and soft between them. “Something like that,” she murmured.
She let go of the flower pot with one hand and wiped her brow, leaving a smudge of flour on her forehead. He wondered what she’d been baking, and felt a sudden ache to invite himself into her kitchen and pull out a bar stool the way he used to. Back then he’d drop by sometimes on Wednesday nights, making some excuse to talk with Matt about football or art or trends in men’s tube socks. Anything, really, for a chance to spend a few hours helping Meg roll dough or fold napkins as he sipped beer at their familiar granite island.
But this wasn’t the same house she’d shared with Matt. Everything had changed, and not just her address.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” Meg’s voice jarred him from his thoughts, and Kyle blinked as she stepped aside and gestured behind her. “Would you like to come in?”
He hesitated, not sure what the right answer was. The truthful one was yes, but he wasn’t sure it felt appropriate to be alone with his dead brother’s ex-fiancée in her living room so soon after Matt’s death. Where the hell was the etiquette manual on all this?
He cleared his throat. “You don’t look like you’re dressed for company.”
Meg laughed, and it occurred to Kyle that most women would have taken offense. But Meg just pushed the door open wider and stepped aside, her Marvin the Martian T-shirt slipping off one shoulder as she moved. Her bare feet made a shuffling sound on the blonde-wood floor, and Kyle breathed in the scent of cinnamon and flowers.
“Please,” she said, tucking a red-gold curl behind one ear. “You’ve seen me in my pajamas on Christmas morning with no makeup. You held back my hair when I threw up at the family picnic after eating Aunt Judy’s potato salad. I’m pretty sure we’re past the point of dressing up for each other.”
Kyle nodded, reeling from the onslaught of all those memories. Meg and Matt had been together ten years, long enough for their names to become a single word. Meganmatt. She was practically a member of his family.
But there was nothing family-like about the way Kyle felt his blood heat up as he stepped past her into the entryway. He shoved his hands into his pockets, wondering what kind of asshole he was for trying to figure out if she was wearing a bra under that T-shirt. Her shoulder was bare where the fabric slipped over it, and he saw no trace of straps as she tugged the collar back where it belonged.
“So this is your place,” he said, surveying the high-beamed ceilings and the overstuffed beige sofa lined with silky-looking pillows in bright floral patterns. It was simple, but very Meg. He spotted a vintage kidney-shaped coffee table he remembered from the house she shared with Matt, and he wondered how they’d decided who got what furniture when they split.
Something moved in the center of a paisley armchair, and Kyle looked over to see a massive orange tabby curled in a tight half-circle. The cat twitched its tail and opened one eye.
“Hi, kitty,” Kyle said. “What’s your name?”
The cat opened both eyes and stared at him. Its fur looked thick and long, and Kyle thought about walking over there and scratching it under the chin. Apparently the cat was imagining it, too, and didn’t feel keen on the idea. The beast stood up, arched his back, and gave a ferocious hiss. It jumped off the chair and headed toward the back of the house.
“That’s Floyd,” Meg said. “He doesn’t like men. Or women. Or—well, anyone.”
“Friendly guy.”
“He has his moments. I got him two years ago. Figured the law says single women must have at least one cat, so—” she shrugged, trailing off. “Anyway, this is my place.”
“It’s nice.”
“Thank you.”
A long, tense silence followed, and Kyle watched Meg set the flower pot on a little entry table. She fussed with the leaves for a bit, then adjusted the knickknacks beside it, fiddling with a purple stone frog and a small copper tree Kyle remembered making for her twenty-fifth birthday. It was one of his first forays into metalwork, and he remembered Matt giving him a nod of genuine approval.
“Great work, bro,” he’d said. “It could almost work as one of those earring holder thingies. She can use it to show off the diamond hoops I got her.”
