“I’m not going to say something dumb, like Emma would want you to be happy.” I can’t help it; I grin at the aggravation in her voice. We’ve both heard plenty of platitudes in the last two years. “And I’m not going to lie—I’m a jealous bitch, and I’m pissed that someone else might ever get you for a son-in-law. I lost that, too.” Her voice breaks, and I stand up, abruptly, cross to her side of the table, and wrap my arms around her. “You did not,” I say. “I just needed some time.” When she stops crying, she says, “You are a good man, Clark Wilder. And it would be a fucking waste of a good man
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