“McKenzie!” Wendy shrieks as she rushes to Mark. But McKenzie ignores her as she tromps up the stairs and slams her bedroom door. As Wendy tends to Mark, I look back and find J.J. gorging on grilled cheese and Grayson still lining up matchbox cars completely oblivious to all the commotion.

“We should probably go,” I tell Connor.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

Wendy stands, and we step over Mark to exit the kitchen where he’s laying in the fetal position, cupping his manhood. Wendy walks us to the door and hugs me.

“I’m sorry for all the commotion.”

“Don’t be,” I chuckle as I hand her the small paper bag of candy bars. “Connor bought these for the kids.”

“Well that was so nice of you,” Wendy grins.

Cutting me a sideways glance, Connor clarifies, “They’re from both of us.”

“Well thanks to both of you,” Wendy says, as she darts her eyes back and forth between us, her mouth quirked in a smirk.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“If I survive the weekend,” she sighs. “Good to see you again Connor.” She hugs him, and he’s slow to return it, a little surprised by her affection, But after a beat, his arms wrap around her, and he says, “You too, Wendy.”

Once we’re outside, and Wendy shuts the door we hear Wendy yell, “Get up Mark. You’re not that big; she couldn’t have done but so much damage.”

Connor’s brows rise, and we both burst out laughing as we make our way to my car.

By the time Monday rolls around, I’m ready to go back to work even if it’s only three days a week for a few hours. The county’s budget is always short and because of that, they can’t afford a full-time staff in the summer for the special needs kids. My work day flies by, and it’s noon before I know it. All of my students have been picked up when Shelly from the front office enters my classroom with a flat, square package.

“You were out last week when this came.”

“What is it?” I ask as she hands me the parcel, which is also surprisingly light.

“I don’t know. Some guy dropped it off. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she calls as she hurries out of the room, eager to leave work for the day.

Tearing open the paper, I realize it’s a painting. It’s a painting of the autism symbol; a multi-colored puzzle piece. I don’t see a note until I turn the painting and find a card taped to the back of the canvas.

My face hurts I’m smiling so big. The painting is lovely, and I decide I’m going to hang it in the classroom. My students will love the bright colors. I can’t deny I’m impressed. This is probably one of the most romantic things anyone has ever done for me. If he delivered this last week, he must think I’ve blown him off. I yank my cell out of my purse and shoot him a text.

Me:

The painting is beautiful. Thank you.

A few minutes pass and I check the number to make sure I dialed right. Yes, it’s right. What if he’s not interested anymore?

Vick:

I’ve given out a lot of paintings lately. Who is this?

My stomach knots. Does he always do this kind of thing for women he asks out? Should I even respond to this?

Vick:

I’m just kidding, Demi. I haven’t stopped thinking about the gorgeous woman I stumbled upon in the grocery store, talking to herself.

I cringe as I remember how crazy I must’ve looked.

Me:

You’re hilarious. I fell for it . . . again.

Vick:

I like that about you. ;) So . . . meet me for dinner?

Me:

Yes. I’d like that.

Vick:

Tillie’s, seven o’clock on Wednesday?

Me:

See you then.

Vick:

Have I mentioned I’m really starting to love this place? ;) See you, Wednesday.

I stay in my classroom for a few more hours, organizing and cleaning. Mostly killing time until four when Wendy wants to meet for happy hour. I know times are tough, and she’s super stressed; with five kids I’m sure she’s busting at the seams to get out of the house. As I drive to Tillie’s to meet Wendy, the thought of going out with a man for the first time since Blake passed runs through my mind. While the idea of it is exciting, there’s also guilt. If Blake were still alive, there’d be no Vick, and there’d be no first date. I’d be on my way home right now to cook us dinner.

At a red light, I pull my cell out and dial Lexi.

“Helloooo, darling,” she answers in a British accent.

“I have a date,” I blurt out. I feel like this little fact has been bottled up inside me ready to burst free at any moment. Lexi is probably the worst person to tell, but she is my sister.

“You do?” The astonishment is extremely evident in her voice. She’s shocked.

“Yes. I met him at the grocery store the other day. His name is Vick.”

“Holy shit, Dem,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “You okay?” She knows I’m okay and even though she’s been pushing me to get back out there, she knows this is a huge step for me. I’m touched she at least thought to ask how I’m holding up.

“I’m okay . . . I think,” I answer honestly as I push some of my hair behind my ear. “We’re meeting for dinner Wednesday.”

“I’m coming over to help you get ready,” she volunteers.

“You don’t have to do that, Lex.”

“I’m coming over,” she insists.

“Okay,” I give in.

“Demi’s gonna get laid. Demi’s gonna get laid,” she sings obnoxiously.

“I gotta go. Bye,” I hang up even though she’s still singing.

A date. I’m going on a date. My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I inhale deeply. My mind runs with thoughts of right and wrong, and before I know it, I’m at the cemetery. Days before he became incapacitated, Blake held my hand and gave me the talk. The talk giving me permission to move on.

“One day, Demi . . . another man will come along.” I tried to pull my hand from his, but he squeezed, preventing it. “I want you to be happy . . . to meet someone that can give you the things I couldn’t.”

“You gave me everything, Blake.” Tears broke loose and streamed down my face. This was my dying husband giving me permission to move on and love again. It was brutal. My hand squeezed his tighter as if I could somehow keep him here.

“I didn’t give you children. And I know how badly you want them,” he smiled sadly. “I know you want at least one.”

And I did. But I wanted one of his children. I wanted a piece of him to continue to exist even after he left me. When I told him, he refused. Blake grew up without a father. And he believed every child deserved one, not just the memory of a father that other people shared with them.

“One day, Demi . . . he’ll come along and love you. Don’t be afraid to love him back. He won’t be anything like me . . .”

I stared up at him and wondered if he had some vision of what he thought the next man in my life would be like. And then I sobbed. My poor, dying husband was torturing himself with visions of a man that might take his place.

“Blake . . . please—”

“Shh,” he soothed me. “I love you. I always will.”

Slowly, I walk through the large graveyard, delaying having this conversation with Blake. I don’t know if he’ll hear me, but I feel like I need to let him know. I come here, often, and speak to him. I tell him about work, complain about my mother, crack jokes about Lexi. I’m two rows over when his grave comes into sight. I stop when I realize Connor is standing in front of it, his large hands stuffed in his pockets.