Page 8 of Rockland

“What?”

He turns to me, jaw clenched. “Don’t allow your grief to become misplaced anger.”

His words only serve to make me absolutely livid.

Because he’s right.

I cross my arms over my chest and spit the words at him. “What are you even doing here? Don’t you have a barrier reef to mow or something?”

When he speaks, the words come out deep and low, laced with the very same gut-wrenching grief I’m feeling. “He was my brother.”

Shit.

I say, “I’m being a total ass. I… I’m—sorry.”

“Thanks.” He gives me a nod. A slight turn-up of the corner of his mouth.

We spend the rest of the ride in silence. Me feeling equal parts guilty for not thinking of Rockland’s grief, mixed with disgust at having to spend the day with him.

I say, “So, how have you been?”

“Well. And you?”

“Pretty good. Considering.”

He turns the car down Seventh Street and just when I think things are going well—that we’ve made a truce and the two of us will be able to get through this day in peace—the asshole murmurs under his breath, “You’d be doing better if you had your ass slapped a couple times. Remind you that you aren’t the center of the universe.”

His words light a fire of fury within me. I’m seething. This man brings out the worst in me.

I take the high road, ignore his comment. Sit and watch the trees pass as we reach the back of the Village.

As we drive, I tell myself I can behave. I can contain my temper even if provoked. It’s only one day, right? Then he’ll be gone again, and I’ll have three hundred sixty-four days before he makes his next appearance.

If only it was that easy.

Is it true what they say about redheads? All those stereotypes about our hair making our temperament fiery. I don’t know but I do know that no matter how hard I try to be good, my temper gets the best of me.

I can already tell today is going to be one of those days. I sigh, slouch down in my leather seat, and stare out the window. Brooding over his comment.

You know what? Forget about being good. I’m going to give him hell. Then send him on his way. He wouldn’t dare touch me—I get a free pass as a grieving widow. Everyone understands how fresh the pain still is for me.

His words spin in my mind as we near the meadow. Don’t allow your grief to become misplaced anger.

You know, I think that’s just what I’ll do. It’s been a hard year. The hardest of my life. I could use an outlet for my grief.

I sneak a peek at Rockland. Beneath his beard, his jaw is so tight it looks as if it’s made of stone. He stares straight ahead, fingers clutched tightly around the steering wheel.

It must be killing him to have to ride in the same car as me.

A little smile plays at my lips. Today I’m going to torment him.

This is going to be fun.

He parks the car beside the meadow. Most of the family is already gathered, wearing their best whites. He exits the car, slamming his door just a touch. Strides with that panther-like slink around the front of the car to my side. He opens my door. He offers me his hand, I accept. As I exit the car, I misstep, the chunky heel of my shoe planting and digging into the toe of his shoe.

Hard.

He lets out a groan. A grimace covers his face.