Southern Storms (Compass 1)

Her lips parted as realization settled into her mind. She sat back in her seat with a look of guilt gathering in her eyes. Of course she knew about the accident. Everyone knew about the accident; they just preferred to tiptoe around the topic instead of facing it head-on. Death made people uncomfortable, and I couldn’t blame them for not wanting to talk about it. It was such an odd topic to tackle.

I traced the backward D on my skin as the tears began rolling down my face. “My daughter’s name was—” I wanted to tell her. I needed to keep talking about them to keep them alive to me. It was the small comfort I needed, but sometimes the words came out a little too wobbly.

“Kennedy.” A hand landed on my wrist, covering the tattoo. I looked up to see Penn staring my way, shaking his head lightly as he squeezed my wrist a little too tight. “Maybe you should go clean up your face, take a minute to yourself.”

Which translated to: You’re embarrassing me again—pull yourself together.

He didn’t feel sorry for me anymore. After over a year, why should he have? He had been able to heal from our tragedy. I should’ve been able to do the same, yet, for some reason, I wasn’t better.

All I wanted to do was be better.

I wiped the tears from my eyes just to have more fall rapidly. “Yes. Of course. Sorry, I just…” I pushed my chair away from the table and excused myself. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured.

Marybeth’s eyes were filled with guilt. Her hand pressed against her chest as I turned to walk away, and I heard her whisper an apology to Penn.

“No, no, you did nothing wrong, Marybeth,” Penn said, sounding apologetic as he comforted his co-worker instead of his own wife. “She just gets that way. You did nothing wrong. She’s too emotional for her own good. She needs to learn to pull herself together better. Really, at her age…”

Too emotional.

I headed to the bathroom to clean myself up. As I looked in the mirror, I was stunned by the reflection staring back at me. When had I lost it? When had I lost my color and my light? Had the bags beneath my eyes always been so heavy? How much weight had I lost to make my cheeks look so hollow?

When the bathroom door was pushed open, a woman walked in—Laura, the wife of one of Penn’s colleagues.

Laura was an older woman, probably in her late fifties. She was always so kind to me, even though I oftentimes came off as awkward and uncomfortable in most situations. Over the past year, Penn had made it seem as if I were more of a burden at his work gatherings than an asset. He’d tell me so many times that I’d be better off staying at home.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Laura asked with the most sincere expression on her face. Her dark brown hair had waves of natural gray coming through, and when she smiled, you felt it.

I chuckled a little to myself and wiped my eyes dry the best I could. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’m just too emotion—”

“You’re not too emotional,” she cut in, walking my way with a paper towel in her hand. “You aren’t overreacting. I lost a child when I was younger—a miscarriage, but still a child—and it almost destroyed me. My saving grace was my husband. He was my rock when I crumbled. Now, I don’t mean to pry, but I couldn’t help but see how Penn was treating you out there. Sweetheart, don’t take offense to what I’m about to say, but that’s not the way a husband should treat his wife. You should never be belittled when you are at rock bottom. He should lift you up, not kick you back down.”

My lips parted to respond, but I didn’t know how.

Laura patted the falling tears from my eyes and gave me a small smile. “Again, it’s none of my business, and Jonathon would kill me if he knew I got involved in other people’s affairs, but…you deserve healing, and you should be allowed to talk about your daughter without being shamed. Know your worth. Then charge more.”

I swallowed hard as she gave me a hug I hadn’t even known my soul needed. My body melted against Laura’s, and she held me up as I cried into her arms.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay. Don’t bottle it up. Let yourself feel.”

After I finished falling apart in her arms, she let me go and gave me a smile. “By the way, I’ve read all of your novels. Your words are something to be treasured. I cannot wait for your future books.”

I’d been publishing novels for the past five years, yet after the accident, I hadn’t written a word. My agent told me to take my time, and the words would come back to me, but lately I was beginning to think that wasn’t true. I lost my muse, therefore my words disappeared, too.