17. Lo #3
The diner noise fades to background. The church ladies are still chattering, still replaying the song, but I can barely hear them. All I can see is Jesse, looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.
Like Rosie said.
“You’re still ridiculous,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“And that song was objectively terrible.”
“Also know.”
“But I-” I stop. Swallow. “I remember why I picked you. Back then. I remember.”
His eyes go bright. “Past tense?”
“Working on the present tense.”
“I’ll take it.”
***
He walks me to the cabin.
The night is cool and clear, stars scattered across the sky like spilled salt. The baby’s doing something complicated in my abdomen, kicks and rolls and what might be hiccups, and I’m happy. Genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy, for the first time in months.
“This is me,” I say at the cabin door.
“I know.”
“You’re not coming in.”
“I know that too.”
“Just making sure we’re clear.”
“Crystal.” He stands there, hands in his pockets, looking at me in that way he has. Like I’m something precious. Like he can’t believe I’m real. “That was date one.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I’m gonna need about four hundred more.”
“Four hundred?” I pretend to be scandalized.
“Conservative estimate. Could be more. Depends on how the pig’s love life develops. I might need to write a sequel.”
“Please don’t write a sequel.”
“Butterbean Two: The Clover Conspiracy.” He announces it like a movie trailer.
“That’s a terrible title.”
“Butterbean Two: Gerald’s Revenge.”
“That’s worse.” He’s undeterred.
“Butterbean Two: Electric Boogaloo.”
“Now you’re just saying words.”
“I’m brainstorming. It’s a creative process.”
I’m laughing again. I can’t seem to stop around him, not tonight, not when he’s being like this, silly and earnest and completely, unapologetically himself.
“Goodnight, Jesse.”
“Goodnight, Lo.” He takes a step back. Then stops. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For tonight. For saying yes.”
“Don’t make me regret it.” I say it softer than I mean to.
“I won’t. I’ll be the best ex-estranged husband you’ve ever had.”
“You’re my only ex-estranged husband.”
“Then I’m automatically the best. By default. Can’t argue with math.” He looks far too pleased with himself.
“That’s not how math works.”
“It’s exactly how math works. I’m the only data point. I’m the average and the outlier and the mean. Statistically unimpeachable.”
“You don’t know what any of those words mean.” I fold my arms, fighting the grin.
“I know what they feel like. That’s close enough.”
He’s grinning. I’m grinning back. We’re standing on my porch in the dark like teenagers after a school dance, neither of us wanting to be the first to walk away.
“Four hundred dates,” I say finally.
“Give or take.”
“That’s a lot of meatloaf.”
“I like meatloaf.” He says it with genuine feeling.
“That’s a lot of Butterbean songs.”
“I’ll diversify. Branch out into the other farm animals. Rosie says there’s a goat with relationship problems too.”
“There’s a goat with eating-my-clipboard problems. That’s different.” I can’t believe I’m arguing goat psychology on my porch.
“Everything’s a love story if you look at it right.”
“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”
“It’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever said. You’re just not hearing it correctly.” He presses a hand to his chest, wounded.
“I’m hearing it fine. It’s still dumb.”
“Dumb and romantic. Like me.”
“That’s… actually accurate.”
He laughs. A real laugh, surprised and warm, and I feel my own mouth answer it before I decide to let it. Not forgiveness. But the first easy thing between us in longer than I can count.
“We’ll see,” I say.
“We’ll see?”
“About the four hundred dates.”
His whole face changes. Hope, breaking through the careful control. “We’ll see is not no.”
“We’ll see is not yes either.”
“We’ll see is maybe. I’ll take maybe.” He backs down the porch steps, still facing me. “I’ll take maybe and I’ll work with it and I’ll turn it into probably and then probably into definitely and then definitely into-”
“Goodnight, Jesse.”
“See you at date two.”
He turns and walks toward his truck, and I watch him go, and I’m smiling, and I’m scared, and I’m something else I can’t quite name.
Then I see it.
A car. Parked across from the cabin, at the edge of Bree’s property. Engine idling. Headlights off, but I can see the shape of it in the moonlight.
Not a car I recognize. The plates aren’t local, though I can’t make out the number.
Someone’s watching.
The happiness drains out of me. The fear rushes back in, cold and familiar.
I turn off the porch light (no sense making myself a silhouette), then grab my phone and dial Peter.
“Dark sedan, engine running, across from my cabin. Can’t see the driver.”
“Stay away from the windows. I’ll have a deputy there in ten.”
I secure the deadbolt and wait in the dark until headlights sweep the road. The sedan’s already gone when the deputy arrives, but he checks the perimeter anyway.
“Leave your porch light on tonight,” he says before he goes. “Easier for us to see if something changes.”
I flip it back on. Small comfort. Better than none.