The Mercedes rolls up to the wrought-iron gates of Green-Wood Cemetery a few minutes before ten in the morning. Mat puts the car in park without saying anything. He just looks at me, his hand on the gearshift, waiting.
“You don’t have to come in,” I tell him. “I mean, I want you to. Eventually. But not yet. Not today.”
“That’s okay, Cass. I’ll always be waiting where you need me.”
He shows absolutely no signs of being offended or put-out, which I appreciate more than I could ever say out loud.
Mat has a way of letting me lead in the moments that matter. That’s something I am still getting used to. After four years of being shoved through doorways by Raymond, I’m now with a man who waits patiently at the threshold with his hands in his pockets, asking, Where to next?
You’ll have to for
