Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“I can take a cab.”
“No, let me drive you. You shouldn’t be alone.”
As I gently guided her with a hand near her lower back, but not quite touching, I could have sworn I heard her mumble something about being alone under her breath, but the city streets were too loud to make it out.
Beside me in the car, Blair trembled a bit. Whether it was from the cold rain or the effort to keep her grief in, I had no idea. So I turned on the seat warmers and the heat as we drove toward the cemetery, despite the fact that it was still summer.
Neither of us said a word, and the tension grew tight by the time we were walking toward the grave. Blair’s heels kept sinking into the muddy ground. And when she pitched forward one time, she finally took my offered arm as we gathered under a white tent set up beside the casket.
The service started, and Ronny’s cries were joined by those of Matt’s aunts, father, and brother.
Beside me, Blair was stony-faced as she watched the casket lower.
As for me, well, being the oldest child in a large family with a lot of emotional weight put on my shoulders, I learned to tamp my feelings down at an early age.
The grief was there.
But it wasn’t allowed to surface.
Eventually, it was all over.
And Ronny turned toward us. “There’s a repast at Maria’s. For close family,” she added, casting a quick sideways glance toward Blair. Who was not close. And now would never be. “And you, of course, Nico. Though I know you’re a busy man.”
Blair and I both watched as the family made their way back toward the parking lot before we silently started the trek ourselves.
Again, we said nothing. Not on the drive back to the city. Or toward the apartment building she once shared with Matt.
She didn’t even comment on my following her up to her door. She just silently slid her keycard into the lock and moved inside, leaving me to follow. Or not.
But she stopped a few feet inside the door, back to me.
“Was he staying with you?” she asked, her voice a hollow shell.
“Yes.”
“So you know,” she said, turning toward me.
“Yeah, I know.”
“I probably have no right to grieve,” she said, her voice getting thick.
“Regardless of what happened the past few days, Blair, he was your husband. You have every right to grieve. In whatever way you need to.”
That, apparently, was the right—or wrong, depending on how you were looking at it—thing to say.
Blair’s hands rose to her face as a cry escaped her.
Then she just… shattered.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I said, moving forward to catch her right before she slid to the floor.
I gathered her close, holding her against my chest as she fell apart.
And hated myself for thinking of how nicely she fit in my arms.
CHAPTER TWO
Blair
I had no idea how someone was supposed to mourn the death of the man she’d just kicked out a few days before.
But, clearly, the way I did it was wrong according to Matt’s family.
To be fair, everything I did was wrong to them. How I dressed, the way I cooked, how I decorated and kept house, the way I’d text him asking where he was when he took off to their houses for hours without saying a word to me about where he was going.
I was “controlling,” and “manipulative,” and “a princess” simply for my wardrobe and a styled apartment and not being as rowdy and emotive as the Ferraro crew were.
And don’t get me started on the fit Ronny had thrown when she’d learned I’d hyphenated my last name.
“Langston-Ferraro, what is she, a law firm?”
It was useless to try to impress upon her that I simply wanted to maintain some part of my identity in my marriage. All she would say to that was that I had a new identity.
Matthew’s wife.
Golden boy Matthew.
Never did anything wrong in his mother’s eyes.
And also never learned to be a fully functioning adult because of her either. He didn’t know how to wash his clothes, load a dishwasher, feed himself if it didn’t include a menu, or check his own bank accounts.
I’d been married for two weeks when I learned that my mother-in-law was the only one with the log-in details to my husband’s bank account.
I’d caught snippets of conversation when he’d called her to ask for the details.
“What does she need access to your account for? Isn’t she insisting on keeping her own account?”
I had, in fact, kept my own account.
And I’d been smart enough, even in those early days, not to give Matthew direct access to them.
Did I often pay for things around the house and a lot of the bills? Sure. Did he sometimes take my credit card and pay the tab at restaurants? Also, yes. But something about giving him unfettered access gave me pause. I mean, this was a man who once spent his last penny buying stuff at estate auctions, swearing out that he was going to make a fortune reselling them online.