“You know, you could use my lawnmower for your yard,” she offered. “Unless you were going for the whole beast’s-palace-before-he-met-beauty thing.”

“I couldn’t give two shits about my yard looking a certain way.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because unlike some, I could care less what my neighbors think of me.”

She giggled. “That means you care what people think. What you meant was you couldn’t care less what they thought.”

“That’s what I said.”

She kept giggling. “That’s not what you said.”

God, you’re annoying. And beautiful. “Well, I couldn’t care less what people think of me.”

She huffed. “Liar.”

“That’s not a lie.”

“Yes, it is.” She nodded before biting her bottom lip. “Because everyone cares what others think. Everyone cares about the opinion of others. That’s why I haven’t even been able to tell my best friend that I find my neighbor highly attractive, even though he’s an asshole. Because widows aren’t supposed to feel any kind of feelings for anyone anymore—you’re just supposed to be sad all the time. But not too sad because that makes other people super uncomfortable. So the idea of kissing someone and feeling it between your thighs, and finding that the butterflies still exist…that’s a problem. Because people would judge me. And I don’t want to be judged, because I care what they think.”

I leaned in closer to her. “I say fuck it. If you think your neighbor Mr. Jenson is hot, so be it. I know he’s like one hundred years old, but I’ve seen him do yoga in his front yard before, so I totally get your attraction to him. I think I’ve even had a tingling in between my legs for the dude.”

She burst out into a fit of laughter. “He’s not exactly the neighbor I was referring to.”

I nodded. I knew.

Her legs crossed and she sat up straight. “Do you have any wine?”

“Do I seem like the type to have wine?”

“No.” She shook her head. “You seem like the type who drinks the darkest, thickest kind of beer that grows hair on your chest.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay. I’ll take a hairy chest beer, please,” she said.

I walked out of the room and returned with a glass of water. “Here, drink up.”

She reached for the glass, but her hand landed against my forearm, and she left it there as she studied my tattoos. “They’re all children’s books.” Her fingernail traced Charlotte’s Web. “Your son’s favorites?”

I nodded.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty-three. You?”

“Twenty-eight. And how old was your son when he…?”

“Eight,” I said coldly as her lips turned down.

“That’s not fair. Life isn’t fair.”

“Nobody ever said it was.”

“Yeah…but we still all hope it is.” She kept her eyes on the tattoos, traveling up to Katniss Everdeen’s bow and arrow. “Sometimes I hear you, you know. Sometimes I hear you shouting in your sleep at night.”

“Sometimes I hear you cry.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yes.”

“Everyone in town expects me to be the same girl I was before Steven died. But I don’t know how to be that girl anymore. Death changes things.”

“It changes everything.”

“I’m sorry I called you a monster.”

“It’s okay.”

“How? How is that okay?”

“Because that’s how death changed me, it made me a monster.”

She pulled me closer, making me kneel in front of her. Her fingers ran through my hair, and she stared deep into my eyes. “You’re probably going to be mean to me again tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

“But I won’t mean it.”

“I thought that, too.” Her finger ran against my cheek. “You’re beautiful. You’re a beautiful, broken kind of monster.”

My finger grazed against her bruised face. “Does it hurt?”

“I’ve felt worse pain.”

“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth.”

“My friends call me Liz, but you made it pretty clear that we are not friends.”

“I don’t know how to be a friend anymore,” I whispered.

She closed her eyes and placed her forehead to mine. “I’m really good at being a friend. If you ever want me to, I can give you a few pointers.” She sighed, lightly pressing her lips to my cheek. “Tristan.”

“Yes?”

“You kissed me earlier.”

“I did.”

“But why?” she asked.

My fingers moved to the back of her neck, and I slowly pulled her closer to me. “Because you’re beautiful. You’re a beautiful, broken kind of woman.”

She smiled wide, and her body shook slightly. “Tristan?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to throw up again.”

Her head had been in the toilet for over an hour now, and I stood behind her, holding her hair up. “Drink some water,” I said, handing her the glass sitting on the sink.

She sat back and took a few sips. “Normally I’m better at this drinking thing.”

“We’ve all had these kinds of nights.”

“I just wanted to forget for a while. To let go of everything.”

“Trust me,” I said, sitting across from her. “I know what that’s like. How are you feeling?”

“Dizzy. Silly. Stupid. Sorry about, you know, vomiting on your toes.”

I smirked. “Karma, I guess.”

“Was that a smile? Did Tristan Cole just smile at me?”

“Don’t get used to it,” I joked.

“Dangit. Too bad. It’s kind of nice.” She went to stand up and I followed her movements. “Your smile was the highlight of my day.”

“What was your dark moment of the day?” I asked.

“Your frown.” She exhaled as her eyes locked with mine. “I should get going. But thank you for controlling my drunkenness.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, with a thickness in my throat. “I’m sorry for making you fall earlier.”