“I still don’t know why you didn’t go with the red paisley tie I picked.”
Rain drums against the windshield, relentless and steady, the wipers fighting a losing battle to keep the glass clear.
I glance at her, the faint glow of the dashboard casting light on her serene face.
“Because this one matches your dress better. Besides, paisley is like something out of the seventies.”
She chuckles, the sound light and familiar. “Look at you, fashionista. I thought the paisley was cute.”
I smirk, shaking my head as I turn my attention back to the road. “Believe it or not, looking cute isn’t at the top of my list of what I aim for when getting dressed.”
She laughs and her hand finds my arm, her touch grounding. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
The rain picks up, the scenery outside of the car becoming a blur of dark shapes and glistening pavement. She shifts beside me, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest.
“God, this storm’s a mess.” I crane my neck to look up, as if I might see the culprit behind it all up there in the dark sky.
“It’s coming down harder,” she says. “Maybe we should pull over?”
There’s a thread of worry in her voice. She’s usually calm and composed, but I’ve learned her tells over the years.
I shake my head. “We’re fine. It’s just rain. I’ve driven through worse.”
She sighs. “It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s the other drivers. It’s Friday night, Sam. You know the roads are packed with drunk idiots.”
“I’ve got this,” I tell her. My eyes flick down to the GPS. “We’re five minutes away. Just a little longer.”
She doesn’t push because she trusts me. She’s always trusted me.
Up ahead, I see it. Headlights. Too close. Too fast. Wrong lane.
“Samuel!”
I react instinctively, jerking the wheel to the side, but it’s too late. The oncoming car barrels toward us, the glare of its headlights blinding. Her scream slices through the air. I throw my arm over to protect her in whatever way I can.
Metal crunches. The car tilts and rolls. Pain tears through my chest as the seatbelt bites into my skin. Her scream cuts off abruptly—too abruptly.
The car spins, the rain blurring into alternating streaks of light and darkness.
And then there’s nothing.
Everything goes black.
The silence is absolute, choking, but her voice lingers, an echo in the void. She screamed my name.
I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t save her.
I don’t feel anything anymore. Darkness pulls me under, and there’s no escape.
The soft glow of late morning filters through the curtains. I open my eyes and check my phone on the nightstand. It’s almost ten-thirty. I’m in my bed, not in the nightmare I was having.
Erin’s back is snug against me, her breathing soft and steady. My arm is draped over her waist, holding her close as if I’m afraid she might vanish if I let go.
I smile to myself. We’d had fun in the game room—too much fun, it seems. After I’d taken her on the Murphy bed, we’d gone to my room to relax and ended up tangled in each other again before falling asleep.
I don’t move, don’t dare disturb her. She looks so peaceful, her hair a mess of dark waves against the pillow, the blanket pulled low enough to reveal the smooth curve of her shoulder and the faint line of her spine. She’s stunning, even now, without trying.
I have no idea what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
This bed—my bed—has been mine alone for eight years.
No one else has ever been in it.
Until her.
The thought is a heavy weight in my chest. Erin doesn’t belong in the same category as the one-night stands I’ve entertained in guest rooms or hotels. I can already tell she’s something else entirely, someone who’s managed to burrow under my skin in a way I can’t explain.
Yet as natural as this feels, it’s impossible to ignore the ghost lingering in the room.
My eyes drift to the nightstand. Kara’s picture is still there, same place it’s been since I moved in. Her face smiles back at me, soft and serene, her blue eyes filled with the kind of warmth that makes your world stand still.
Guilt grips me hard. I’m lying here with a woman in my arms, my late wife staring at me from the nightstand.
Losing Kara shattered me. It broke me in ways I’d never been broken before, ways that made me damn certain I’d never be whole again.
Erin has awoken something I’d thought died along with Kara.
She’s bold, daring, and infuriatingly stubborn, the complete opposite of Kara in so many ways. Yet she’s here, fitting into this space like she was always meant to, and it terrifies me.
I take a slow breath, careful not to wake her, and gently slip my arm from her waist. She stirs but doesn’t wake, and I study her for a moment—the way her lashes fan against her cheeks, the slight part of her lips, the soft rise and fall of her chest. I feel something I haven’t allowed myself to feel in years: hope.
It’s dangerous.
I sit up, dragging a hand down my face. The picture of Kara catches my eye again, and I know what I have to do. My chest tightens as I reach for the frame. My fingers brush the glass, and for a moment, I hesitate. Kara wouldn’t want me to bear this guilt.
She’d tell me to live, to find happiness, but moving forward feels like betrayal.
All the same, it needs to be done.
Picture in hand, I slowly open the nightstand drawer and slip the frame inside. The last thing I see before sliding the drawer shut is Kara’s eyes, blue as the sky.
It feels wrong, but also necessary. My past doesn’t define me, but it’s part of me. And if I want to have a future with Erin—a real one—I need to make space for her.
Not to mention the sight of a woman’s picture on my nightstand would make Erin want to ask questions, questions I’m not ready to answer.
Quietly, I slip out of the room, tugging on sweatpants and a T-shirt as I make my way downstairs. The kitchen is calm and quiet, the only sound the hum of the fridge. I fill a glass of water and drink it quickly, like I’m trying to put out a fire inside.
Breakfast. My stomach grumbles, as if agreeing with the thought, and I go to work. I open the fridge, taking out eggs, butter, and sausage.
For a few moments, I manage to lose myself in the process of cracking eggs, heating the butter, and slicing the sausage.
Memories of Kara surface as I pour the mixture into the skillet. She used to sit at the counter, sipping coffee, her bare feet tucked under her on the stool. She’d watch me cook with a small smile, asking me what I had planned for the day.
Kara was like a hand reaching out in a storm, the kind of person who made you feel like no matter what happened, things would always turn out alright. Erin is nothing like that. She’s fire and sharp edges, unpredictable and unapologetic. Where Kara was soft and serene, Erin is fierce and defiant. Both beautiful, both intelligent, but so different.
I flip one of the omelets, the scent of food cooking filling the kitchen. Over and over, my mind drifts to the woman down the hall. I find myself thinking of her face, her smell, the way she feels underneath me.
She’s something entirely new—she’s intoxicating and exciting, but damned if it doesn’t scare the hell out of me.
