For Lucy

Her eyes fill with tears that she quickly blinks away. “Doesn’t that hurt? Doesn’t that keep you from moving forward?”

“Children are anchors no matter where you are in life. We have children to make memories. And we have to take the bad with the good. When you’re married with a family of your own, I will still look at those stairs…” I nod out her doorway toward the stairs “…and remember the first time you understood the idea of Santa Claus and flew down them to see if he’d brought you gifts and taken the cookies and milk you left out for him. I will welcome every new day and love all the new memories we make, but I don’t want to forget how we got here. Even if parts of the journey have been really painful.”

Lucy remains silent for a few moments before standing and grabbing her purse. “Do you think Mom wants to forget him?”

I flinch. “No. I think she just wants to forget why he’s not here the way he used to be here. I think she can no longer see those Christmas morning memories the way I do. And that’s okay. Everyone handles loss differently. But if my living here is going to be a roadblock for you, then I’ll let her sell it.”

Stopping at the doorway, she glances up at me. “My roadblock isn’t this house.”

With a single nod, I let her know she doesn’t need to say anymore.

“You should have the house,” she says, leading the way down the stairs where Tatum’s waiting at the bottom.

“Have a fun day.” Tatum runs her hand down Lucy’s arm, clasping her wrist to give it a soft squeeze before Lucy pulls away and heads out the front door with an “I will” murmured.

“Looks like it’s settled. You’re taking the house. I have some people coming this week who are interested in some of the furnishings I put on Craig’s List.”

“I’ll buy them.”

Her eyes narrow as her head inches side to side. “That’s crazy, Emmett. You have furniture at your house. I assume.”

“I’m going to rent out my house as furnished.”

“Well … still … you don’t want my things. It’s my taste not yours. I don’t think purples and velvet say bachelor.”

She is my taste. I don’t have a favorite color. I have a favorite person who loves purple and velvet. And I’m not a bachelor. I might not be married, but that doesn’t make me available. I will never be with another person as long as Tatum is alive. It wouldn’t be fair to someone else. There’s no way I could love another woman the way I love her. My love for her is not contingent on her love for me. It’s not even contingent on us being married.

Saying “I do” didn’t make me love her more, it just gave her my last name.

“Emmett … you need to move on.” The pain in her voice is almost as bad as the contorted expression on her face.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Tatum. Last I checked, we were divorced. Last I checked, I’m no longer living with you. I have a job. I cook my own meals. I occasionally go out with friends. I do what I can for Lucy. I pay you child support and alimony. Until last week, we hadn’t seen each other in nine months—short of a quick glance across an auditorium at Lucy’s dance recital. If that’s not moving on, then I don’t know what you expect from me.”

Hugging her arms to her chest, she stares at the floor between us. “I was happy to see you on a date. That felt like you were moving on. But I don’t think some other woman will be interested in you as much if you’re living in this house with the furniture I picked out.”

“Nina is my neighbor. She invited me to dinner—as neighbors. So you don’t have to worry about what she will think of furniture she will most likely never see.”

“Well, if not her then—”

I sigh. “Tatum, it’s my life. Moving on doesn’t have to involve finding love again. At least, not for me.”

“Emmett …” Her gaze lifts to meet mine, and it drives that dagger into my chest another inch—a dagger that’s been lodged in my heart since that day. “Lucy wants you to find love again.”

“I have people I love.”

She wets her lips and rubs them together. “I’m not talking about your parents or Lucy.”

“Neither am I.”

“Emmett …” She shakes her head. “We’re over. You know that.”

“I do.”

“Then why?”

“Because you brought it up.” I run a hand through my hair before shoving that hand into my back pocket.

“You can’t love me,” she whispers.

“You can’t tell me who to love.”

“I can!” Her head shoots up, hands balled at her side. “I can tell you it’s not me. You can’t love me. I’m not yours to love anymore. And I hate …” Her jaw clamps, but her unspoken words are felt between us.