Sophia #2
The third morning, my step was bare. I'd just got smug about that when I walked onto the floor and found a Dottie's cup at the nurses' station, my name on the lid in Dottie's own loopy hand. He'd delivered it.
I poured that one out too, in the sluice, on principle — and caught myself grinning at the drain like an idiot.
He clearly had no intention of stopping, and I had a magnolia bed that was going to be very well caffeinated by Christmas.
It was, I could admit in the privacy of the sluice room, starting to be a little bit funny.
Fifteen days. I'd been keeping the count without meaning to, my body ticking it over even after I'd told it to quit — fifteen days since I'd walked out the back of the Silver Spur in a white dress with my hand on Uncle Owen's arm and nowhere on earth to put myself.
I was at the kitchen window with my hands in the dishwater, the light going down outside the color of a bruise three days old, when Willow's front door opened across the way.
She came out carrying a covered dish in both hands, a tea towel over the top, and went down her path into the dimming light.
She didn't turn for her own porch. She crossed the road — the whole width of Sycamore Row, slow and certain, past the front of Caleb's pickets — and went up the path on the far side to Murph's door.
And Murph's door opened before she'd got a knuckle to it.
I stood with the water gone cold around my wrists and watched it happen.
The old soldier who tipped his chin half an inch for a whole conversation opened his door to a tiny furious woman with a casserole the second before she knocked — like he'd been counting her footsteps up the path.
He took the dish from her hands. She went in.
The door shut. And a beat later the porch light came on, somebody inside reaching to throw it for somebody already through the door, already in out of the dark, already where the light was for.
Something went up the back of my neck and over my scalp.
I'd known Willow eight years — tart and clever and prim when it suited her, dead set against letting a soul catch her at being kind.
I'd never seen her cross a road with a hot dish for a man who opened the door before she knocked.
I didn't have the half of it and didn't need it.
I knew tenderness when it walked across a street in front of me, careful not to tip, and I let two people too old and too burned to keep pretending crack something open in me at the end of a long day.
Then I turned. I didn't decide to. My body did it — turned my head a few degrees toward the house.
He was at his kitchen window.
Caleb. Dish towel over one shoulder, a hand flat on the frame, the light behind him low and gold.
His eyes had gone right past the old couple to my window, and he didn't startle when I caught him at it, and he didn't look away.
He held there across the road, my hands still in the sink and my face entirely undefended and fifteen days of not-crying right at the surface.
And I smiled.
I didn't mean to. For fifteen days every face I'd worn had been a decision — the brave one for the floor, the flat one for the mirror, the furious one I'd been living inside because angry was a place I could stand.
This one I didn't decide. It came up before the anger could reach the switch, the first involuntary thing I'd done, and it broke across my mouth like weather — older than the wanting and older than forgiveness, a thing in me that had known him before the anger did, across the road and onto his face before I could call it back.
His answer came slow — one corner of his mouth, then the other, all the way to his eyes.
Neither of us crossed.
I stood there a while longer, hands dripping, still half-lit with it.
I rotated onto nights that week, half hoping it would beat him, but the cups just started turning up on shift — two in the morning, four, the dead middle of a quiet stretch — never from his hand, because I never saw the hand.
He'd worked out Marisa's break, or the one window when the bay went empty, and Dottie's finest would appear at my elbow, extra hot, while I was three feet deep in a chart.
"Persistent. I'll give him that." Marisa set the latest one down like she was laying flowers on an altar. "Hasn't missed since you came back. That's not a flash in the pan, girly — that's a man with a plan and the legs to see it through."
"That's a man who won't take no for an answer."
"Honey." She patted my hand, unbothered.
"They're dumb as a sack of hammers, the good ones worst of all.
He did a stupid thing, no doubt. But a man who drives to Dottie's at two in the morning for a woman who keeps tipping it down the sink—" She tilted her head, weighing me. "I'd give him a hearing."
I didn't pour that one out. It was two in the morning and the coffee was perfect and I was done pretending those were the reasons.
I wrapped both hands around it like it was the last warm thing in a cold room, drank it slow, and missed him — God, the whole of him.
The furnace heat of him at my back in the dead of night.
The low rumble I felt in my own ribs before I ever heard it, his mouth at my nape, his name for me coming out of the dark.
Those big hands that gentled when they got to me, that knew the exact give of me and took their time about it.
The weight of an arm thrown over me like an answer to a question I'd never let myself ask out loud.
I missed being known down to the bone and held there anyway.
It came over me all at once, standing at that desk, and took the legs clean out from under me — not wanting him, though there was that too, but the bigger, worse thing underneath it: I missed being his.
Then I put the cup down and went back to work, the one place the wanting couldn't follow me in.
By three, the waiting room had emptied to the hum of the vending machine and the registrar snoring in the on-call room, and I sat at the desk with a chart and a lull that on a good night meant nothing and on a bad one was only the breath before.
A little before four, the doors sighed open on the cold.
The smell reached me before the man did — stale cigarettes in fabric, engine grease, and under it the sour, slept-in reek of a body that had been in the same clothes a good while. It rolled across the desk ahead of him and turned my stomach before my head caught up to why.
He came in on his own feet, no blood on him, nobody with him.
Older — fifties, easy, gone heavy and hard through the shoulders.
A cap pulled low, grey stubble it didn't reach, and below it a jaw working slow on nothing, like a man chewing a thought he liked the taste of.
His boots came down soft on the floor, heel to toe, quiet for a big man — and that put the first cold finger at the base of my spine.
He didn't come to the desk. He didn't sit.
He stopped dead in the middle of the empty waiting room and let his eyes go round it — the exits, the dark mouth of the corridor, the desk, the chart in my hands, me.
Counting. Taking inventory like a man casing a room he means to come back to.
Then, as if he'd remembered a part to play, he ambled the last few steps to the desk, hands loose and open, mouth arranging itself into something meant to pass for an ordinary man with an ordinary complaint.
Every hair on my body stood up at once, arms and scalp and all.
The fluorescents seemed to hum louder. Behind me, the vending machine dropped its compressor with a clunk and I didn't so much as flinch, because all of me had gone forward into him, into the cap and the grease and the slow chewing jaw and the patience of him.
"Can I help you?" My voice came out level as a weather report — the tell of how frightened I was, because that flat far place had already opened up under me without my asking, the cold dropping through me first and the rest of me following down into it, hands going still on the desk, the clock on the wall losing all its meaning.
He looked at me.
And he smiled.