I look to him, my voice shaking, and I ask, “What if I am never ready to be loved again.”
“I’m not worried about that. I’m not even thinking about that,” Christian answers softly.
“Because I may never be able to be with someone ever again. Do you understand that?”
He smiles, that crooked smile with his dimple, which is still amazingly sexy, but can’t seem to pull me out of my stupor. “What happened to you is something you should have never had to go through, but you did. So right now, all I’m asking is that you take it one day at a time and let me be your friend. I’m not thinking about our future, or us, I promise. Will you let me be your friend?”
I feel my chest ache and tighten. I think about Henry’s letter and what it must have taken for him to write such things to Christian. I feel so confused, and I don’t know what to do, but a friend like Christian sounds amazing. I nod, no words seeming appropriate.
He reaches out and takes my hand into his. “What do you say to going downstairs and seeing Olivia and Colin and Emmie for a little bit?”
“I don’t know,” I say, hesitating at the idea of leaving the safety of my tiny room.
“How about you come down and try, and if you want to come back up, just tap my arm, and I’ll come up with some excuse and whisk you back to bed,” he offers. “Sound like a plan?”
“Okay,” I agree and stand, wrapping my oversized robe around my small frame.
He opens the door, and as I step up to the doorway, I freeze, taking a deep breath.
“You all right?”
“I’m scared.”
“I’m right here, one step at a time. I’ve got you, okay?” he encourages me.
I look at him then back at the hallway. On the other side of that door is the real world, the place where I watched my husband die. I can’t believe there is a world where I am now alone, only looking out for me again. I glance back at Christian, feeling a chill run down my spine.
In that second I realize, I’m not alone; if I let them, I have my friends all around me, helping me one day at a time.
Three Years Later…
PULLING OUT ONE of the cardboard boxes from underneath the counter, I carefully lift and place it on the counter top, running the knife down the row of packing tape. I haven’t seen my designs since I sent the revisions from the prototype off to the manufacturer. Taking a deep breath, I swallow hard and prepare to open the box, hoping this time they got it right. There is no more time for do-overs. There is just enough time to get the bulk order back before for the grand opening.
Opening one side of the box, and then the other, I peek through squinted eyes. I don’t see anything too alarming at first glance—no clown costumes mistakenly packaged inside. Pressing my eyes wide open, I first run my hands along the pieces of clothing, taking in the textures. Pulling out the brown pants, I lift the corduroy to my nose and, with a deep inhale, smell. I’m surrounded by newness, and it’s intoxicating.
Holding the pants out in front of me, I inspect the small plaid patches on the knee and the sliver just above the pockets, smiling at the perfection, pleased I’d made the choice to change things up at the last minute. Next, I pull out the faded denim button-up shirt, the beauty of it in the simplicity. Then at the bottom I see the piece that brings the outfit all together. It is the most delicious cream-colored, lush alpaca-haired vest. The medium-colored cowboy boots that came in the week before are a perfect complement.
Pushing the box to the side, I lift up the next, a small pink ribbon on the front of the label. The excitement in me is growing with each passing moment. I waste no time slicing into the box, my heart melting as I pull out the dress, masses of cream and soft pink tulle, billowing out from under the layers that are draped and synched with the signature pink bow.
A bell chimes behind me as I hear the door open and close. I smile at the sound of Christian’s voice. “Oh, I know you didn’t lift those boxes up on your own, right?”
“Well, I looked around for some big, strong man to do it for me, but then realized we were in short supply of those around here and decided to do it myself.”
“Ouch,” he groans as he comes around the corner, clutching his chest as though my words wound him deeply.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” I ask, staring at the newest pieces of the collection to arrive.
“They are, but certainly not the most beautiful thing in here,” he says, lifting his chin and staring at me. It is that stare that, in my youth, made me uncomfortable, but the one that I now drink in with ease.
“Uh-huh, beautiful is about the furthest thing I feel right now,” I say, pressing a balled up fist into my lower back.