The Best Next Thing

Her response seemed to flabbergast him, and his brow lowered.

“I’m sorry, I always assumed…I thought…wait, so you’re married?” He sounded so dismayed that Charity actually found herself tempted to smile, despite the uncomfortable subject matter.

“No. I’m not. I’m widowed…” She paused before honesty compelled her to add, “but I should have divorced him.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Arsehole, huh?” he sympathized.

She hesitated, so tempted to say yes. But years of pretense, of going along with the world’s belief that Blaine Davenport was a stand up, great guy had left her without a voice. And she stared at Miles helplessly.

“Did he cheat on you?” He immediately shook his head and made a self-conscious noise in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…” She worried the inside of her cheek with her teeth. “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Right?”

“I don’t see why not. Especially if the dead guy was an arsehole. And it’s not like I knew him. So, speak your mind. Was he a cheating bastard?”

“He was a-a—” Another hesitation. She sucked in her breath and met his level, non-judgmental gaze. Nobody had ever had a bad word to say about Blaine. Not to her. Not to anyone. People always sang his praises, spoke about how committed he had been to his parishioners, to his community, to his faith, and to his wife.

And it had rendered her completely mute. Both during her marriage to that smiling, handsome monster, as well as after his death. When everybody had been so very devastated by his loss. When they had naturally assumed that she must be devastated too. She had been compelled to keep her relief and exhilaration at finally being free of him hidden behind a veil of insincere mourning.

And when she had been unable to keep up the pretense any longer, she had begged Mr. Lanscombe, her and Blaine’s attorney, to help her get away from that stifling life of lies and regret. He had come to her with this position less than a week later.

It had astonished her; how easy it had been to just up and leave. For so long she had been petrified of what Blaine would do to her if she tried to leave him…and suddenly, she could just go. Without any fear of repercussions. The reality of her newfound freedom had been staggering and overwhelming.

And utterly terrifying.

“He was a bastard,” Charity admitted beneath her breath, and she immediately smacked a hand over her mouth as if trying to cram the words back in. But they were out…hovering in the space between them. They sprouted wings and took flight and were out in the world before she could call them back.

Four words. Each one brutally weighted down by so much sadness and despair that she felt unburdened and lighter than air once they were out.

The freedom that she should have rejoiced in after his death finally unshackled by her quiet admission, and Charity’s lips lifted in delight.

“A total bastard. I hated him, and it’s an awful thing to say but I don’t miss him at all.”

Miles didn’t respond. His face remained impassive but his eyes were kind…even understanding, and the lack of anything resembling censure in that gaze made her choke up.

For so long, she had kept those words locked in a metal box in her heart, terrified that if she spoke them, if she confided in anyone, they wouldn’t believe her. She had been petrified that they would judge her for saying such an awful thing about the man they thought they knew and loved.

But here he was: Miles H. Hollingsworth. The most unlikely confidante in the world. And while he didn’t—couldn’t—comprehend how much this moment meant to her, he had allowed her to speak her truth in an entirely safe environment.

Her eyes flooded, and she looked away self-consciously, terrified that she would break down in front of him.

The hot tears burned the back of her eyes, and she shut them in a futile attempt to force the scalding moisture back. She slowly counted to ten—using every language in her arsenal—while keeping her breathing measured and under strict control.

She was so focused on her internal struggle that she jumped in fright when she felt his roughened palm close over her forearm. It wasn’t skin on skin contact, she was still wearing her jacket, but it was contact nonetheless and it was unexpected.

But not unwelcome.

“It’s okay.”

The quiet words nearly undid her. And she withdrew her arm from his hold and covered her face with her shaking hands. Not wanting him to see the tears that finally overflowed.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, her words so muffled behind her hands that she wasn’t sure he could hear them.

“Don’t be sorry,” he replied, his words emphatic. “It’s okay, Charity. You’re allowed to feel whatever it is you’re feeling. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”