Your late husband is just as married to his work as he was to you, and when he passes away the years he poured into that organization results in a methodical care package train of meals and gift cards from his office.

Just when you think it will become unsustainable and surely the effort will run dry as these things tend to, someone from his office — usually one of the other men, Simon or Kyle or Johnny — will run something by to get you through the week. You've cried more times from their generosity and no matter how much you try to refuse it, they refuse to listen. It's a tight hug, wrapped in thick muscles and a strong heartbeat against your temple, and a "John would haunt me in my dreams if we didn't care of his missus" that made you cry harder.

—

Simon keeps you fed with tea, comfortable with the long silences. Johnny fills them, bless his heart. A hand on your knee or shoulder, squeezing, eyes piercing yours through the thick fog of grief. Kyle does puzzles with you. He now keeps one laid out on your kitchen table, his side and your side. When he comes over, he tucks at least an hour into it, even if you don't always feel like sitting there with him.

—

You watch him one Sunday morning, sitting with the radio on, listening to his fingers twist against the puzzle pieces, his fingertip bumping against the ridges. It's three months past now, and you cry less and stare more, but he stays. Putters around your kitchen, putting it to rights, ignoring your use of paper plates or juice boxes because some things feel like too much work.

You fit your piece in and then go lie down on the couch, knowing he'll stand to flick off the kitchen light, crouch slightly to turn off the standing living room lamp, and will settle a quilt over your body and over his legs slightly. He'll take the remote from your open palm and put on some British crime procedural show he loves and you can't follow and within the hour, you'll be asleep.

—

Over time, Simon and Johnny stop coming in. Always a peck on the cheek and warm words with the meal drop-off, but they're getting too busy with work and their own lives. Can't be a year past their beloved boss's death and they're still popping in and visiting his widow every week.

But Kyle comes. A quiet and calm body across from the table.

—

You go on your first date since John died. It ends in sex. You don't cry. You laugh on the drive home and tell Kyle over a puzzle the next day.

You pretend not to see the flicker in his dark gaze and the tight wrinkle between his eyes.

—

"I feel like everyone's just waiting for me to settle down right away. It's so weird. I think they think I won't be sad anymore, or like it'll make them feel better about me."

"You've been on lots of dates. Nobody catchin' your eye?"

"Sure, loads. To talk to, maybe kiss, maybe even…you know. But I don't want to see them again. It's just new and different and weird and that feels…I don't know. Safer, I guess."

"Makes sense. Well, if you do find someone that sticks around longer than date two, feel free to tell me sling my hook."

—

You go for a hike with your sister and she brings it up as nonchalantly as a rocket launcher. You get defensive.

—

One night at a bar with Kyle and his friends, you watch a hot woman try to hit on him. His smile's wide, a beacon that could launch a thousand ships, but his eyes aren't crinkled. He bends down a little to hear her better, laughs warmly, but it's not reaching the dark soulful gaze that finds yours over her head. A little smile your way — realer than the big one. A simmer of electricity buzzing in the dark.

"Did you get that woman's number?"

"Which one?"

"Either."

"Nah. Not my type."

It feels too dangerous to ask the obvious next question.

—

The food deliveries stop.

—

Then, you're wandering through your garden one July evening two weeks later with a glass of red wine, plucking weeds with your free hand, when a familiar truck pulls up. Kyle hops out, alone, and beams you a big smile, his eyes crinkling in the late summer sun. You expect him to open the passenger door and grab packages, but he just strides comfortably and loosely up the brick path. Stands where the dahlias brush open against his thighs, and sticks his hands in his pockets.

"Hey, you," you smile.

"Hiya. I got something to tell you."

"Oh…okay?" Your stomach twists.

"I don't want to just deliver your food anymore; I want to make it for you. Or with you. I don't want to come by for a long visit and chat and get up in the night to drive home. I want to wake up and do a puzzle with you. Fall asleep with you and bring you to bed. I don't wanna listen to you talk about dates; I want to to take you on them myself."

You pad on the sun-warmed stepping stones, overgrown with clover, toward him.

"I want to take care of you. Make your life a little easier in some way."

You wind your way up the brick path to the front porch. You keep the wine glass in your hand as you sit on the porch swing. Kyle watches you. You motion for him to come up. He sits beside you on the swing, setting the motion of it off crooked as you both set your feet down to right the angle.

"Think you'll be able to fall in love with me?"

"What?" His voice sounds strangled.

You laugh, and a tear escapes down your cheek hot and fast, unexpected. "Yeah. I had a feeling. I think it'll be easy for me, too."

-