Chapter 17 #2
“And orange can lead to green.” Her eyes widen, hands clasped together just below her chin. She has the largest smile on her face. “Down the well he went, to save his true love yet.”
I hold my breath on that final word. Yet. Yet what? Then I shake my head. This is Charma. Who knows what she means.
“Actually, I like that one.” I point at a simple, thin gold circle with an intricate design on the band. It looks delicate and feminine. Pretty. For someone who is not a jewelry person, I’d wear that one. Not that I intend to wear a ring, but I’m still curious, what does that one mean?
Does the gold represent steadiness as one of the strongest metals? What about the design? Does it mean strength, willpower, or intuition, even on such a tender-looking band? Maybe resilience or perseverance?
An awkward silence falls between the three of us as I wait for Charma to explain something special about that ring, but when she doesn’t say anything, I kindly smile at her, eager to excuse myself.
“Do you want the ring?” she nods toward the one I’ve been looking at. Her eyes hold on mine, as if asking me a deeper question. A question relating to the symbolism of some rings. Rings that represent commitment to another person.
Am I capable of such a thing? I don’t know. I’ve never been committed to anyone other than myself. And I don’t know why I’m like that. I just am.
My hand rubs over my belly without a thought as I realize I am committed to another human being, or one soon to be. Motherhood will be one of the biggest commitments of my life.
A pregnant pause follows Charma’s question, and I’ve taken too long to answer her, so I hold up my swollen fingers and wiggle them. “I’m not really a ring kind of girl.”
Still, my throat thickens around the admission. Is that true about me? If I can’t wear a ring, does it mean I’ll never be committed to another person? An adult, not a child. A partner. An equal.
I don’t know why this suddenly weighs on my mind. Because I don’t care. But I do.
Miss Charma tilts her head, assessing me a second.
“Your feminine intuition is already strong, Nevie.” She nods toward Tate, as if she’s read my thoughts, my unspoken questions, but my gaze lands on her, stuck on what she just called me, which obliterates all other thinking.
She’s never called me Nevie before. But my dad did, and I swallow additional thickness in my throat. If she calls me Snowflake next, I’m going to be a puddle right on this street.
“Have a good one,” I mutter to Charma, pulling myself away from the booth, before I do something ridiculous, like break into tears.
“So, how are you?” Tate asks as I step away from Miss Charma’s booth. I don’t have to turn around to know he’s following me. I sense his presence like a shadow behind me.
Or is he a ghost, as he’s practically ghosted me for days. And I hate this feeling. The feeling of uncertainty. The feeling of being dismissed. The feeling that I’ve served a purpose for Tate, and now he’s finished.
Quickly, I react to him, spinning to face him, causing him to almost bump into me with the abruptness of my stop.
“How I am is . . . I have this modern invention called a telephone. It’s even portable and handheld now.
Slips right into your pocket.” I nod toward his hip, knowing he has his in his back pocket even if I can’t see it.
What I do see is the tight fit of his Henley.
The strength of his forearms. The sudden collapse of his smile.
“If you wanted to know how I am, I suggest you should have used it.”
Sweet goddess, I’m so bitchy sometimes. As the words leave my mouth, sharp and defensive, and completely uncalled for, I wish I could draw them back. And while I could blame it on pregnancy hormones, that isn’t the issue. The truth is messier than that, and I hate how quickly I know it.
Too much is colliding together. The sale of Rusty’s Wrecks. Tate as the father of my child. An uncertain future. The impending birth of Little Wrench.
My stomach somersaults and has nothing to do with the baby rolling around inside it.
I’m caught between wanting Tate to never speak to me again because of the sale, because it would be easier to just be angry and done with him .
. . and wishing, in a way I don’t want to examine too closely, that he had checked on me.
That he’d asked how I was holding up instead of just disappearing into silence, like the sale meant nothing to me emotionally.
Because it was more than a simple business transaction to me.
It was stupid. Wanting both things at once. Worse than stupid, actually. Which makes me not know how to behave around him. I don’t know if I can trust him, and even worse, I don’t know if I can trust myself.
Because I still feel this strange pull to him. This unexplainable feeling of . . . hope.
Ugh!
I spin away from him again, but he catches my wrist, gentler than I expect, like he’s trying not to lose me rather than hold me here.
“You’re right. I should have called.” His voice is quieter, less sure of himself. “I just didn’t know how to navigate this,” he quietly admits. “I didn’t know if you’d want to speak to me. Or not.”
For a second, I don’t answer him because the honest response would be too complicated, and I don’t feel like being honest in a way that leaves me exposed.
But as I stare at him, aware that we are still standing in the middle of a fall market, the booths and people around us seem to fade away, leaving just Tate and me and a well of vulnerability between us.
Slowly, I exhale, as if that single breath takes all the fight out of me, leaving me simply tired.
“Yeah, well . . .” I start, noting there’s less bite in the words than previously. More exhaustion than anger. A pinch of disappointment, maybe. “It’s not like you could read my mind.”
It’s not like he could know how mixed up I am inside if I don’t express the confusing emotions rolling around in my head.
I close my eyes briefly, press my lips together, and choose my next words carefully. When I open my eyes, I say, “I’m assuming everything went through on the sale.”
After a beat, he nods. Hesitates. His own response comes out cautious. “It will take a few weeks to get your money.”
“It’s never been about the money.” I gently tug my arm from his grasp, noticing the strain in my voice. Like I’ve been holding myself at a distance for too long, and the space between us is starting to drown me.
“I know,” he says immediately. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry it came to this.” The earnestness in his tone, the sorrow in his eyes, says everything.
He’s truly sorry, and I believe him.
“Yeah,” I say a little quieter, attempting a smile that’s weak and wobbly. “Well. Maybe you can put in a good word with Bucky Beaver for me.”
The humor falls flat between us.
He grimaces slightly, reaches for his hair, and then stops himself. He’s trying to tame his quirk. He’s also still standing here, like this matters to him. Like maybe I matter to him, after all.
“I’ll do anything you need,” he says, softer now. Like it’s really true.
The intention lands somewhere deeper than I want it to.
Why do his eyes have to look like that? So open. So careful. Like I might disappear if he says the wrong thing.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and it comes out more fragile than I expect.
“Let me start by getting you something to drink. They have hot cider over there.” He nods toward a vendor, his voice shifting to hopeful.
I exhale slowly. Resisting him feels almost futile.
“It’s a start.” There’s no more edge to my voice, just something uncertain and soft.
His smile in response is immediate and genuine, almost relieved, stealing my breath away, and it hits me then how much tension I’ve been holding in without realizing it.
Tate walks backward a step, then another one, keeping his eyes on me, like he won’t look away. Like he wants to make certain I’m still with him.
He holds out his hand, and I take it.
Then I follow him.