“It’s beautiful, Willa,” I add, hoping to reassure her, but her cheeks go darker.

What I want to say is wholly inappropriate.

You’re beautiful.

How was your night out?

I’m sorry I haven’t been leaving enough coffee for you in the morning.

Words that lodge in my throat. Turn to cotton batting on my tongue. Words and feelings I don’t know what to do with anyway.

She pulls the hair back down to cover her a little and starts the song again from the beginning. A tiny part of me thinks I should turn and keep peeling, but a bigger part of me can’t take my eyes off her smooth legs bent under the guitar. One bare foot propped on the lower bar of the chair. Slender ankle flexed, the curved arch of her foot somehow sensual. I run into this problem where she’s concerned a lot.

The most trivial little details have me obsessing over her.

The tune sounds just as good as it did the first time. Sultry and slow. It’s like she took some teenybopper song and made it sexy.

Her lean fingers move across the string seamlessly, stretching and flexing with every note she strums.

And then her voice kicks in, and it’s a shot to the gut.

Raspy and sweet, all at once.

Shy and sure.

Quiet and strong. Just like her.

The first line is something about strawberries and summer evenings, which is fitting, because her strawberry red lips move, and I’m entranced.

Luke sways to the song, happy and oblivious. But not me. I can feel my precious control slipping where she’s concerned. And who knew some stupid song would be the thing to do it?

She peeks up and her voice breaks ever so slightly when she catches me staring her down.

She doesn’t look away though.

The lyrics talk about breathing in and breathing out—which is a great reminder for me at this current juncture.

My stomach bottoms out, and I worry about what’s written on my face. My carefully practiced poker face is slipping, like she’s peeling it back, piece by piece. All the armor, all the protection.

I’m not ready to be laid bare. Not by her. Not by anyone.

Luke’s mom may not have been the right woman for me, but she was a woman for me. And I did my best to keep her happy. I tried to love her. And in my own way, I did. It wasn’t cinematic but I was faithful. I provided for her. I worked myself to the bone to build us a good life.

And she left.

It wasn’t enough. Even today, I don’t have much more than I did then.