The Weight of Want #3
He touched her face, tried to memorize the angle of her jaw, the curve of her lips. “I always want to see you.”
But by afternoon, the heat of reunion had cooled. They sat together on overturned crates near the vegetable beds, watching bees wander lazily from blossom to blossom. A shadow had crept in between them again—not sharp, but familiar. It clung to their silences.
Helen plucked dead leaves from the base of a lettuce plant. “Your mother’s garden’s thriving.”
“It must’ve missed her nagging as much as I did.”
She laughed, but it faded too quickly.
She brushed a bit of soil from her palm, eyes on the row of greens. “I thought about writing,” she murmured. “Even tried. Got as far as sealing the envelope.”
Nic glanced at her, a brow arched. “Then what happened?”
She gave a breath of a laugh, half sheepish. “You vanished into the one place in the world where mail doesn’t go.”
“You still could have sent it.”
She shrugged. “You were the one who left.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again. The breeze stirred the dill. Somewhere, a gate creaked open and sighed closed.
“I didn’t leave you,” he muttered.
“You left us, Nic.”
That was always it, wasn’t it? The same knot, pulled tight until it choked him.
“You accused me of running,” he said, voice low. “But when I stayed, you couldn’t meet me halfway. You wanted me to fit into your world—but wouldn’t bend an inch to understand mine.”
“And you think you’re the only one who’s sacrificed?” Her beautiful azure eyes flashed, but her voice stayed quiet. “I have fought so hard to make us work. But I am always the one defending you—to my parents, to my friends.”
Nic scoffed softly, but it was a sound without humor.
“Defending me?” he echoed. “From what—your mother’s raised eyebrows?
Your father’s endless comments about ‘prospects’ and ‘respectability’?
I’ve seen the way they look at me, Helen.
Like I’m some wild thing you plucked out of the woods and forgot to tame. ”
“You’re twisting it,” she said, but not with conviction. Her arms were crossed over her chest, more in protection than anger. “They just want what’s best for me.”
“No,” he said sharply, stepping closer. “They want what’s safest. What’s familiar. Someone with a name that opens doors, not someone who has to push them open with his bare hands.”
She turned away, fingers tightening around her sleeves. “And you resent me for that?”
“I resent that you won’t acknowledge it. That you want me in your life but act like you’re ashamed of where I came from.”
Helen’s chin lifted at that, proud and trembling. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” His voice cracked around the edge.
“You say you’re always defending me—well, I’m always proving myself.
In every room we walk into together, I can feel the weight.
That I’m not enough. Not polished enough.
Not predictable enough. Sometimes I think you don’t even hear it anymore because you’ve lived with it so long. ”
She flinched, just slightly.
He softened, but only a little. “You asked if I think I’m the only one who’s sacrificed.
I don’t. I know you’ve stood between me and a hundred quiet slights.
But don’t pretend we’re not dragging two very different lives into the same room and calling it love.
Because loving each other doesn’t mean the world stops keeping score. ”
Helen said nothing at first. Her silence wasn’t surrender—it was full of grief. Then she whispered, “Maybe I just hoped love would be enough to make it stop mattering.”
And for a moment, the quiet between them said more than either of them knew how to.
“Do you even believe we still make sense?”
“I believe I still love you,” she said.
He flinched. “That’s not the same.”
“No,” she admitted. “But it’s all I have left.”
They sat there as the light shifted, gold fading to ash.
When it was time for Helen to go, they lingered too long at the garden gate, words hanging loose and unsaid between them. There was a sheen in her eyes, tears—or something final.
But Nic couldn’t let her walk away like that.
He reached for her hand. Her fingers tensed beneath his, but she didn’t pull away. His gaze searched hers—desperate, unresolved, full of yearning raw and cracked open.
And then he kissed her.
Not the tentative kiss of a reunion, nor the warm kind of memory.
It was a plea—aching and urgent. A last attempt to stitch together what was unraveling.
She didn’t move at first. Then her grip tightened.
Her lips trembled against his, just as desperate as his yearning.
When they finally broke apart, her eyes were glassy with everything neither could bring themselves to say.
For a long moment, they just stood there.
Then she turned.
Nic watched her walk away, hands fisted in his pockets, the ache in his chest heavier than any fallen tree.
Nic knocked on the front door and stepped back, listening. No answer. He leaned forward and peered through the window—empty sitting room, not a soul in sight.
He knocked again, louder this time. “Jasmin? Are you home?”
Still no reply.
Maybe she’d gone to the village. He set the small parcel beside the door—his mother’s way of saying thank you, a few jars of preserves and a handwoven rug—and turned his attention to the porch.
This was why he’d come. The front steps were worse than he remembered. Splintered, warped, half-hinged to the frame by rot. He crouched to inspect them and the board beneath his foot gave way with a snap. He dropped through up to his shin.
“Well, that settles it,” he muttered, yanking his boot free. “This place is going to eat someone alive.”
He headed for the wagon and began unloading lumber and tools. Jasmin wouldn’t mind—hopefully—but he still wasn’t thrilled about the possibility of meeting her husband for the first time while wielding a saw on his property.
Nic had just pried loose one of the more stubborn planks when he heard the heavy stamp of hooves. The old mule clomped into view, and beside it—Jasmin.
A strange, bright warmth stirred in his chest. He straightened, lifted a hand, and crossed the garden to meet her.
She flung her arms around his shoulders. “What a pleasant surprise! You’re looking almost human again.”
He hugged her back. The feel of her—solid, familiar, warm—unsettled him more than he expected. He cleared his throat. “I had two excellent healers. My friend’s a doctor, and my mother’s not one to let anyone suffer in peace.”
She slipped her arm through his, her attention already caught by the wagon. “What is all this?”
“I come bearing gifts,” he said. “My mother insisted on the rug. The rest is my idea.”
She eyed the lumber. “Planks?”
“I couldn’t stomach seeing your porch in that condition. Thought I’d patch it up while you weren’t looking.” He gave a sheepish grin. “Hope you don’t mind.”
She squeezed his arm. “You’re far too kind. Though I barely notice the porch anymore.”
“Then it’s high time someone did. Besides, I’ve already hauled the wood—surely you wouldn’t send me back down the ridge with it.”
She laughed. “Alright, alright. If you insist on building me a porch, I suppose I must learn to accept your generosity. Come on, help me unload.”
Nic took the mule’s bridle. “Is your husband still back in town buying supplies?”
Her smile dimmed. She passed him a parcel from the mule’s pack. “No. He sent word from White Wood. The lambing season’s keeping him longer than expected. I don’t expect him home before July.”
“I’m sorry. That must be hard.”
Jasmin let out a quiet snort and turned to unbuckle another strap. She didn’t answer.
Nic was always most at ease when his hands were busy. While Jasmin unpacked her purchases, he returned to the porch. The spring air was soft, and the sun filtered gently through the trees—good weather for a bit of honest labor.
The work was satisfying. He relished the crack and groan of old boards being torn free, the sharp rhythm of nails driving into fresh lumber, the crisp bite of the saw cleaving through wood.
It was grounding—taking something neglected and breathing it back to life, giving function to the broken.
It cleared his mind, steadied his heart.
He had just pried up the last of the rotted planks when Jasmin’s voice called him in for lunch. After rinsing off at the well, he stepped inside. The scent hit him first: herbs and roasted meat, the tang of vinegar and sweet spice.
“Everything looks incredible,” he said as he sat down, eyeing the full table. “But you really didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”
“Nonsense,” Jasmin said, already filling his plate. “I love cooking. It’s a pleasure to feed someone who appreciates it.”
He sliced into the roasted chicken, steam rising from the juicy cut. “Your husband is a lucky man. I imagine he misses meals like this.”
Jasmin’s smile flickered. Her tone cooled. “I doubt he’s missing much.”
Nic took the hint and let the silence settle. He had no business offering commentary on anyone else’s strained romance—especially not hers. But the quiet between them held a current, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
The food was extraordinary. The chicken, tender and herb-rich. Sautéed mushrooms and onions, savory with just a trace of wine. A pickled vegetable salad that danced between sweet and sharp. But it was the berry tart that lingered—tangy, creamy, indulgent.
An hour passed in a slow, golden drift.
Nic leaned back, full to the brim, licking a trace of cream from his lip. “How often is your husband away?”
“Each winter and spring,” she said, gathering the dishes. “He works in White Wood—his family keeps sheep there.”
“You stay here the whole time? Why not go with him? Or visit your family?”
Jasmin shrugged. “My sister’s in Chroma, but she has little ones and a full house. And I’ve done a winter in White Wood—it rains more than it breathes.”
He chuckled. “That it does.”