She doesn’t meet my eyes this time, but she speaks low so that the girls giggling in front of us can’t hear. “He was a police officer,” she continues. “There was a case,” she pauses, pushing her hair behind her ears, careful to avoid the stickiness. “A child was severely injured by a kidnapper, and he felt like he could have prevented it. He never got over it.”
I ask this next question carefully, because I think I understand what she’s getting at, but I don’t want to make assumptions. “Did he die in the line of duty?”
She doesn’t respond for a long breath, and I think maybe I’ve gone too far, or maybe that she isn’t going to answer me. “They found him shot in his police car, wearing his dress uniform,” she whispers. “He wasn’t dead when they found him, and they fought to save him—fought so hard,” she clears her throat. “In the end, they determined he shot himself. They think he was aiming for his head, something startled him, and his shot was slightly off. We could have kept him on life support, but he was brain dead,” she finishes.
“I’m so sorry.” I grab her hand in mine, offering her what little amount of comfort I can.
“It happened,” she shrugs. “Rosa and I have had to move on from it. Because his death was ruled suicide, we weren’t able to collect his life insurance, which is why we’re living with my sister. I go back and forth between being sad and angry,” she admits. “It kills me to be angry with him, because I know he was hurting. I begged him”—she takes another bite of the cotton candy—“begged him to get help. For both Rosa and I.”
“Being a public servant is sometimes a thankless job,” I admit. “We see things that others don’t, and we have to learn quickly how to deal with that on the job. Mental health is just as important as physical health in what we do.”
“I know,” she sighs, her eyes cutting over to mine. “And it’s why I told myself I would never involve myself with someone who does that kind of job again.” She raises our hands, still holding onto each other. “But here we are.”
“I’m not him.”
“And I’m not the same woman I was back then.”
“You’re stronger,” I remind her, pulling our hands up, kissing hers.
“Yeah,” she smiles. “I am.”
CHAPTER TEN
AMY
Until Gunner grins at me and tells me I’m strong, I don’t realize how much I need to hear it. For so long, I’ve lived the aftermath of what happened, wondering how I would get along, praying for a change that’s yet to come. But maybe it’s here now, and I wasn’t looking hard enough. Or maybe I was looking too hard, and I had to stop to let it come to me. Either way, I’m at a good place now, and I don’t want to fuck it up.
Looking ahead, I see the girls have clasped hands as they run along the boardwalk. “Check them out,” I grin.
“It’s so easy for kids to make friends.” He puts a piece of the cotton candy in his mouth.
“Right? It’s so much harder as an adult—so many things to think about. I haven’t made many friends since we moved here, but I’m trying.”
“I’m your friend,” he announces, holding a piece of the cotton candy up to my mouth.
I give him what I hope is an alluring look as I snake my tongue out, grabbing the sugary confection and pulling it into my mouth. I make contact with the skin of his fingers, and instead of just sugar, I taste salt too. The flavor of his skin could be intoxicating if I gave myself permission to revel in it. His eyesdarken with desire, and I’m more than pleased by the reaction. “I’m your friend too.”
“Not sure if friends should be feeling what I’m feeling right now,” his voice is low, for my ears only, even if we’re in a very public place. It’s part gravel, part thirsty. Water isn’t what will quench his thirst, though. I know because I’m right there with him.
“I think the feeling is mutual,” I admit. “But it scares me.” I allow my vulnerability to show through. No one has seen it since my husband died. Since then I’ve been too scared to let others know I need help, that I’m not handling things completely on my own. Some days I’m a wreck, and I honestly don’t know what I’m doing to better my situation. It feels like the only thing I’m doing is maintaining status quo, and maybe that’s enough for now.
“No need to be scared with me, Amy. We’ll do things at your pace, or we won’t do them at all. I’m old enough to know not everyone has a past they can outrun, but I’m also man enough to admit I’d be an asshole if I let you get away. There’s something about you,” he nods to where the girls are. “And her. You’ve taken hold of my heart and squeezed the hell out of it. I want to see where this goes, even if we just end up as friends. I’ll be the best friend you’ve ever had.”
Everything in my body wonders if this guy is for real, when I know he hasn’t done anything to make me think otherwise. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
And judging by the grin on his face, I believe him. For the first time in a long time, I’m starting to believe.
“Mom, can we go?” Rosa asks with an excitement I feel as if I haven’t seen in years. She used to get excited about things all the time, but after her dad died it went away. There were some days she was like me, not able to get out of bed because the grief was too much for her little body to handle. Seeing her like this warms me in ways nothing else can.
We’re at the end of the boardwalk and there’s a Ferris wheel. It’s bigger than I remember it being as a child, or maybe it’s just because back then I had no fear. Now, everything looks scary to me. I don’t see the excitement of a child; I see the reality of an adult. So quickly, things can turn from fun to deadly. We must always weigh the pros with the cons, determine if the chance is really worth taking.
“They’ll be fine.” Gunner breaks into my thoughts, seeming to know I’m being one of those people who weighs everything—the good with the bad, the happy with the sad. “We do drills on this thing; if it can hold a bunch of big firefighters, then holding normal people is good.”
“You?” I nod to the Ferris wheel. “Do drills on this?”
It looks like it can’t even hold me. I’ve seen movies now where these things get ripped off the boardwalk and flung into the ocean, or some outer-space alien comes from above and takes everything in its path.
