Chapter Twenty-Two
I invited Beckett to Harlow Creek three days later. Not for coffee. Not for business. For dinner. The text sat unsent for six minutes before I pressed the button.
BECKETT: Is there anything you’d like me to bring? I thought about the saddle. ME: Bread. BECKETT: I can handle bread. He arrived with one loaf from the bakery and nothing else.
No wine. No flowers. No jewelry hidden in a coat pocket. I almost kissed him for that alone. Instead, I took the bread.
“You found the assignment.”
“I wrote it down.”
“Of course you did.”
Dinner was beef stew because Montana in November made salads feel insulting. Beckett sat at Granddad’s kitchen table again. This time, the space felt less like a negotiation room.
“How was therapy?” I asked.
He looked surprised.
“Yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Unpleasant.”
“Good.”
“You and my therapist would get along.”
“That seems unethical.”
He smiled.
“We talked about my father.”
I set down my spoon.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“I know. I want to.”
He looked toward the dark window.
“My father thought presence was a resource you spent where it produced returns. He showed up to negotiations, awards, board meetings. He missed birthdays, funerals, school things. When my mother complained, he bought her something.”
The pattern was painfully familiar.
“You copied him.”
“While spending twenty years insisting I wasn’t like him.”
“That’s rough.”
“Therapist used a more expensive word.”
I smiled. He rubbed his thumb against the side of his water glass.
“I think I believed I could avoid becoming him by loving you more than he loved my mother.”
My chest tightened.
“Did he love her?”
“Yes. In his way.”
“That’s a dangerous phrase.”
He gave a rueful nod.
He looked at me.
“I don’t want ‘in his way’ written on our marriage.”
The room seemed smaller.
“Then what do you want?”
His expression changed. The answer was obvious. Me. He did not say it. Instead: “I want to become someone whose love is recognizable to the person receiving it.”
My eyes burned.
“That’s annoyingly good therapy.”
“Very expensive.”
“You can afford it.”
“Apparently.”
We cleaned the kitchen together. It was such an ordinary thing that it felt intimate.
At the Halvorsen house, someone else often handled dishes after dinner.
Here, Beckett washed while I dried because the dishwasher made a grinding noise I had not yet paid to investigate. He splashed water on my shirt.
“You did that on purpose.”
“I did not.”
“Liar.”
He flicked one wet finger at me. I stared at the drop on my cheek.
“You are twelve.”
“You married me.”
“Questionable judgment.”
I snapped the dish towel at him. He caught it. For a second, we stood on opposite ends of the towel, laughing. Then the laughter faded. Beckett’s fingers remained wrapped around the cloth.
Mine did too. The distance between us felt charged. He let go first.
“I should leave.”
The words came out rough. I knew why. So did my body.
“Probably.”
He dried his hands. I walked him to the porch. Cold air hit us. The barn lights glowed across the yard. Beckett stopped at the bottom step.
“Thank you for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.”
He turned toward his truck. I hated the relief and disappointment that arrived together.
“Beckett.”
He turned. I walked down one step. Then another.
“You can kiss me.”
Every muscle in his body went still.
“Are you sure?”
The question made me want to laugh and cry at once.
“Yes.”
He came back slowly. Not the way he used to—certain, familiar, already knowing my answer. He stopped close enough that his breath touched my face.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I will.”
His hand lifted, hesitated, then touched my jaw. The first kiss was barely a kiss. Warm mouth. One soft press. A question.
My fingers closed in the front of his jacket. That was my answer. He kissed me again.
Eleven years of knowing him returned all at once, but altered by the months between us. His mouth was familiar. The restraint was new. He waited when I breathed in. Followed when I leaned closer. Let me set the depth and pace until my body stopped remembering anger long enough to remember hunger.
When his other hand settled at my waist, I made a sound I had not meant to make. Beckett broke the kiss immediately.
“Okay?”
I stared at him.
“Yes.”
“I thought—”
I pulled him back by the jacket.
“You’re overcorrecting.”
His laugh brushed my mouth.
“Occupational hazard.”
The next kiss was deeper. For one dangerous minute, I wanted to bring him inside, lock the door, and use familiarity to skip every hard thing between us. Then his thumb moved against my waist exactly the way it always had, and grief cut through desire. I stepped back. He released me instantly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
I pressed fingers to my lips.
“I wanted that. I just…”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
He nodded.
“You’re right.”
I closed my eyes.
“Stop being so teachable. It’s unnerving.”
He smiled sadly.
“I can make a mistake if it helps.”
“You’ve banked enough.”
The smile became real. He stepped backward.
“Goodnight, Mara.”
“Goodnight.”
Nothing had been fixed by the kiss. That was why I could want another one.