The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,339

say hi.

Nothing new.

I’m five strides away when I stop in my tracks and contemplate heading back, fixing myself in her doorway, and explaining the situation to the best of my ability.

But then I talk myself out of it.

What would I even say? I met this stranger in a bar, he saw me on a date with your nephew and scared him away? I can only imagine what Bennett told him—if I had to guess, it was something along the lines of me being a con-artist or gold-digger.

If all it takes is some third-hand false information to make her gaze avert every time we pass one another, then she isn’t worth the oxygen I’d breathe trying to explain this convoluted situation.

Besides, it’s neither here nor there.

Water under the bridge—all of it.

A strange blip on the never-ending timeline that is my life.

I unlock my classroom, flip the light on, and hang my jacket on the hook behind the closet door—same routine, only it feels different, like I’ve stepped into a parallel universe where everything’s a bit askew.

The sky outside has lightened since I got here, the sunrise painting the sky in shades of creamy oranges and purples with a section of pale blue the color of Bennett’s eyes.

They’re saying the snow’s going to melt over the next couple of days, which will make for several slushy, muddy recesses, but I don’t mind. We’re that much closer to spring, and with spring comes rain.

I used to find it depressing until Trevor said he loved the way it washed everything clean and left things a shade greener than they were before.

I haven’t looked at the rain the same way since.

Trevor was good that way—seeing the bright side in the darkest moments.

I mark an ‘x’ through yesterday’s date on my calendar. The class Valentine’s Day party is coming up, which always makes me think of the first Valentine’s Day I spent with Trevor. We were freshmen at Indiana State, broke as a joke. We cooked a three-dollar frozen pizza and watched P.S. I Love You from a friend’s borrowed Netflix account. It was the first time since Linda’s diagnosis that I spent a couple hours free from the burdens of life. When I wasn’t working part-time at the campus copy shop and taking sixteen hours’ worth of credits per week, I was driving back and forth to Linda’s treatments and tests and appointments.

Trevor went to each and every one.

He never left my side.

Never complained.

He’d bring his laptop and his homework and he’d simply … be there.

Sometimes I think half of love is just showing up.

A cleared throat by the doorway pulls me out of my melancholic reverie.

Standing in the doorway, Honor by his side, is Bennett.

Fifty-Two

Bennett

* * *

“Honor, hi. Bennett, you realize class doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes …” She rises from behind her desk, tugging on the hem of her pink cardigan.

Honor skips past us, hangs her jacket and bag in her cubby, and makes herself at home in the reading corner.

“Was hoping I’d catch you.” I take my time approaching her. “Did you get my email?”

Her gaze narrows. “Email? No. I didn’t realize we were back to that.”

“We weren’t. But you weren’t taking my calls or texting me, and I wasn’t going to come to your place like a psychotic ex-boyfriend.” I sniff a chuckle, trying to keep this light. “I’d really love a chance to explain everything—in painstaking detail if you wish.”

“Not here. Not now.”

“Obviously.”

“I need to get my room prepped for today, so if we could—”

“Eulalia is picking Honor up today. She said she could stay as late as I need,” I say. “Why don’t I pick you up around four? There’s something I want to show you, and we can talk on the way.”

There’s less tension in her shoulders than there’s been the last couple of times I’ve seen her, and she isn’t crossing her arms, trembling, or avoiding my gaze.

It’s a good start.

Perhaps she needed some time to calm down and think this through.

That or she’s exhausted every emotional nerve and is immune to the way my presence makes her feel.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay?” I want to make sure I’m hearing this correctly …

“Okay.”

Fifty-Three

Astaire

* * *

“Where are we going?” I fasten my seatbelt in the front passenger seat of Bennett’s SUV Monday after work.

He’s driving.

I’ve never seen him drive.

The onyx leather beneath me is soft and warm and flitters of snowflakes land on the hood, melting on impact.

I’m prepared to hear him out.

I’m not prepared for what comes after