The Resurrection of Wildflowers (Wildflower #2)(48)

And I realize, with stunning clarity, that when Forrest died that’s all she wanted to do for me and I wouldn’t let her.

I was such a fucking asshole.

I know I was grieving. I know I was in the darkest place imaginable. But I still think I should’ve been more understanding that she was only trying to help me because she loved me. You don’t go out of your way for people who you don’t really care about.

I meet her halfway on the driveway, wrapping my arms around her. She’s nearly swallowed whole in my arms, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I still didn’t put a shirt on when I went back for my keys, I was in too much of a hurry, and her warm tears coat my bare skin.

“Don’t worry, Sunshine,” I cup the back of her head, “I’ve got you.”

Her fingers grapple against my sides like she’s having trouble holding on, but I know it’s not that, it’s just that her hands are shaking too much.

“She’s gone,” she hiccups. “She’s really gone. I know it’s for the best. She’s not in pain anymore, but I just want my mom.”

“Shh,” I croon, resting my chin on top of her head. “It’s okay.”

“Why do the people we love have to leave us?” She forces my head back, looking up at me with a tear-streaked face.

Wiping away her tears with my thumbs, I say, “I don’t have an answer for that. I’ve searched for one for years and come up empty.”

Eventually I get her in my truck and drive her home—and by home I mean to my house.

She’s fallen asleep on the drive, so I ease her from the truck, into my arms. Carrying her inside and all the way up to my bedroom, I lay her beneath the sheets and cover her up. Her breaths are even, her face still red and splotchy from crying.

She’s beautiful, though. She always is. Staring down at her, it feels like every beat of my heart is saying mine.

I get into bed beside her, wrapping my arms around her and holding her to my chest.

Kissing the skin of her neck, I murmur, “I love you.”

I swear, even in her sleep, she smiles at those three words.





I hear her before I see her. Her feet quietly tiptoe down the stairs. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I sip at my morning cup of coffee. I smile against the rim when she pops around the corner. Her hair is messy from sleep, her shirt rumpled—but I fucking love seeing her like this, just out of bed, in my house.

“Hi,” she says quietly. “You got anymore of that?” She points to the mug in my hand.

“Sure thing. Sit down.”

While she sits I pour a cup, adding her specified amount of cream and sugar. Sliding the mug across to her, I ask, “Can I make you anything for breakfast?”

She frowns, wiggling her nose. I itch to reach out and run my finger along the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. “I don’t think I can eat.”

“I understand.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Yes. I don’t know.” She takes a sip of coffee, wrapping her fingers around the warm cup. “Is it okay if I stay here? I don’t think … I’m not ready to go back to the house yet.”

“You can stay here as long as you need.” Stay forever. I don’t say that though. “Want me to grab some things for you?”

She bites her lip, looking unsure. She looks up at me from beneath her lashes, her green eyes hesitant. “You don’t mind?”

“Nope.”

“That would be great. All of my stuff is upstairs in my old room and the bathroom.” She runs her fingers through her hair, trying to straighten the messy strands. She sighs in frustration when she decides it’s a futile effort. “I knew this was coming. We’ve known it for months, and this last week it was obvious her body couldn’t fight anymore and yet … it feels so sudden.” She shakes her head. “That sounds so stupid.”

“I think death, even when it’s expected, still feels sudden. It’s so final.”

She nods woodenly. “Most everything is already taken care of as far as funeral expenses and all that, but I just—” She rests her head in her hand. “I don’t want to deal with any of it. Even the small decisions, but I can’t burden Georgia with all of it. She’s already pregnant and with two little ones.”

“I’ll help you. Whatever you need, I’ll help.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to make breakfast, then I’ll go get your things. If you decide you want to eat, that’s great, but right now I won’t force you.”

She arches a brow. “Meaning there might come a point where you do force me?”

“Coerce might be a better word. I can be very persuasive.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm,” I hum, turning away from her to open the refrigerator, searching for something to make. “I have my ways.”

She gives a soft laugh. I’m glad I can manage to bring her some sort of amusement through her grief.

Pulling out the eggs and some vegetables I already have chopped I get to work on some omelets. I don’t ask her how she’d like hers. I just make one, then slide it in front of her. Grabbing a fork from the drawer I set it beside the plate, take one for myself, and sit down beside her.