Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(98)
“I look okay?” he asked softly, his eyes uncharacteristically earnest.
She nodded, blinking back tears. The last time she’d seem someone in full service blues, it was . . . it was . . .
He’s not gone. He’s just away.
Her vision became blurry as she stared miserably at Cain’s chest, decorated with various pins and ribbons. He raised his arm and offered it to her, as though to formally escort her from the kitchen.
He’s not gone. He’s just away.
“No, thanks,” she said, refusing his arm as she finally exhaled and took another deep breath. “I’m only goin’ to this because you’re forcin’ me to.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” said Cain, stepping around her. His voice held a small but certain measure of censure as he added, “It’d be nice if you actually wanted to go.”
He preceded her out of the cottage and stopped at the passenger side of his father’s truck. He opened the door and held it for her, his eyes straight ahead, his body at full attention.
She felt mean, suddenly, for what she’d said, and flinched from the disappointment of his tone. But the feeling didn’t linger. Anger hip-bumped it to the side. She stepped over to the truck and climbed inside.
“Don’t judge me, Cain.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at her. He just slammed the door shut, walked around the truck, and sat in the driver’s seat without a word. He was giving her the silent treatment, and it infuriated her further.
“You know what I’ve been wonderin’? Why are you even here? Why haven’t you left yet? When the goin’ gets tough, Cain gets goin’. Why are you even still here?”
He looked at her with side eyes as they rolled down the driveway of McHuid’s. “Hell, princess, maybe I’m just stickin’ around to annoy you. You ever think of that?”
“Often,” she snapped.
Staring out the window, her lips twitched because, even though she’d said the words as bait, she found she actually wanted an answer. She adopted a gentler tone. “I mean it, Cain. I thought you left after the . . . the . . .” Somehow she couldn’t choke out the word funeral. “Why are you still here?”
He shrugged. “Promised my pop I’d stay through to Thanksgivin’.”
Ah. So he did have a departure date in mind. He wasn’t staying here forever.
It was the moment that Ginger realized that, however much Cain had hurt her in the past, she was very, very sorry to learn that he was going to leave again so soon. She didn’t know what to make of his sudden visits—the way he’d forced her to take a ride or to go to this wreath laying today. She didn’t like it, and yet some part of her—small though it was—had to admit that Cain was likely the only person who could have forced her out of her destructive style of mourning and back into the world. She didn’t want to depend on him, but she was comforted by his presence nonetheless.
And to her great surprise, her heart, which she’d been so certain was dead, flickered to life and ached at the thought of him walking out of her life yet again.
***
Cain watched her at the wreath-laying ceremony: the impassive expression on her face, the way her eyes didn’t tear up. She didn’t sniffle or cry, just stood stoically beside him, accepting condolences politely, her voice devoid of emotion.
Across from them, his Aunt Sophie stared daggers at Cain, still wishing him dead, and he wished it didn’t hurt, but it did. He and his aunt had never been close, but losing Woodman had been a blow to both of them, and they could have been a comfort to each other. Instead his aunt kept her anger trained on him, which kept her an island of sorrow, isolated by fury.
Much like Ginger.
What will it take for you to break? he wondered, stealing a glance at her neat blonde bun. Because you’re going to break, princess. Eventually you’re going to have to say his name; you’re going to have to acknowledge that he’s gone. You’re going to have to scream and cry or you’ll never be able to grieve. You’ll never have any relief from the terrible sadness that’s weighing you down.
Not that Cain felt light as a feather. He didn’t. Most days he still struggled wildly with Woodman’s death and felt the sharp heartbreak of his cousin’s loss. Five weeks hadn’t softened the images of Woodman dying, nor erased his final words from Cain’s head, though Cain had noticed that, ever since he’d started honoring his promise to Woodman, he’d felt the very beginnings of a peace he’d been missing when he was drinking and raging. He wanted Ginger to know that peace for two reasons: one, because without it, she’d never find her way toward healing, and two, because it’s what Woodman desperately would have wanted for her. Cain intended to do whatever he had to do to help her find it. He’d promised.
After the ceremony, they stood with Mary-Louise and Scott Hayes for a few minutes, but Ginger looked pale and tired, so Cain finally excused them so that he could take her home. He debated what to say to her—he felt a responsibility to get through to her, but he wasn’t sure how.
Just be yourself.
The words skated through his head, and he decided to give them a try.
As soon as they pulled away from the cemetery, she sighed audibly as he looked over at her.
“You okay?
“Fine.”