Waiting for Willa (Big Sky, #3)(7)

“That’s a shitty thing to say,” I reply. “Alex is a great kid.”

“Some men wouldn’t want to take on the baggage of someone else’s family.”

“Some men are assholes,” Christian says with a sigh. “Max isn’t.”

“No, I’m not,” I agree. “It’s not the kid.”

“Do something,” Noah repeats. “But first, let’s start that pool game over so I can kick your ass.”

“You can try.” I follow my friends back inside and watch as Noah sets up the balls to break them. Maybe he’s right. I’ve wasted a lot of time hanging back and steering clear of Willa because I thought it was what she wanted.

Maybe it’s time I let her go altogether.

***

I’ve been here since before the sun came up. I’m sitting in a camping chair I brought with me with a six-pack of beer next to my feet, keeping cold in the snow. I pop the top of the second one in an hour and reach out to clink the neck of the bottle against the one on the headstone.

“Nine years,” I say, blowing out a breath. I come here every year on the anniversary of Cary’s death and just sit here, hanging out with him. I drink two beers, leave the rest for him, and then go home to finish getting drunk alone.

The cemetery sits on the edge of town. It’s pretty much full now, all of the plots either housing someone or sold. Cary sits up on the hill, closest to the railroad tracks, and looks out over the lake and Blacktail Mountain.

It’s cold this morning. A painful twenty-two degrees to be exact, but I don’t care. I’m bundled up.

The alcohol helps.

“Time flies,” I mutter, shaking my head as I watch a train speed by. The whistle pierces the air. “Jesus, I still feel twenty-three. I don’t look it.” I shrug. “I wonder if you would have had grey hair by now like your dad did at thirty.”

I clear my throat.

“I’ve managed to keep the grey hair at bay, but I’m told that having salt and pepper hair is distinguishing, so I guess it won’t be so bad.

“You know what sucks? I need woman advice, and I can’t ask you. Of course, if you were here, I wouldn’t be asking because it’s about Willa, and that makes me feel like a dick. Like I’m poaching on my best friend’s wife, even though I know that’s not the case. And you poached first. Let’s just establish that right now.”

The whistle blows again, making me smile.

“Yeah, I know. She’s irresistible. I don’t know what to do, Cary. Part of me thinks I should just keep my distance. Let her go.”

I take another swig of beer.

“And the shitty thing is, I’m still so drawn to her, you know?”

I stare at the headstone, reading it over and over again.

Cary Edward Monroe

1987-2010

Loving Son, Husband, and Friend

“So, if you could just let me know that you’re not pissed at me for even considering starting something with her, I’d appreciate it.”

I wait, but there’s nothing. Just silence.

“Does that mean you’re not okay with it?”

Nothing.

“Okay, then. Brad got married about a week ago. He married a nice woman that moved here a few years ago. I like her a lot.”

And so I spend the next hour, talking to my best friend in the cold, filling him in on my life, and the lives of everyone we know.

Just when I’m about to get up and leave, I hear footsteps behind me. I shift in my chair and glance back, surprised to see Willa standing there, her hands in her pockets and a bouquet of roses tucked under one arm.

“Hi.”





Chapter Three


Willa


“HE CAN HAVE CEREAL for breakfast, but don’t let him talk you into hot chocolate as well,” I inform my mom, who’s currently snuggling with my sleepy son on the couch.

“I’ve been watching my grandson for almost nine years,” she reminds me and kisses Alex’s head. “We’ll be fine.”

“Right.” I nod and rush to grab my purse and keys, but my keys aren’t in their usual spot.

I frown, glancing around.

“Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen my keys?”

I immediately curse under my breath as I stomp into the kitchen, bathroom, and my bedroom, looking around for them.

I hate today. Today is the worst day of the year. If I didn’t have a little boy to see to, I’d spend it under the covers.

But I do have a son, and I’m stronger than that.

Or, at least I tell myself I am.

“You had them when you drove the car,” Alex replies, making me smile. Why would I ask an almost nine-year-old if he’s seen my keys?

And why can’t I find them?

“Are they in your purse?” Mom asks.

I look through it, blowing out a breath when I don’t find them.

“Nope. They’re here somewhere.” I open the fridge because I did that once before when I was super tired, and Alex had the flu. But they’re not there. On a whim, I open the pantry, and…score! There they are. “Found them!”

“Where were they?”

“The pantry.” I walk back into the living room as I pull on my coat. “I don’t remember putting them there, but at least I found them.”