Incandescent

“I might head home after the storm passes. I don’t want you to feel like—”

“I don’t. And you have an alert on your phone now. Wait it out a bit more. You don’t want to sleep in this stifling heat.”

“Are you sure?” He reached forward to tap my knee, which produced a buzz over my skin that matched the electrical energy in the air.

“Of course I’m sure.” I motioned toward the door, trying to shake that strange feeling that had come over me. “Want to head back inside and watch something?”

“A crime show?” He winked.

My stomach tightened. “Law and Order SVU?”

“Perfect.”

We got ourselves settled on the couch, and I chose an episode. Marcus admitted he wasn’t as far into the series as I was but urged me to hit Play.

I couldn’t stop yawning, though, and it seemed to be contagious because the next time I glanced at Marcus, he’d fallen asleep with his head leaned back against the cushion.

I found myself watching him—his soft mouth with slightly parted lips, his fluttering eyelashes, which had fanned against his cheeks. He was a handsome guy, and I felt guilty for staring. But maybe it was more that I was allowing myself to notice things again. And people. Attractive people.

It was as if I was suddenly coming up for air after choking for so long on the heaviness of the grief inside me, and maybe Marcus had everything to do with it. Maybe he’d opened my eyes to future possibilities just by being honest in a roomful of people who were grieving too. And maybe he’d put a name to this thing I’d kept hidden inside me.

Suddenly his phone buzzed with a text, startling us both.

His eyes sprang open. “Shit, sorry.” He ran his hand over his face and sat up, trying to get his bearings.

“No worries,” I replied as Marcus lifted his cell. “Maybe it’s the electric company.”

“Yep.” He offered a sleepy smile. “Looks like my power is restored.”

“Great news,” I replied, my face still feeling flushed from all my confusing thoughts. “Take your time getting your stuff together…and then I’ll walk you out.”

Afterward, I cleaned up the kitchen in a daze, then headed upstairs to bed.

“Grant?” I said at his door, which was propped partially open.

“Yeah, Dad?”

As I stepped inside, I saw he was no longer on his computer. Instead, he was in front of his fish tank, changing the filter. He’d had the tank in his room for years and was pretty responsible with it.

“Just letting you know Marc went home. His power’s back on.”

I glanced at Ruby, asleep in his bed. It was a mutual love affair between them, and I knew she’d brought him as much comfort these past months as she had me.

“That’s good news,” he said absently, watching the fish. “I’m glad you’re friends.”

“Yeah, he’s a good guy,” I replied, then cleared my throat. “So listen, we were talking about updating the kitchen and, well, Marc offered to refinish our kitchen cabinets. I haven’t given him an answer yet because it would uproot our lives a bit and I don’t want…”

His eyes briefly met mine. “Why do you think he wants to help?”

“He knows how to do all sorts of stuff because of his business.” I thought back on our conversation about it. “Or maybe he likes to keep busy.”

“Because his wife died too?”

I nodded, not meeting his eyes because I felt vulnerable right then. Like he could see right through me. How I did much the same because if I stopped long enough to think about how our lives had been turned upside down, I might just come apart at the seams. And I wouldn’t be much good to anyone. Not that Grant thought I was good at much. Though his remark at dinner seemed genuine.

“Might be a good idea,” he said. “Wasn’t it something Mom wanted to do for a long time?”

“Yeah. So maybe that’s part of the reason.”

“Too bad she’ll never see it,” he grumbled.

Fuck.

“How do you know? People believe all sorts of things. What if she checks up on us every now and again and can see what we’re up to?”

He rolled his eyes. “Those are just things people believe to give them hope.”

Damn, he sounded so much like Rebecca. She was skeptical of everything, including the afterlife. But she never imposed her views on him, instead encouraging him to ask questions and find his own answers. I always liked that we’d given him that freedom, but when it came to explaining death and suffering, there were no simple answers, no matter what you believed.

I straightened and met his gaze head-on. “What’s wrong with having a little hope?”

“Nothing, I suppose.” His computer had been abandoned on the edge of the bed, and he glanced back at it as if remembering something. I wanted to ask what, but I kept myself in check. If he wanted to share, he eventually would. There was that hope thing again.