29. Bennett
BENNETT
I waited outside Brynn's shop.
The morning was cold enough that my breath fogged the air, and I'd been standing there long enough that my fingers had gone numb inside my gloves.
Twenty minutes, maybe longer. I'd lost track.
The village was quiet at this hour, just a handful of early risers heading for the lifts.
A couple walked past with skis propped on their shoulders, talking about fresh powder higher up. Neither of them looked at me.
I had Kate's wedding ring in my jacket pocket.
My hand kept going to it, fingers closing around the band like I was checking to make sure it was still there. Like an idiot. It wasn't going anywhere. I'd been carrying it for months, and it hadn't left my pocket once. I knew exactly where it was. I just couldn't stop touching it.
Nine days since I'd owned what I'd done.
Nine days of waiting and not asking her for anything.
The divorce was still going ahead. She hadn't called it off, hadn't sent word that she'd changed her mind.
I didn't know if she ever would. I was here because she'd asked me to come while she worked on her wool gear, and that was the only reason I needed.
God, I was nervous. My stomach was in knots, the kind that made me feel like a kid waiting outside the principal's office.
Ridiculous. I'd negotiated deals worth hundreds of millions without breaking a sweat, but standing outside a village shop waiting for my wife had me tied up like I'd never done this before.
Don't screw this up.
The door opened.
Kate stepped out onto the walk, her hair pulled back in a braid that fell over one shoulder, her coat buttoned all the way up against the cold.
She looked at me for a long moment, and I couldn't read her expression.
My chest went tight. I wanted to say something, but every word I could think of felt wrong.
"Brynn's out," she said. Her voice was even, giving nothing away. "It's just us."
"Okay."
She held the door open. I followed her inside, and the warmth of the shop hit me immediately, along with the smell of wool and wood smoke from the stove in the corner.
Shelves lined the walls, stacked with her gear — gloves, scarves, hats, thick socks, all of it handmade.
I'd been in here once before, but I'd never really looked.
Now I couldn't stop looking. Every piece was hers. Her work. Her time.
A work table sat near the back, covered with fabric and spools of thread and tools I didn't recognize. Kate walked to it and picked up something that looked like a half-finished vest, the kind skiers wore for layering. The wool was a deep gray, flecked with lighter threads that caught the light.
"I need help with this part," she said. She didn't look at me when she said it, her attention on the fabric in her hands. "You'll do what I tell you. Nothing else."
"Yeah."
She set the vest down on the table and pointed to a seam along one side. "This needs to be held taut while I stitch it. If it bunches, the whole thing pulls wrong and I have to start over. You're going to hold it here"—she touched one edge—"and here. Keep tension, but not too much. I'll show you."
I watched her hands as she demonstrated, pulling the fabric just enough that the seam lay flat. She did it twice, then handed it to me. I took it carefully, trying to match the tension she'd shown me. It felt delicate, like I could ruin it if I gripped too hard.
"Like this?" I asked.
"A little less," she said. "You're not trying to tear it. Just keep it steady."
I adjusted my grip. She checked it, her fingers brushing mine for half a second before she nodded. "That's right. Don't move."
I didn't.
Kate threaded a needle and started stitching, her hands moving fast and sure.
The thread pulled through the wool in a steady rhythm, each stitch perfectly even.
I kept the fabric taut the way she'd told me, watching her work.
The shop was quiet except for the faint crackle of the stove and the sound of the thread sliding through the wool.
She was close enough that I could smell the faint scent of her shampoo, something clean and familiar, and it hit me like a punch to the gut.
I wanted to say something. I didn't. I just held the fabric and kept my mouth shut, because this was what she'd asked me to do and I wasn't going to screw it up by talking when I should've been listening.
My hands were steady. My pulse wasn't.
She worked the seam for what felt like forever, her focus absolute.
I could see the small line between her brows that appeared when she was concentrating, the way her bottom lip caught between her teeth when she got to a tricky corner.
I knew those things about her. I'd just forgotten to pay attention.
"You can let go now," she said.
I released the fabric. She tied off the thread and stepped back, examining the seam with a critical eye. Then she set the vest down on the table and looked at me.
"That part's done," she said.
I nodded. My throat felt tight, and I didn't trust myself to say anything that wouldn't sound like I was pressing her. She looked at the work, then at me, and for a second I thought she was going to tell me to leave. That this was it. That she'd given me a chance to help and now I could go.
Instead, I said it.
"I'm sorry."
Kate's eyes came up to mine. She didn't say anything. Didn't move.
"For the years I didn't listen," I said.
The words felt clumsy, too small for what I was trying to say, like I was apologizing for something too big to fit into a sentence.
"For putting everything else first. The resorts, the deals, my mother, Priscilla — all of it.
For making you feel like you didn't matter.
For not seeing what was right in front of me. I'm sorry, Kate."
She still didn't say anything. Her jaw tightened, and I could see her throat move when she swallowed. Her hand came up to her chest, fingers pressing against the fabric of her coat like she was trying to hold something in.
"I was a lousy husband," I said, and my voice came out rough. "I thought if I kept the resorts running and the money coming in, that was enough. I thought you knew I loved you, so I didn't have to show it. I was wrong. I was wrong about all of it."
Her eyes were bright. She looked away, then back at me.
"Words aren't enough," I said. "I know that.
You've heard me apologize before and nothing changed.
I get it. But I'm not asking you to forgive me because I said I'm sorry.
I'm asking you to let me prove it. Today, tomorrow, however long it takes.
I'll keep doing the work, Kate. I'll keep showing up. "
She took a breath. It shook a little on the way in, and I saw her blink hard.
"What do you need?" I asked. My hands were in my pockets, fingers curled around the ring again. "Tell me what you need, Kate, and I'll do it. Whatever it is."
Her chin came up. She looked me right in the eye, and I could see the fight in her, the strength that had been there all along and I'd been too blind to notice.
"I need a husband who listens to me," she said.
Her voice was steady, but I could hear the edge underneath it, the years of not being heard sharpening every word.
"A husband who stands beside me, not ahead of me or behind me.
Someone who sees my work as mine, not as something that fits around his schedule when it's convenient.
I need you to make time for me, Bennett.
Real time. Not the ten minutes you can spare between meetings or the dinner you squeeze in before you get back on a call. "
I nodded. I didn't tell her I'd already cleared my calendar. I didn't say I'd been making time for weeks, that I'd turned down deals and rescheduled calls and told my mother no. This wasn't about what I'd done. It was about what she needed to hear.
"I want a place beside you on the trail," she said.
Her chin lifted higher, and I saw the woman I'd married, the one who used to race down mountains and never looked back.
"I want to ski with you. Cross-country. Side by side, the way it's supposed to be.
I want you to see me as your partner, not as someone who keeps the house running while you're out building your empire.
And I want my wool gear to stop coming second.
It's mine, Bennett. It's not a hobby you tolerate because it keeps me busy. It's mine, and it matters."
"Yes," I said. The word came out immediately, no hesitation.
"I'm not asking if you'll think about it," she said, and her voice went sharp enough to cut.
"I'm not asking if it sounds reasonable or if you can work it into your plans.
I'm telling you what I need. If you can't do it, then we're done.
If you can, then you accept all of it. Not the parts that are easy.
Not the ones you've already decided you can manage. All of it, Bennett. Every single term."
Jesus. My hands were shaking. I shoved them deeper into my pockets so she wouldn't see.
"I accept," I said. "Every term. I'm not bargaining with you, Kate.
I'm not going to stand here and try to negotiate what I think is fair.
You want a husband who listens, who makes time, who sees your work as yours — you've got him.
You want a place beside me on the trail, you've got it.
Your wool gear doesn't come second anymore.
It doesn't come second to the resorts, to my schedule, to anything.
You want me to stand beside you instead of running ahead — I'm there. I'm right there."
Her eyes stayed on mine. I couldn't look away. I didn't want to. The silence stretched between us, and I could feel my heart pounding hard enough that it shook my ribs.
"I need my ring," she said.
The words hit me like a freight train. I forgot to breathe for a second.
My hand was already moving, pulling the ring out of my jacket pocket before I'd even processed what she'd said.
It sat in my palm, small and gold and worn from eight years of her wearing it.
The band had tiny scratches on it, places where it had caught on things or bumped against counters or gotten knocked around doing the work I'd never noticed.
I held it out to her.
She took it. Her fingers brushed mine, and the contact sent a jolt up my arm that I felt all the way to my spine. She didn't look at me. She looked at the ring, turning it over in her hand like she was deciding something. The shop was so quiet I could hear my own breathing.
Then she slid it onto her finger.
She put it on herself. I didn't ask her to wear it. I didn't say a goddamn word. I just stood there and watched her do it, and my chest felt like it was caving in.
Kate looked up at me. I saw something in her face I hadn't seen in months. Maybe longer. Her mouth curved, just barely, and the tightness in my chest cracked wide open.
I stepped closer. She didn't step back. I brought my hand up to her face, my palm cupping her jaw, my thumb brushing her cheek. Her skin was warm under my hand, soft, and I felt her breath hitch.
"I love you," I said. My voice came out rough, barely more than a whisper.
"I love you," she said, and then I kissed her.
Her hands came up to my chest, fisting in my jacket, and she kissed me back like she'd been starving for it.
I pulled her closer, my other hand going to her waist, and she let me.
God, she let me. I could feel her heart pounding against my ribs, or maybe that was mine — I didn't know, didn't care.
She tasted like everything I'd almost lost, and I kissed her harder, trying to pour eight years of apologies into it.
When we broke apart, I rested my forehead against hers. My breathing was ragged, and hers wasn't any steadier. Her fingers were still tangled in my jacket, holding on.
"The divorce," I said. My voice came out hoarse.
"I'm not taking it any further," she said.
"Neither am I."
She pulled back just enough to look at me, and I saw the smallest smile at the corner of her mouth.
Relief hit me so hard I felt dizzy with it, like I'd just stepped off a cliff and found solid ground on the other side.
The divorce was over. Not because we'd signed papers or filed anything or stood in front of a judge and made it official.
It was over because we'd both decided to stop.
Because she'd told me what she needed and I'd said yes, and she'd put her ring back on.
We were still standing in Brynn's shop, surrounded by shelves full of wool and thread and all the work Kate had built with her own hands while I'd been too busy looking the other way.
I had my wife back.