“Um, yeah.” I nod. “Thanks,” I say, when the cashier hands over the receipt and change.
“No problem.” He shoves the coins in his pocket. “I thought that was you, and I thought I’d do something nice.” He flashes another smile. He’s dressed for work in a pair of gray dress pants and a white, button-down shirt.
“Well, thank you,” I say again. “It’s … uh … nice to see you.” The words come out stiff and awkward.
He chuckles and grabs my tea and muffin bag. “I’m sitting over here, if you’d like to join me?” he asks, tilting his head toward a table where a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich waits. He holds my items out to me, though, giving me the option to take them and leave.
A big part of me wants to do just that—leave—but it feels rude. So instead, I nod and tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “Um, yeah, sure,” I say. “I’ll join you.”
“Great.” He smiles widely and carries my things over to the table. He sets them down across from his stuff and pulls out a chair for me.
“Thanks,” I say with a grateful smile. Thanks and thank you seem to be all I can say to him.
Ryder sits down across from me and his knee bumps mine. “Sorry,” he says immediately and scoots back a bit. He picks up his coffee and takes a sip. “How are you?” he asks and then cringes. “Stupid question, don’t answer that. It was my least favorite question when I lost my wife.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, not missing a beat.
“So, you lost your wife?” I question and then I’m the one cringing. “Sorry, that was rude of me to ask.”
“Nah—” he waves a hand dismissively “—it doesn’t bother me now. But I remember when it was fresh every little thing someone said could set me off.” He shrugs. “But yes, my wife died.”
I bite my lip. I want to ask how, but I don’t want to bring up the topic of my loss so I let it go. “Are you on your way to work?” I ask instead.
He nods and wipes his hands on a napkin. “Yeah, I forgot to eat breakfast. Don’t worry, I fed my son before I dropped him off at daycare,” he jokes.
“How old is your son?” I ask. That seems like a safe enough question.
“Two,” he answers. “And let me tell you, they don’t lie about the Terrible Twos. They’re the worst.” He takes another bite of his sandwich. “Not complaining, though. I love that kid.”
I laugh. “I didn’t doubt that.”
“So where are you headed?” he asks.
“Breakfast meeting with a client.” I pull out my muffin and break off a piece. It’s chocolate chip and warm inside so the chocolate is a gooey melted perfection.
“What do you do?” he asks.
“I’m an event planner. I have my own business.”
His dark almond-shaped eyes widen in surprise. “That’s awesome. Good for you.”
“Thanks.” I fiddle with the paper that once surrounded my muffin. Oh God, I said thanks again. Kill me now. I take another bite of muffin before I can say thanks yet again.
“What got you into event planning?” Ryder asks, flicking a dark piece of hair from his eyes.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve always liked planning parties, so I decided to see if I could make a go of it. It helps that we live so close to D.C. Lots of business,” I answer.
Ryder clears his throat suddenly. “I wanted to clarify something. I know I said that in Group we don’t really talk about our loss, but it’s not forbidden. If you need to talk about it, you can. I just like group to be more … relaxed, you know? I want people to get to know each other and be comfortable. I think that comfort makes it easier to talk about it, but I knew I made it sound like it was forbidden or something so, I wanted to clear that up,” he rambles, his tanned cheeks turning slightly red. It’s kind of adorable.
I laugh. “I understand, and I think the way you run things is great. I’m not … I’m not ready to really talk about things.”
He nods. “I was like that, too, but once I opened up, I felt a lot better. And Blaire?” He waits for me to nod. “If you want to talk about it to me, or any of the other Group members individually, that’s fine too. You don’t have to share with the whole group.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I finish my muffin and dust the crumbs off the table.
Ryder glances down at his watch. “I have to go if I’m going to make it to school on time.”
“What grade do you teach?” I ask him.
“Fifth,” he says, finishing his sandwich and gathering up his trash. “I’m glad I saw you, Blaire. Have a nice day.” He smiles and picks up his coffee cup before heading out the door. I watch him leave, and it’s not until his car disappears that I realize I’m smiling.