8. Felicity
FELICITY
Icouldn’t sleep. So I walked back into the living room area.
Not surprising.
Sleep and I barely knew each other anymore.
Lying in the dark apartment above the Last Stand Tavern while my brain replayed every second with Hersh downstairs felt like a special kind of torture.
The upstairs was beautiful in a rugged Texas sort of way.
Wood floors.
Soft lamplight.
Heavy quilts.
Three couches that looked worn in by years of real people living real lives.
Not temporary.
Not borrowed.
Not fake.
The exact opposite of mine.
I sat near the window, wrapped in one of the blankets Trigger had handed me earlier, staring down at the quiet street below.
Eagle River slept peacefully.
I wondered what that felt like.
A soft knock on the wall had me glancing up.
Hersh stood there.
“Flick?”
Everything inside me melted and shattered at the same time.
Only him.
Only Hersh could still do that to me.
“You okay?”
No.
Not even remotely.
He stood there holding two mugs of hot chocolate.
His eyes moved over my face instantly.
Checking.
Assessing.
Making sure I was okay before he even stepped closer.
“I saw the light on,” he said quietly. “I thought you were going to try to get some sleep.
The room suddenly felt much smaller with him this close.
Or maybe it just felt fuller.
Warmer.
Dangerous.
He carefully handed me one of the mugs.
Our fingers brushed.
One tiny touch.
Sixteen years disappeared all over again.
I hated that.
I loved it too.
Hersh sat in the armchair across from the couch while I stayed near the window.
Neither of us spoke for a minute.
Just coffee.
Silence.
History.
And all the things sitting between us.
Finally, he looked toward me.
“You always hated storms.”
My breath caught softly.
Because he remembered that too.
“I still do,” I admitted.
His jaw tightened slightly like hearing that hurt him somehow.
Outside, thunder rolled low in the distance.
Wonderful.
I wrapped both hands tighter around the mug.
“You don’t have to stay up guarding me,” I whispered.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “I do.”
There it was again.
That certainty.
Like protecting me wasn’t even a question to him.
I looked down into my hot chocolate.
“You shouldn’t.”
“Too late.”
God.
Every conversation with him felt like walking barefoot through broken glass.
Painful.
Beautiful.
Impossible.
Hersh leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees.
“Is Ward your married name?”
The question hit so suddenly I stopped breathing.
There it is.
The lie I told him.
I looked away too fast.
He noticed immediately.
Always noticed.
“No,” I said quietly.
Something flickered across his face.
Not relief exactly.
Something deeper.
Careful hope.
“About ten years ago,” he said slowly, “I called your dad.”
Pain sliced through me instantly.
Oh no.
“Hersh…”
“I just wanted to know you were okay.”
His voice stayed calm, but I could hear it underneath.
That old hurt.
Buried deep.
Still alive.
“He told me you were married.”
My chest physically hurt.
“He said you were happy.” Hersh stared down at the coffee in his hands. “Said I needed to stay out of your life forever.”
I closed my eyes.
Even six years later, after I had not answered his letters…
he still called.
Tears burned instantly behind my eyelids.
My father.
Again.
More lies.
More damage.
More stolen years.
“I figured…” Hersh swallowed once. “I figured your husband probably wouldn’t appreciate an old boyfriend calling.”
There was no bitterness in his voice.
That somehow made it worse.
Because he had let me go out of love.
Not anger.
Not pride.
Love.
A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.
“Hersh…”
His eyes lifted instantly the second he heard my voice crack.
Immediate concern crossed his face.
Not curiosity.
Not suspicion.
Concern.
“What?”
I shook my head quickly.
Because I couldn’t tell him yet.
Couldn’t tell him.
There was never a husband
My father lied
I found the letters
He wrote me every week
I knew now he never abandoned me
If I started talking right now, I might tell him everything.
And I wasn’t ready.
God, I wasn’t ready.
“I wasn’t married,” I whispered finally.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Hersh stared at me.
Thunder rolled softly outside.
“You weren’t?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
His entire body went still.
Like something inside him had just cracked wide open.
“Then why would he say that?”
Because my father hated you.
Because he destroyed us.
Because he lied to both of us for years.
But all I could manage was:
“I don’t know.”
Hersh looked away first this time.
One rough hand dragged across his jaw slowly.
I could practically see the memories hitting him in real time.
Ten years ago.
A phone call.
Trying one last time.
And my father slammed the door in his face.
“You called,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
His eyes came back to mine immediately.
“Yeah.”
“After all that time…”
A sad smile touched his mouth briefly.
“Couldn’t help it.”
Oh God.
That one nearly broke me completely.
Because even after:
The silence
The unanswered letters
Believing I had moved on… he still called.
He still wanted to know if I was okay.
And suddenly, sitting across from him while carrying the truth about those letters felt unbearable.
Hersh studied my face carefully now.
Too carefully.
“What are you not telling me, Flick?”