Preston's Honor(78)

She nodded. “It’s very difficult to find happiness when you don’t feel as if you belong anywhere.”

I sighed. I supposed that might be a big part of it. But, not the entirety of my mother’s joyless existence. “I don’t think my mother will ever find happiness,” I murmured. Sometimes I wondered if she even wanted to. I suspected she didn’t.

Rosa tilted her head. “Happiness. Hmm.” She appeared to think for a moment. “Perhaps the word I should have used was purpose. Happiness is nice, but it’s also . . . fleeting and based on what you have, or don’t have, in any given moment. Happiness . . . well, it has to be continually fed. It doesn’t give your life purpose. It doesn’t give meaning to your existence.” She looped her arm in mine and shook it gently and I laughed. “Real joy, the kind that permeates your life and brings contentment to your soul comes from service. So no, happiness is not the word. Purpose. Contentment. Joy. To find those things, don’t seek happiness. Search instead for those who need your gift and give it away. Perhaps your mother would like to join us here next week. Perhaps you should encourage her—gently.”

I squeezed her arm and laughed softly again, thinking what a wise, wonderfully kind person she was and how grateful I was to know her. I’d only known her for such a short time, yet my life felt enriched by her presence. “Maybe I’ll try.”

“That’s all any of us can do, mija.”

Mija. Daughter.

And for the second time in a week I felt the comforting joy of being mothered.

**********

As we were pulling back into Abuelo’s parking lot, my phone dinged with a text message, and I pulled it from my pocket.

Preston: Are you off work yet?

Me: Yes. Just about to leave.

Preston: Give me ten minutes. I’m on my way.

I smiled as I texted back.

Me: Okay.

I said goodnight to everyone and then went to my car, letting myself in and waiting as the radio played softly.

A few minutes later, I spotted Preston’s truck pulling into the lot and I felt pure joy. A week ago, I’d been terrified of being near him, fearful of his hatred and distrust. Now . . .

Preston stepped out of his truck and my heart started beating more quickly as he walked toward me, his hands in his pockets, that serious look on his face that was so him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked on a smile. After yesterday, we’d parted with hopes and promises for our relationship, but hadn’t made any precise plans other than he’d call me.

We’d talked about starting from the beginning, and it really felt as if we were—I was experiencing those fluttery butterfly wings in my tummy that Preston had always elicited, and it surprised me yet it didn’t.

“I had something in mind, and I was hoping you were up for it.” He must have recently taken a shower, as his hair was damp, and I could smell the subtle scent of the soap he used. As usual, Preston wasn’t much for fancy grooming. He wore casual clothes—jeans and T-shirts—and his hair usually looked as if he’d run his hands through it several times to tame it. I loved that about him actually. My farm boy.

I tilted my head. “All right. Who’s watching Hudson?”

“I put him to bed. My mom’s home.”

I nodded, looking down at my uniform and pulling my sweater around myself. “I’m not exactly dressed for a social outing.”

He smiled as he took my hand and led me to his truck. “It’ll just be you and me.” After holding the door for me, he walked around and climbed in his side.

“Oh, really?” I asked.

He glanced over at me, his lips quirked up in a lopsided smile and my heart twisted. God, he really was ridiculously handsome. He turned back to the road and as we drove, I allowed myself the simple pleasure of admiring his good looks, smiling to myself.

A few minutes later we drove into town and Preston pulled into a spot on the curb in front of the Laundromat. I looked at him in confusion, but he only grinned and got out of his truck.

Once he’d opened my door and helped me down, I followed as he led me straight into the warm, fragrant interior of the Laundromat I’d once enjoyed spending time at. “We’re in the Laundromat.”

He let go of my hand and stuck his in his pockets again and tilted his head. His hair was fully dry now. A lock of it fell over his forehead and, despite wanting to push it back, I didn’t. I glanced around. I hadn’t been here in over five years—we had a washer and dryer in the basement of our apartment building—but everything looked the same. A sense of nostalgia gripped me, bringing with it a strange sense of loneliness.

“Do you ever think about that night, Lia? The night we danced?”

I looked back to where Preston was standing, tilting my head. That night . . . I knew exactly which night he was referring to. I’d thought about that night so many times over the years, relived the way it had felt to be held by him. “I . . . yes. Or . . . I used to. I used to think about it all the time.”

He nodded slowly and took his full bottom lip into his mouth, his upper teeth scraping along it before he let it go. A tremor of heat moved through me at the unknowingly seductive gesture. He took a few steps back to the door and turned the sign over so it said, “Closed,” to those on the other side and then flipped the lock.

I laughed shortly. “I don’t think you’re allowed to do that.”