Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Clementine
I put both hands on the edge of the sink and grip the porcelain so hard my fingertips go white. Then I force myself to stop coughing for just long enough to finally take a real breath.
Hunter’s outside. I don’t know how the hell he found me down here, but he’s shouting my name. I can’t even answer without coughing harder.
God, don’t let me be the first person to die from inhaling fruit punch while her ex-boyfriend pounds on the bathroom door, I think. How did this even happen?
“Move back!” Hunter shouts, and at that moment, I start coughing hard again, tears running down my face, bent over the sink.
I wave one hand at the door helplessly, like that will somehow keep him from doing whatever he’s about to do.
It doesn’t.
A second later there’s a crash and the door flies open, the doorknob slamming into the wall. I bury my face in my elbow, still coughing hard, as Hunter rushes toward me.
All I can do is hold up my other hand and shake my head, hoping to communicate please don’t try the Heimlich and break my ribs or something.
“Clem,” he says, but he stops just short of me, hovering both hands near my shoulder.
I shake my head harder, then grip the sink again and take another long, shaky inhale.
“What happened?” he asks, still sounding concerned.
His voice still sounds almost the same. He’s got the same slow, twangy cadence that he used to have, the one he learned growing up on his parents’ cattle ranch. I think he’s a little raspier now, maybe a little deeper, and his words might be a little more clipped, but he’s unmistakably familiar.
As an answer I just point at my half-full glass of punch, sitting on the sink, and start coughing again. This time he puts on big hand on my back, right between my shoulder blades, and even though I’m still gasping and hacking, it’s warm and comforting.
“I’m fine,” I finally manage to gasp. A tear runs down my bright red face.
“This is fine?” he asks, letting his fingers rub a small circle on my upper spine.
I’m still coughing and just nod, meeting his gaze in the mirror. He doesn’t look worried any more. If anything, he looks slightly amused.
“Because it seems like you took your drink into the bathroom with you and now you’re choking half to death,” Hunter says, his hand still circling my back.
I inhale again, clear my throat, and manage to not start coughing.
“Appearances,” I start.
I cough again, but get it under control.
“Can be deceiving,” I say, then cough again.
He just chuckles, his deep blue eyes sparkling at me.
“Also, shut up,” I gasp.
Now he’s laughing, and even though I’m still panting for breath and leaning over the sink, I can’t help but laugh along with him at this incredibly dumb situation. I could never help but laugh along with Hunter.
Then, for a second, it feels normal that he’s standing there, rubbing my back, teasing me for doing something dumb like choking on fruit punch.
It doesn’t feel like I haven’t even heard from him in nearly a decade, or like we had a horrible breakup, or like I cut the varsity letter jacket he gave me into shreds and threw it away.
I do regret that last thing, for the record. That was a little too far.
I wipe the tears off my face, and Hunter takes his hand off my back to grab some toilet paper, handing it to me.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks as I wipe my eyes.
“Is someone down there?” I hear a man’s voice call from outside the bathroom.
“Shit,” I say, and even that makes me cough softly, twice.
Hunter glances at the broken door and makes a face. I grab my plastic punch cup, dump the pink liquid down the drain, and toss the cup in the trash just as Phil Herman appears in the doorway, his plump face in a permanent frown.
“Is everything all right?” he asks, even though from the look on his face, if I say yes he’s going to disagree.
I clear my throat again and suppress a cough.
“I got some water down the wrong pipe,” I say, my voice weak and raspy. “Guess I’ve got a drinking problem.”
Phil doesn’t smile. He just blinks. Hunter puts his hand on my back again, and this time, I shiver a little bit.
“I apologize,” he says, and he sounds surprisingly authoritative. “I thought she was having an emergency.”
“I’m fine,” I offer.
Phil nods, completely unamused, his mouth a near-perfect straight line. We stare at each other, and I wipe one more tear from my eye, clearing my throat.
“I see,” he says.
“I’ll get the door fixed,” I say quickly.
“It’s my fault, sir,” Hunter says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I thought she was choking and overreacted. I’ll fix that door first thing tomorrow.”
Phil looks at the door, then at Hunter, and finally at me.
“Glad you’re okay,” he says, still without cracking a smile. Then he disappears, and I can hear his fading voice call, “It’s fine, Clementine inhaled water and one of the firemen thought she was choking to death...”
And just like that, we’re alone in a bathroom.
“At least he didn’t find out that you choked because you took your drink into the bathroom with you,” Hunter finally says, and I look at him in the mirror. His eyes are crinkling around the corners, and though some of the lines are new, the expression isn’t.
He’s behind me, looking over my shoulder. To summarize: he’s the hot, handsome, rugged picture of masculinity; I’m bright pink, eyes red and still watering.
I turn away and lean against the sink, cross my arms over my chest, and sigh.
“It’s a small town and word travels fast,” I say. “I can’t have people thinking I’m the kind of girl who takes food into the ladies’ room.”
“Even though you are?” he teases.
“I did it once,” I say.
“Right.”
My throat is still scratchy, and I clear it again.
“You know the joke about the bridge-builder, right?” I ask.
Hunter shakes his head.
“Well, I forget the setup, actually, but the punchline is, you can build a thousand bridges, but fuck one sheep and no one ever says, here comes the bridge-builder,” I say.
Hunter just raises his eyebrows, leaning back against the wall.
“Because they’re all saying here comes the sheep-fucker,” I explain. “Because that’s the thing—”
Hunter laughs.
“I got it, Clem,” he says. “And you don’t want people saying here comes drink-in-the-bathroom girl.”
“Right,” I say.
Then there’s a long moment where we just look at each other and I have no idea what to say. A thousand things are rushing through my head, like Hey! It’s been a while! or So you’re a firefighter now? or How long have you been back from Afghanistan or even How’s your mom, who hates me?
They all seem like dumb things to say, so I don’t say any of them.
“You’d just have to do something even more newsworthy,” he says.
I raise one eyebrow.
“I’m not fucking a sheep,” I say. “Or any farm animal, for that matter.”
“That actually wasn’t going to be my first suggestion,” he says. “I was just going say dye your hair pink or something.”
I laugh.
“Fucking a barnyard animal was at least number four or five on my list,” he says.
“Pink hair might be more newsworthy around here,” I say, still laughing. “Lots of lonely men on ranches, you know.”
“Well, there’s one way to find out,” Hunter says, his blue eyes dancing in his head. “I’ll dye my hair, you fuck a sheep, and we’ll compare notes later.”
“I have to fuck the sheep?”
“You’re the one who came up with that immediately,” he teases. “Almost like you had it waiting in the wings.”
“I haven’t gotten that kinky,” I say without thinking.
Then I realize what I just said out loud, and my mouth snaps shut, my face getting hot.
Hunter laughs again, and I swallow, blushing and smiling. I’m not generally in the habit of joking about bestiality or how kinky I may or may not be, but something about talking to Hunter feels so natural and comfortable that I completely forget to censor myself.
It feels like it used to, is what I’m saying.
“I won’t ask how kinky you’ve gotten,” he asks, his voice slow and laconic. I laugh awkwardly again, and push myself off the sink.
“We should get out of here,” I say. “Now that I’ve embarrassed myself twice in this room.”
“You’re blaming the room?”
“Easier than blaming myself,” I say. “Also, there are better places to stand than a bathroom.”
I walk for the door and Hunter follows, hitting the light switch on the way out.
We walk into the hallway, and we’re plunged into near-darkness, the only light the fluorescents from the other end of the hall.
For the first time, I wonder why he was outside the bathroom door, at the end of this dark hallway. There are plenty of other bathrooms in the church basement. I don’t ask, though.
“Sorry about the door,” he says as we turn the corner, the lights washing over us. “Sometimes the training kicks in.”
“Pun unintended?” I say, grinning at him.
Hunter chuckles and shakes his head.
“I guess that hasn’t changed either,” he says.
We walk up the stairs to street-level, where plenty of people are still milling around the Methodist Church’s small front yard, some kids playing on the fenced-in swing set. My ankles wobble a little in my heels on the grass, but I stay upright.
As soon as Hunter steps toward the crowd, I swear every head turns, and it catches me by surprise.
Old ladies who’ll barely give me the time of day light up like gray-haired Christmas trees. The high school cheerleaders whisper to each other and giggle. Thirty-something moms holding babies give him a long, slow once-over while ignoring their husbands.
He’s a firefighter who just saved the town, I remind myself. The point of this whole dinner was to says thanks to his squadron. Of course people are staring.
Then Nancy Turner, the plump, iron-haired lady who was in charge of giving everyone exactly the same amount of spaghetti, waves him over toward her. Hunter looks down at me.
“I wouldn’t refuse if I were you,” I say, even though I’m a little disappointed, and drop my voice to a murmur. “The Ladies’ Auxiliary can cause you pain in ways you’ve never even imagined.”