But the moment his comforting failed to fix me right away, his patience ran out, and he'd leave me to cry through the grief alone.
In the dark, I listened to the steady sound of his breathing and asked myself the question I'd never dared to think through.
Lance Simmons, does he really love me?
When I woke the next morning, Lance was already gone.
He didn't say a single word about the night before. Just texted me the way he always did:
"Breakfast's in the kitchen. And don't forget to stop by the group home after work."
Every Friday, we went to the group home.
Lance grew up there, so he looked out for the kids there more than anyone.
Rain or shine, he never missed a week.
Without a word, I gathered up the snacks and school supplies I'd bought for the kids and walked into the kitchen.
On the table sat a sandwich, already sliced, thick slabs of tomato inside.
I hate tomatoes. I'd told him so more times than I could count, told him I couldn't stand them, and he'd never once remembered.
I dropped the whole sandwich in the trash without changing my expression, turned, and left.
Downstairs, I bought an order of breakfast dumplings, then made my slow way toward the office.
I'd barely sat down when my phone buzzed.
I opened it. A message from my mom:
"Frankie, you and Lance have been together so many years now. When are you two getting married? Your dad and I have been waiting."
I held the phone, and something in my chest went sour.
She was right. After all this time, there should be something to show for it.
Maybe the trouble Melanie Cobb had stirred up lately was only happening because Lance and I had never made anything official between us.
If I were his wife, would none of this exist?
I thought about it and decided to bring it up with Lance after work.
Six o'clock, quitting time, and right on schedule his message came:
"I'm waiting downstairs."
I went down and, out of habit, walked to the passenger side and pulled the door open, meaning to sit beside him.
But the second the door swung open, I froze.
Melanie Cobb was sitting in the seat that belonged to me, an iced latte in her hand, smiling like she couldn't hurt a fly.
I frowned and looked past her to Lance in the driver's seat.
Seeing my face, Melanie said quickly,
"Frances, I wanted to come see the group home with you two."
She reached for her seatbelt as she spoke.
"I'll go sit in the back."
Lance stopped her, his tone perfectly easy.
"You get carsick. Just stay up front."
In that instant it felt like a bucket of ice water down my back, cold from head to toe.
Lance didn't like anyone in his car. It had taken me a solid month of wearing him down before he grudgingly let me have the passenger seat.
Even last year, when my mom came to Ashford to see him, he'd found it too much trouble and ended up sending a cab to pick her up.
And now, without a second thought, he was letting a neighbor who'd moved in next door only two months ago break his plans all over again.
I didn't say anything. I quietly opened the back door and got in.
The whole drive, the car was full of the two of them laughing and talking.
I might as well have been invisible, curled into the far corner of the back seat, unable to get a word in.
We finally reached the group home, and the moment I stepped out, the director came hurrying over and warmly took Melanie's hands.
"Melanie? Is it really you?"
"You haven't come by in years. I was starting to think you'd forgotten all about us."
Melanie clasped the director's hands right back.
"Director Whitfield, Lance and I grew up here together. How could I ever not come back?"
I stood rooted where I was, a ringing going off inside my head.
