Page 40 of The Wrong Groom

“I struggled. A lot. For a while, it felt like I would never make it through. But I had to, you know? For her.” I swallow some of the whiskey. The burning feeling in my chest keeps me talking. “If nothing else, losing my wife made me more protective of Peyton. I had to become everything she needed, and after a little while, I found my stride, if that makes sense.”

She nods, still silent, her gaze fixed on the floor.

I sigh. “Sorry. You probably don’t want to hear about things like this.” A loss of this magnitude doesn’t make for great after-dinner conversation, and it’s not something most people have experienced when they’re her age. She’s probably uncomfortable, itching to get out of here.

“No,” she says suddenly, looking up. “I… I know what it’s like.”

I blink, surprised by the seriousness in her voice. “You do?”

Her eyes are distant, filled with a sorrow that seems too heavy for someone her age. “My sister, Noelle. She died when I was ten.” She takes a shaky breath, her hands clasping the edge of the desk for support.

“Oh.” I had no idea. Jesus, how could I be married to this woman and not know something so fundamental about her life? “I’m so sorry.”

Alexis waves a hand as if to dismiss my condolences, but I can tell that even after all this time, the loss still affects her. “She had leukemia. It took her really quickly. She seemed so healthy, until she wasn’t. And she only lasted six months after the diagnosis came.”

I grip my glass tightly. I want to reach out, to place my hand on Alexis’s shoulder. To draw her toward me, to comfort her with closeness. But I can’t. I don’t want to confuse her, and I don’t want to confuse myself.

“After she died, for a long time, I felt so guilty that she was gone and I was still here.” Alexis shuffles, her gaze fixed on the rug beneath our feet. “And I felt lost without her. She was my big sister. She was…” She trails off, seeming at a loss for words. Then she clears her throat. “So, yeah. I know how it feels.”

“I didn’t realize,” I say quietly.

She sniffles, and her hand flies up to swipe hastily at her eyes. “I don’t like to talk about it, to be honest.”

“I get that.”

She’s silent for a moment. Then she says, “After Noelle died, everything changed. Suddenly, I couldn’t just live my life anymore. I had to live it for her, because she didn’t get to grow up. I had to… I don’t know. Step into her shoes. Take on her role.”

I close my eyes. I know how that feels. Since I lost Melanie, I’ve had to take on a new role too. Not just as Peyton’s father, but as her only parent, as the one responsible for making up for everything she’s lost.

I glance at Alexis. Her copper hair hangs forward, loose tendrils framing her face as she bows her head. I realize that my perception of her has changed. The revelations of the past five minutes have altered the way I look at her once again.

She’s young, sure, and bright, and sweet. But there’s so much more to her. Depth I didn’t see before. Depth that I’m not sure anyone gets to see. For a moment, I’m at a loss for words, caught between wanting to comfort her and an unexpected sense of admiration.

“You shouldn’t have had to do that,” I say after a long silence. “Taking on someone else’s life. It’s too much to carry.”

She shrugs one shoulder, an attempt at nonchalance, but I can see the way her eyes glisten despite her efforts to hide her face from me.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I tell her.

“I’m sorry for yours,” she whispers.

Quiet settles between us. Her hand still rests on the edge of the desk, and I find myself reaching out reflexively to touch it. She flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away. I hear her sharp intake of breath.

She looks down at our joined hands, her lips parting as if she wants to say something, but she stays silent. The air between us crackles with sudden tension as she looks up, meeting my gaze.

Her eyes are filled with a mix of uncertainty and something else, something deeper that I can’t quite put into words. It’s a look that draws me in, pulling me past some invisible boundary that I’ve carefully avoided breaching.

I’m aware of how close we’re standing, the delicate shape of her hand beneath mine, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the warmth of the whiskey between us. My mind tells me to step back, to break the moment before it gets too intense, before I fuck up in a way that can’t be fixed. My body doesn’t listen. I can feel the draw between us, pulling tight like an invisible thread.

Her breath catches. She feels it too. She knows what’s about to happen, as certainly as I do. She wants it to happen. I can tell by the way she sways toward me, like she’s tethered by that same thread.

I lean in, and my lips meet hers.

It’s a soft kiss at first. Her lips are warm, tentative against mine, like she’s testing the moment just as much as I am. For a heartbeat, we stay there, neither of us daring to push further, both of us suspended in the delicate balance between restraint and surrender.

Then I feel her relax, just a little, and her hand moves up to rest lightly on my chest. The touch is gentle, hesitant, but it breaks something open in me.

My hand slips to her waist, pulling her closer. I kiss her deeper, letting myself get lost in the fullness of her lips, the warmth of her body pressed against mine. Her scent wreathes around me as her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt.