26. Kate
KATE
The door chime sounded over the counter where I was folding the last of the sweaters. I looked up without thinking and froze.
Bennett stood in the doorway.
He had my skis in his hands.
I blinked at him. The sweater I'd been holding slipped from my fingers onto the counter, a bundle of cream wool I'd knitted from yarn I dyed myself. It landed in a heap, and I left it there.
Bennett stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him.
The chime rang again, a bright sound that felt too cheerful for how quiet the shop suddenly was.
He was wearing a fleece jacket over a thermal shirt, the same navy blue he always wore in winter, and his hands gripped the bindings of my skis like he was afraid they'd slip.
The skis were old, a pair I'd bought when I was still racing, before I married him and gave it up.
They'd stood in the corner of our mudroom, and then in the closet, until I carried them to Brynn's shop.
I stared at them.
They were repaired.
The edges were sharp again. The bases were smooth.
Someone had refinished them — Bennett had refinished them — and the edges that had worn round, the bindings that had hung loose, were fixed.
I hadn't asked him to do it. I'd mentioned them more than once, most recently a few months back, and he'd promised he would, but I hadn't reminded him since.
I had been waiting to see whether he remembered on his own.
He'd remembered.
My chest tightened, something that felt too much like hope wrapping around my ribs and squeezing.
I tried to breathe through it and couldn't. God, I was so stupid.
I'd told myself I wouldn't care, that I'd moved on, that the divorce was going ahead and nothing he did would change that.
But here I was, standing in Brynn's shop with my heart pounding like I'd just finished a downhill run.
Bennett crossed the floor toward me. He didn't say anything. He just held out the skis.
I took them. My fingers brushed his, and I felt the heat of his hand even through the cold metal of the bindings. I pulled the skis toward me and looked down at them, running my thumb along the edge. It was sharp enough to cut. I looked up at Bennett again, and that was when I saw his hand.
There were cuts on it. Fresh ones, thin red lines running across his palm and along the side of his thumb.
They were still healing, the edges raw and dark where the skin had split.
I recognized them immediately. Those were the kinds of cuts you got from ski edges when you were working on them without gloves, when you were adjusting the bindings or scraping the bases and your hand slipped.
He'd done this himself.
I stared at the cuts, my throat going tight.
He hadn't taken them to a shop. He hadn't asked someone else to do it.
He'd sat down somewhere — probably in the garage at the house, or maybe in the workshop at the resort — and he'd done it himself, and he'd hurt his hand doing it, and he hadn't said anything.
I wanted to ask. I wanted to reach out and take his hand and ask him why he'd done it, why now, why after all this time.
But I didn't. I kept my mouth shut and looked down at the skis again, because if I looked at him I was going to say something I'd regret.
Something like thank you, or worse, something like I still love you.
Bennett didn't explain the cuts. He stood there, waiting, and I could feel his eyes on me, but he didn't say a word.
The silence stretched between us, uncomfortable and heavy.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, the skis awkward in my hands, and tried to think of something to say that wasn't completely ridiculous.
But everything I came up with sounded wrong.
Why did you do this? Too needy. You didn't have to.
Too dismissive. Thank you. Too much like forgiveness.
So I said nothing.
Bennett cleared his throat. "I thought you might want them back."
His voice was quiet, careful, like he was testing the ice on a frozen lake.
I looked up at him, and for a second I let myself really look.
He had circles under his eyes, darker than I'd ever seen them, and his jaw was tight, the muscle there jumping like he was clenching his teeth.
He looked tired. He looked like he hadn't been sleeping.
Good, I thought, and then immediately felt terrible for thinking it.
"I wasn't asking for them," I said.
It came out sharper than I meant it to, an edge in my voice that I hadn't intended.
Bennett flinched, just a little, and I saw something shift in his expression, something that looked almost like pain.
I wanted to take it back, but I didn't. It was true.
I hadn't asked for the skis. I hadn't reminded him.
I had been waiting to see whether he would remember on his own, whether he had actually heard me all those months ago when I'd mentioned them, or whether it had gone in one ear and out the other like everything else I'd ever said.
He'd heard.
That was the part that made my chest ache. He'd heard me, and he'd remembered, and he'd sat down and repaired them himself even though it hurt his hand. Even though I was divorcing him. Even though I hadn't forgiven him and probably never would.
"I know," Bennett said. "I just . . . I wanted you to have them."
He looked down at his hand, the one with the cuts still healing, and then back up at me.
There was something in his eyes I didn't recognize, something raw and uncertain that I'd never seen before.
Bennett was never uncertain. Bennett was the man who made billion-dollar deals and ran an empire and never second-guessed himself.
But right now, standing in Brynn's shop with my skis between us, he looked lost.
I wanted to reach out to him. I wanted to close the distance and put my hand on his arm and tell him it was okay, that I saw what he was doing, that it mattered.
But I didn't. I couldn't. Because the divorce was still going ahead.
I hadn't forgiven him, and one pair of repaired skis didn't undo eight years of him not listening, of him waving off my worries and treating our marriage like a system to manage with logic instead of a partnership built on love.
I held the skis tighter and nodded. "Okay."
One word. That was all I could manage. Bennett stood there for another moment, like he was waiting for me to say something else, and when I didn't, he nodded too.
"I should go," he said.
"Yeah."
He turned toward the door, and I watched him go, my fingers wrapped around the bindings so hard my knuckles were white.
He paused with his hand on the handle, his back to me, and for a second I thought he was going to turn around and say something.
But he didn't. He just pushed the door open and stepped outside, and then he was gone.
The chime rang as the door swung shut, and I stood there in the middle of Brynn's shop, holding my skis and trying not to cry.
God, what was I even doing?
I set the skis down carefully, leaning them against the counter, and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes.
My heart was still pounding, a frantic rhythm that made my whole chest feel tight, and I couldn't catch my breath.
I was supposed to be over this. I was supposed to be moving on.
But all it took was one gesture — one stupid, thoughtful, listening gesture — and I was right back where I started, hoping he'd changed, hoping he'd finally become the husband I'd always needed him to be.
Like an idiot, I flushed all the way to my hairline, even though there was no one there to see it.
I finished closing up the shop in a daze.
I folded the rest of the sweaters, locked the register, turned off the lights.
The skis sat by the counter the whole time, a reminder I couldn't ignore.
When I was done, I picked them up and walked home to Brynn's cottage, where I'd been living, just a few streets away from the shop.
The sun was setting, the sky above the mountains turning pink and gold, and the air was cold enough that I could see my breath.
Brynn was in the hall when I let myself in with my key. She took one look at my face and stepped aside.
"Sit down," she said.
I followed her into the kitchen, setting the skis down by the door. Brynn didn't ask about them right away. She just poured me a cup of tea and set it on the table, then sat down across from me and waited.
I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my fingers. "Bennett came to the shop."
Brynn's eyebrows went up. "And?"
"He brought my skis." I glanced toward the door, where they were leaning against the wall. "He repaired them."
Brynn followed my gaze, and something in her expression shifted. She looked at the skis for a long moment, then back at me. "He did?"
I nodded. "He hurt his hand doing it. There were cuts across his palm, the kind you get from working on the edges. He did it himself."
Brynn was quiet. She took a sip of her tea, watching me over the rim of the mug. "What did you say to him?"
"Nothing." I let out a shaky breath. "I mean, I said okay, and then he left. I didn't — I didn't know what to say. I wasn't asking for them, Brynn. I mentioned them months ago, and I haven't said a word about them since. I was just . . . I wanted to see if he'd remember. If he'd actually heard me."
"And he did."
"Yeah." My voice cracked a little on the word, and I cleared my throat, embarrassed. "He did."
Brynn set her mug down and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Kate, I need to tell you something."
I looked up at her, my stomach sinking. The way she said it made it sound serious, like she'd been holding onto this for a while and wasn't sure how I'd take it. "What?"
"Bennett came to the shop in January," Brynn said. "While you were away. He phoned first, and I told him your skis were there. I let him take them."
I stared at her. "You knew?"
"I knew he took them. I didn't know what he was planning to do with them.
" Brynn's voice was calm, matter-of-fact, the way it always was when she was telling me something she thought I needed to hear.
"I didn't tell you because I wanted to see what he'd do.
And I wasn't going to plead for him, Kate.
That's not my place. But I thought you should know. "
I sat back in my chair, the tea forgotten. Bennett had gone to the shop. He'd asked Brynn for the skis. He'd taken them and repaired them himself, cutting his hand in the process, and then he'd brought them back to me without a word of explanation.
He'd been listening.
That was what this was. That was what the skis meant. He'd heard me, months ago, when I'd first asked, and he'd finally — finally — done something about it. Not because I'd nagged him or reminded him or demanded it, but because he remembered. Because he cared enough to remember.
I couldn't hide the hope anymore. It flooded through me, warm and terrifying, and I couldn't push it down no matter how hard I tried. My throat went tight, and my eyes burned, and I had to look away from Brynn because if I didn't I was going to start crying right there at her kitchen table.
"He's listening," I whispered.
Brynn reached across the table and squeezed my hand. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. We both knew what it meant, what it could mean, if Bennett was finally paying attention. If he was finally becoming the man I'd always needed him to be.
The divorce was still going ahead. I hadn't forgiven him. I hadn't told him I wanted him back, and I wasn't going to, not yet. But God, I wanted to believe he was changing. I wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for us.
I looked down at my tea, at the steam rising from the surface, and let myself feel it. The hope. The terrifying, painful, beautiful hope that maybe he was listening after all.