As he came around the counter, Moxie leapt up from her bed and all but vaulted into his arms. He chuckled softly, scooping her up and scratching her behind the ears while she bathed his face in kisses. Impatient and ridiculously envious of her dog, Misty pulled the first batch of flowers from the cooler. Better to keep her hands busy. She spread them out on one of the tables and began the process of stripping lower leaves, ignoring Denver as he loved on Moxie.
Was this it? Was he just here to talk about the wedding or was he working his way up to something resembling an explanation?
“My father was diagnosed when I was twenty.”
Whatever she’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that. Her hands stilled on the flowers, but she didn’t look at him.
“He was already stage three by the time they found it. Went in for something else, had some scans or whatever, and bam. Everything changed. We were suddenly charting food and meds and bathroom habits. He was still functional, could still do the job, but everything else revolved around keeping his kidneys functioning as long as possible. Then we ran into problems with his insurance. Probably the same kind of shit you dealt with. And while we were waiting for them to sort it out, he slid into stage four.”
Misty’s heart clenched. Because she knew this story. She’d dealt with this story so many times, with so many people. It was one of the core components of why her job had been slowly sucking her soul away.
“That’s when I started taking over stuff. He had a hard time concentrating. Wasn’t sleeping for shit and hurting more often than not. And when the numbness hit his fingers, he couldn’t do the work a lot of the time. He started losing out on jobs because he couldn’t get them done fast enough. Some of them he just couldn’t do, and I wasn’t good enough yet. He’d started dialysis, gotten on the transplant list. Things just kept getting worse. And the insurance company didn’t give a good damn about it. He wasn’t a person to them. Wasn’t a face. He was just a name. A file. A string of eventually denied claims.” Denver’s voice was flat, but she could see the strain in his face as he spoke. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, give him whatever comfort she could. But she didn’t know if she’d be welcome, so she stayed quiet, listening, as he continued to stroke Moxie.
“I was twenty-five when they basically told us he’d maxed out his coverage. I spent so many hours on the phone arguing, trying to get him taken care of. He had a fucking chronic disease. What did they expect us to do? Nobody had an answer. And there wasn’t someone like you on the other end even trying to find one.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I lost my father because the system is broken. And I despise them for it.”
Misty thought she understood now. “And telling you my story brought everything back for you.”
He gave one short, sharp nod.
Regret sliced through her. He’d been so close to his dad. That had been obvious in nearly every conversation they’d had. She hated that she was a reminder of the worst parts of losing him. Hated, too, that the part of her life she’d tried to leave behind was tarnishing something she’d come to value so much.
Misty spread her hands. “I can’t change my past, Denver.”
“I wouldn’t want you to. You aren’t the system. You aren’t the one who denied my father’s claims. And I was an asshole for acting like you were.”
Something in his tone let her know that he had more to say. “But?”
“No buts. I’m sorry for walking out on you when you were struggling. I’m sorry for shutting you out this week. And I’m sorry I didn’t have the stones to just explain what was going through my head. You deserve better than that.”
The better than me was implied.
Misty wanted to wrap her arms around him, offer some kind of comfort. But he still held Moxie and looked very much as if he wanted this conversation to be over. Maybe he needed all their conversations to be over. Even now, he didn’t seem to quite be able to look at her. She wished, more than anything, that they could go back to last week, before she’d told him. But it would have come up eventually. And if this was a deal breaker for him, it was better to know now than before they got in any deeper.
“Thank you for telling me.” What else could she say? If he still wanted a relationship with her, he had to say so. She wasn’t going to force her company on him—wouldn’t want to if that company came with a permanent reminder of his loss.
Denver’s throat worked and he set Moxie down. “I know you’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll let you get to it.”
She wanted to stop him, to press for more. Instead, she followed him to the door. “I guess I’ll see you at the wedding.”
“Yeah.” He glanced her way, just once, then slipped out the door and clearly out of her life.
~*~
“I, Kennedy, take thee, Alexander, to be my husband—”
From several rows back, Denver bounced his leg. He was a man on a mission, and he just needed this ceremony over so he could get to it. He didn’t know a lot about weddings, but he’d been sure that the florist’s job was done once the flowers were dropped off. Apparently not. Despite the fact that he’d arrived early—with several gallons of his spiked lemonade for the reception—he hadn’t managed five minutes to talk to Misty. He hadn’t even managed to get close enough for five words.
When he’d left her at Moonbeams and Sweet Dreams the other night, he’d felt better having made his apologies. In telling her the truth, he’d finally been able to set aside the noxious emotional brew that had been eating at him for a week. But as he’d come home to Oscar, who’d stopped wagging almost as soon as he realized Moxie and Misty hadn’t been with him, a whole different level of shitty had rolled in to fill that void. He missed Misty. He missed hanging out with her and the dogs. He missed talking over his day with her. He missed seeing what flowers she’d tucked into her hair every day. By wallowing in his old wounds, he’d cut her out and left a gaping hole in his life. That was when he realized he hadn’t fixed shit. At least not all the way. He wanted her to give him another chance. He’d been all raring to go to follow through, but Misty had been busy with the wedding—the last two days were her prime go time—so he’d had to wait.
Once he’d made up his mind about something, Denver hated waiting.
The woman in the next seat turned a fulminating glare on him. Denver stopped bouncing his knee and rubbed damp palms on his pants. They just had to get through the rest of the ceremony, then he could corner her during pictures. Except once the I dos were said and the bride was kissed, Misty disappeared and Denver got drafted to help quickly move all the tables at the perimeter and set up for the reception.
Where the hell did she go?
“Denver Hershal, I had no idea you were so talented!” Essie Vaughn, dispatcher and receptionist at the Sheriff’s Office, stepped into his path. “That arbor is just beautiful.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Vaughn.”