Page 3 of Because of Blake
I press my fingertips into my eyelids before glancing at my empty mug on the table. Another cup of coffee wouldn’t be bad, would it? “Even if I was ready, I wouldn’t date a neighbor. It’s too weird. I may be single, but I’m not on the market.”
“The only reason you’re not on the market is because you won’t allow yourself to be. Charlie’s been gone three years.”
A tightness forms in my chest. “And I’m still grieving.”
“I’m not saying you should be over him, but don’t you think you should be able to move forward by now? Even just a little?”
“No one gets to tell anyone how to grieve. It’s a personal experience which is different for everyone, and this is how I do it.” I bite back the edge to my tone, but it still comes through.
Michelle takes a deep breath. “Okay. Speaking of Charlie, how are your nightmares? Better since you moved, or worse?”
I pick up my mug, twirling it around on the table. “The same. I still have them, like, four or five times a week.”
“Well, that’s better than every night like they used to be, right?”
“Yeah. I guess what they say about time healing wounds is true.” I stop twirling the mug. “At least for some wounds.”
“See? You’re getting there, and I think meeting someone would help. It would give you a distraction.”
I tilt my head from side to side, stretching the now tense muscles. “Okay, thanks for the pep-talk, Michelle.”
She sighs, but doesn’t say anything more about me finding a man. “Will you text me your address?”
“I thought I did when I put the offer in so you could Zillow-stalk me?”
“Yeah, but that was months ago and I don’t feel like searching through the messages.”
My chuckle eases my stiff shoulders. “Okay, I’ll see you on Friday.”
“Bye, Mags.”
I send Michelle a quick text with our address, receiving the thumbs up and kissy face emojis back. All our talk about the mail reminds me I should go check ours. Even if I haven’t given the post office our change of address, the Realtor, mortgage company, and all our utility providers have the new one. There might be something important in there I’ve been neglecting.
Grabbing my keys, I set my mug in the sink and poke my head into the backyard to tell the kids I’ll be gone for a few minutes. They wave me off like it’s no big deal, and deep down, I know it’s not, but my stomach always clenches when I think of them being alone. They’re old enough. They’re not stupid. I’ll be gone all of five minutes, but the things that can happen in those five minutes have panic bubbling in me.
I force myself to the front door. As I stand before it, I employ my breathing and focus technique. A grounding thing for when my brain goes into overload and I can’t recover. Acknowledging a number of things I can see, feel, hear, smell, and taste allows me to refocus and bring my anxiety down a few notches. My therapist taught this to me early on in our meetings. I really do need to make an appointment.
Once my heartbeat is back to normal, I open the front door and step outside into the warm, August air. I inhale deeply, realizing I’ve been stuck in the house all day, aside from helping the kids set up the Slip ‘N Slide. Getting outside, even for only a few minutes, calms me. It’s almost as if the fresh air breathes life into my lungs.
Four houses sit between ours and the community mailboxes at the bottom of the hill. I come to an abrupt stop before the mailboxes as a guy with a dog approaches from the opposite direction. My walls go up in an instant. This will be the first solo interaction I’ve had with a neighbor since we moved in. Sure, I’ve waved at a few of my surrounding neighbors, even exchanged pleasantries with a couple, but my kids have always been around, giving me an excuse to cut the conversation short.
Small talk is one thing, and one I don’t particularly enjoy, but it doesn’t lead to questions about where my husband is. Up until now, I’ve been able to skirt around any detailed conversations. This time, I’m alone. Completely defenseless.Shit.
As this guy gets closer, I size him up. He’s easily a half foot taller than me, maybe a couple inches more, and he’s built like no one I’ve ever met. Even in the loose, athletic clothing he’s sporting, I can tell he’s in great shape. Broad shoulders, nice biceps, toned calves. This guy should be on magazine covers, not walking his dog in a suburban Colorado neighborhood.
His mouth ticks up on one side as he meets my gaze. “After you,” his deep voice rumbles, suddenly making me aware of my staring.
“Oh, um, thank you.” I turn my gaze toward the mailbox, hoping he didn’t catch me drooling. I can’t remember what number is ours. My eyes jump from box to box, my brain a jumbled mess. It’s seemingly turned to mush after being overstimulated by this hunk of a dog walker.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, kneeling down to calm his Irish Setter who spotted a squirrel across the street.
“I… I don’t know which one is mine. We just moved in, and I can’t remember which number they told me at closing.” I turn to this stranger for confirmation I’m not a complete idiot, and I’m met with a warm, closed-lipped smile.
“Well, it’s not number eight, that’s mine.”
I feel heat flooding my cheeks, so I turn away quickly. “Thanks. I think it’s number seven, then.” I put the key into the lock and turn it successfully.Thank God.
“Good guess,” he says, standing back up and removing his Rockies baseball cap to run his hand through his dark brown hair. With the hat off, I see his hair matches his eyes. His deep brown irises invite me in, and I lose myself in them after only a few seconds.