Page 60 of Hunt for You

“Take a seat, I’ll get the coffee going. The bathroom is around the corner then down the hall if you need it. This ancient thing will take a few minutes, I’m afraid.”

I nodded, then shuffled through the little house to use the facilities, then back to that little, formica dining table where Richard and I had sat to talk last week, when his wispy gray hair was fluttering and his eyes still twinkled.

And then, as I watched the strangely rugged but beautiful man frown and fiddle with the coffeemaker on the counter, I wondered why I could feelso sadfor Richard when I was completely unconcerned about myself.

22.The Strange Weight of Grief

~ BRIDGET ~

It took several minutes, but eventually Sam walked towards the dining table where I sat and placed two mismatched mugs of coffee in front of me.

I slipped my fingers through the handle of the closest mug and wrapped both hands around it, sliding it towards me like I would hug it. I needed something to hold onto.

Sam frowned as he took his seat. “Oh… Do you take creamer or sugar?”

I shrugged one shoulder. “Usually, but honestly, I’ll drink it however it comes.” I wasn’t supposed to drink coffee at all, but right now I felt like I needed it.

“Let me see what we’ve got. I haven’t had a chance to look through things yet. Just a sec.”

The chair scraped as he pushed away from the table again, returning quickly with a little sugar bowl and a bottle of ready-made creamer from the fridge.

I made my mug creamy and sweeter than it needed to be, then took a sip and nodded. “It’s good, thank you.”

“No problem.”

Sam took a sip of his black coffee, and sat back in the chair. I could feel his eyes on me, but I was still feeling so weirdly fragile—like if I moved too fast, or the wrong way, a piece of me would break off. And I definitelydidn’twant to start crying again.

But Sam had that same weird, comforting presence that Richard had, and he had hot coffee. I needed something to help me focus before I started driving.

So even though it was weird, I didn’t say anything, and I was surprised when he didn’t either. Usually when I sat down with a guy, he either got nervous at silence, or he let me carry the discussion and just gave me one word answers and listening noises.

But Sam just sat there, watching me without any apparent concern about the fact that neither of us was speaking.

He’d taken off the sweater and cross necklace he was wearing before and rolled up his sleeves. I hadn’t really paid attention before, but while I was sitting there, staring at nothing, my gaze fixed on his arms—he had nice arms, the strong, tendony kind that I fondly referred to as forearm porn—and tattoos.

I almost spat out the mouthful of coffee I’d just taken.

Instead I swallowed uncomfortably, coughing and spluttering while he jumped back up to get some paper towels and hurry back to me.

It wasn’t until I’d stopped coughing and stared at him, red-eyed, and croaked, “They let Priests have tattoos?” that he went a little still and his eyes went wary.

His mouth tightened as he leaned down to wipe up the little spray of coffee on the tabletop where I’d coughed a little too hard.

“I’m not a priest,” he muttered, then shrugged like he was trying to loosen the muscles in his neck. “If the tattoos bother you, I’ll cover them up. I just thought—” He put down his coffeeand reached for the first sleeve to roll it down, and I almost choked on my coffee again.

“No, no! That’s not what I meant—I like them! I just… I’m just surprised. I thought the church frowned on that kind of thing. Don’t the old ladies think it’s the devil imprinted on your skin, or something?”

Sam hesitated, his eyes locked on mine like he wasn’t sure whether to trust me or not. His Adam’s apple bobbed, but he stopped pushing the sleeve down.

“Some parts of the church do. The wrong parts, in my opinion,” he said quietly. “I try not to flash them around, but they’re a very real part of my past, so I’m also not ashamed of them. I just… I don’t want to make people uncomfortable. Like I said, this isn’t usually where I work.” He grimaced, gesturing back towards the chapel.

“Where did you get the tats? And where do you usually work?” I asked uncomfortably. I wanted to know, but he used words that seemed so alien to me.

“In prison,” he said sheepishly.

I waited, but he was taking another swallow from his coffee.

“The ink? Or the work?” I asked.