Free Mistletoe and Margaritas by Shannon Stacey

stood with his hands shoved in his coat pockets, staring down at the block of polished granite. Brendan Rutledge. Beloved Son, Husband, Brother and Red Sox Fan.
    He’d been sitting between Judy and Claire in the funeral director’s office, holding their hands, while they went through the long, painful process of planning their goodbye. But it had been Phil, sitting with his arms wrapped around Brendan’s sister and who’d been quiet up until the moment came to order the headstone, who had said his son would have wanted the world to know he was a Red Sox fan. The three women had laughed—weak, startled amusement that pierced through the suffocating blanket of unexpected, bone-deep grief.
    Claire had wanted to add friend, for Justin’s sake, but the funeral director was concerned about the amount of space on the small stone. Justin had squeezed her hand and told her brother said everything important about his relationship with Brendan.
    He stared now at that word etched forever into granite. Brother. “I slept with your wife.”
    There was no clap of thunder. No lightning strike or howling winds or deluge of icy rain. Just silence and the beating of his heart.
    “I tried not to. I tried so damn hard not to.” He swallowed hard. “We tried to blame the booze at first. But we weren’t drunk. It was just the excuse we used to make it okay. And…then we did it again.”
    He stopped. Blew out a breath. “I hurt her. You worshipped her and you made her laugh and smile and…I made her cry. I think, more than anything, you’d kick my ass just for that. God, I wish you could kick my ass right now.”
    Justin heard a strangled sob behind him and turned to see Judy Rutledge standing a short distance behind him. Her face was pale and streaked with tears as her leather-gloved hands strangled the stems of a small Christmas bouquet. The guilt of hurting another woman Brendan had loved almost crippled him.
    “He considered you his brother,” she said in a small voice that hit him like a wrecking ball.
    His shoulders hunched under his coat as he waited for the accusations and recriminations from the woman who’d been a second mother to him. He wouldn’t try to defend what he’d done or hide from the pain. He deserved to hurt as much as she did. More. Because he’d betrayed her, too.
    “I’ve loved you like a son, Justin. The boys. That’s how Phil and I always referred to you. The boys. You were probably closer than any real brothers could have been. And he’s gone now.”
    The agony in her voice and in her eyes made his heart clench and his throat close up until he could barely breathe. “I didn’t want this to happen.”
    “But I still have you. I still have one of my boys and I have Claire, who will always be a second daughter to me. And seeing the two of you like this hurts me.”
    He shook his head, his hands curling into fists in his pockets. He didn’t want her soft words and compassionate tears. She should be angry. She should pound her fists on his chest and yell at him for betraying her son’s memory—for betraying Brendan’s friendship.
    Instead, she stepped forward and opened her arms, but he shook his head again. His vision blurred with unshed tears as she cradled his cheek with one of her hands.
    “I get through each day by believing my son is in some wonderful better place,” she said softly, but firmly. “I believe he can feel my love for him and, since I believe that, I also have to believe he can feel your pain. He loved you and Claire so much. Both of you hurting would make him unhappy.”
    “I slept with his wife,” he whispered, and she dropped her hand.
    She stepped around him and set the bouquet of cheery flowers at the base of her son’s headstone. He watched her shoulders move under her coat as she took a deep breath and ran her fingers over Brendan’s name.
    Then she shoved her hands in her pockets and faced Justin again. “You have to stop telling yourself that. You have to stop