Page 38 of Have To Be Mine

I shrugged, taking another bite of fish. The truth was complicated. Yes, it bothered me. Yes, I hated thinking about it. But I also didn’t know how to be anything else anymore.

“It’s fine,” I said. Which was what I always said when something definitely wasn’t fine.

“What about your mom?” Dash asked, leaning back in his chair. “What’s she like?”

I went still. The emotion slammed into me before I was able to find the control. “She’s not around anymore.”

Understanding dawned on his face. “Sorry, Krista,” he said quietly. “I’m an ass.” He reached across the table and put his hand on mine. “Sorry.”

The warmth of his hand on mine sent a shock through my system. Not because it was romantic but because it was gentle. When was the last time someone had touched me with softness instead of a handshake or a pat on the back?

He squeezed once and pulled his hand back. “What was her name?”

The question surprised me. Most people said, “I’m sorry” and moved on. But he was engaging.

“Carol,” I said.

“Tell me about her.”

I looked up at him, searching his face for any sign that he was just being polite. He looked genuinely interested.

I smiled despite the ache in my chest. “She was everything I’m not. Feminine, graceful. She loved pretty things. Dresses and makeup and flowers. She had this collection of perfumes and lotions that took up an entire dresser. My dad used to complain she took up all the space in the bathroom with her lotions and potions.”

“Sounds like my mom. Her bathroom is filled with salves and balms and tinctures.”

“My mom loved to sing,” I said, memories flooding back.

“How long has she been gone?”

“Fifteen years. Cancer.” I picked up my wine glass, needing something to do with my hands. “It was fast. Six months from diagnosis to her funeral.”

“That’s brutal. I’m really sorry.”

I forced a smile. “It’s fine. Doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.”

“I hope to get to that place one day,” he said. “Losing Dad rocked my whole family on its foundations.”

“Want to talk about him?” I asked.

“All I can say is he was taken from us way too young,” Dash said, eyes dark.

He didn’t elaborate and I wasn’t going to push. His father’s death was a lot more recent. I hadn’t wanted to talk about my mom much in those early years.

“She used to tell me stories,” I said, surprising myself with the memory. “Greek myths, actually. She loved them.”

“And here you are in Greece,” he said with a laugh.

“Yep, she would have loved to see all this.”

“Maybe you can find time in that schedule to do some sightseeing,” he said.

“I saw some stuff.”

He chuckled. “I mean really see things.”

I shrugged. “Maybe. It depends on how smoothly the rest of our campaign goes.”

I couldn’t believe I was talking to Dash Blackwell about my mother. I didn’t talk to anyone about her. Only Dad. But talking to Dash felt freeing. He was actually a really good listener once he settled down in one place.