Chapter 2
James glanced at the dashboard clock, the numbers bright green and accusatory in the twilit gloom. Ten minutes to six. Dammit, he was going to be late, and he didn’t have time to pull over and call Elizabeth.
That last job at the Keplinger house had taken way more time than he’d anticipated, largely because the new kid on his crew had ordered the wrong damn paint for the living room, a semi-gloss blue instead of a matte yellow.
An extra early-morning trip to get the right color and finish had set James behind all day.
He’d intended to shower and change before the town hall.
Elizabeth wouldn’t protest, of course. She’d never been overly concerned with appearances.
And Lord knew he didn’t give a fuck what some jackass congressman or his supporters thought about him.
But meeting his old friend in a paint-splattered sweatshirt and jeans, his hair plastered to his skull by the wool cap he’d worn during trips outside, pained him anyway.
In their better years, his ex had teased him about it sometimes, how meticulously he tried to straighten himself before they gave final instructions to the babysitter and met Elizabeth—with or without one of her boyfriends—for dinner.
“We lived with her in a tiny apartment for two years,” Mel would say, rolling her eyes as he ran a comb through his hair and ironed his shirt. “She’s seen you passed out on a stained sofa with dicks Sharpied on your face. I think she can handle uncombed hair.”
“That was in our university days,” he’d tell her. “Over a decade ago.”
What he carefully neglected to add: Back when I was drinking too.
Then, behind the closed door of their bedroom, he’d catch Mel by the waist, press her against the wall, and remind her that the only woman he cared to impress was her. All while hoping he wouldn’t taste tequila on her tongue.
In their worse years, when they’d moved cross-country and her drinking had become a constant in their lives, their visits home to Marysburg and occasional dinners with Elizabeth had turned fraught.
“You don’t prep like this for our other friends.” Mel would watch him in the hotel mirror, her mouth a hyphen.
He’d inhale through his nose, struggling for patience. “There was never anything between Elizabeth and me. You know that. You and I were already together when we lived with her.”
Mel would nod, but she wouldn’t look convinced. At dinner, she’d go through an entire bottle of wine or half a dozen margaritas and try to drum up arguments with either him or an ever-calm Elizabeth. And once they got out to the car, the slurred accusations and screamed invectives would begin.
Finally, he’d stopped suggesting dinner with their old friend and former roommate during visits to Marysburg.
Just another way he’d contorted his life, his relationships, everything he did and was, around his ex-wife’s alcoholism.
But after the divorce, once he’d returned to his hometown for good, he’d called Elizabeth and apologized.
Asked for forgiveness and company at their favorite diner that night.
She’d accepted him back into her life without questions or recriminations. She provided pleasant, undemanding companionship when they both had time. She baked him cookies for every conceivable holiday. She was the antithesis of drama, and around her, he could just be.
His history, his choices, his regrets: She knew them all in a way no one else did, not even his parents or his sons. Over the years, he’d hidden so much from his family. From everyone.
He’d wanted to shield his kids from pain. Wanted to protect the privacy and sanctity of his marriage. But because of Elizabeth’s unique position in his life, she’d witnessed some of the hardest, most horrible moments of that life.
She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t done anything but offer understanding and warmth.
So she deserved him clean and kempt, and she deserved him prompt.
Especially since he’d never, not once in almost thirty years of friendship, heard her make such an impassioned plea for company.
For support. As soon as he’d read the Facebook DM, he’d told her she could count on him.
He’d be happy to attend a damn town hall or a wake or a wedding or whatever.
Anything for her. And it wasn’t as if he’d miss another long, solitary evening spent reading or watching HATV before trudging upstairs and tumbling into a big, chilly bed.
There. There was the road leading to the high school.
James arrived in the parking lot two minutes before Congressman Herb Brindle’s town hall was due to start, wedged his truck into the first available space, and sprinted for the entrance closest to the auditorium.
His back ached with each jarring step, just as it did when he made his sad attempts at jogging four times a week, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.
The foyer contained two or three clusters of people still chatting and four SWAT officers in polo shirts. They eyed him carefully, but he turned away, still looking for Elizabeth’s trademark pale blond hair and solid frame.
She was nowhere to be found, probably because the event was due to start any moment and she’d already taken a seat. Hopefully she’d saved him one too.
To his vague surprise, there was no security check at the door to the auditorium, just a taped-up paper that read “No posters or signs.” Ironic, that. And as soon as he poked his head inside, he saw that glorious hair, glowing beneath the overhead lights like a beacon.
He hustled down the aisle, his boots landing in noisy thuds on the floor.
But other than a few more security people around the margins, no one paid him any attention.
They were still chatting as they waited for the congressman, who appeared to be filming an interview with a local news reporter at the side of the auditorium.
Elizabeth wasn’t chatting with anyone, though. She wasn’t even watching the congressman. She was staring at the empty stage, at a spot containing nothing of real interest.
Even when he lowered himself into the seat beside her, she didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge him. Was she angry he’d cut the timing so close?
“I’m sorry, Eliz—” he started to say, but then she jerked at the sound of his voice and turned her head in his direction.
Her deep-set blue eyes, usually so clear, were bloodshot, the lids swollen.
Her skin had transformed from rosy to blotchy, its paleness mottled by angry patches of pink.
Her strong features appeared to have sunken in on themselves somehow, turned creased and saggy when he’d always considered her an ageless wonder.
Only that trademark low blond ponytail was normal, its brightness incongruous. Almost obscene, given the fear and worry etched across her face.
She’d never looked like this. Ever. Not even at her mother’s funeral a couple months ago. Jesus fucking Christ, what was going on?
He wrapped a hand around her upper arm, and the chill of her flesh seeped through her sweater. “Are you okay? What happened?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Brindle moving toward the stage. They only had a minute to talk. Maybe seconds.
Her throat shifted as she swallowed. “I’m fine.”
A lie refuted by its telling. He could barely hear her, even though the audience had quieted in anticipation of the congressman’s words, and her voice was rough in a way he didn’t recognize.
Enough. She didn’t belong in a damn high school auditorium, not in her condition.
“Let’s go somewhere we can talk. Somewhere warm.” He got to his feet and held out his hand to her. “My house is closest.”
He’d turn on the gas fireplace and crank up the heat until those tiny shivers wracking her frame stopped. He’d swaddle her in a blanket, get her some of that fancy hot chocolate she liked, and make her tell him everything. Then he’d figure out how to fix it, whatever it was.
She took his hand, but only to tug him back down to his seat. “No.”
“But you’re—”
Her mouth set, she shook her head. “I need to do this.”
“You need to do what?”
But it was too late. A woman in a navy dress had stepped up to the mic stand and started yammering about Brindle’s accomplishments, his love for his constituents, and a bunch of other shit James neither believed nor cared about.
He leaned over to whisper in Elizabeth’s ear. “Are you sure you want to stay?”
Her soft hair caught on his beard, several strands pulling loose from her ponytail. The scent of baking surrounded her in a nimbus, imbued in that hair and the fabric of her clothing. Vanilla and almond and fresh bread. Sweetness and comfort.
She smelled edible. Always had.
At his words, she shivered again, harder. Then she nodded.
After a round of halfhearted applause from the audience, the woman retreated from the stage, replaced by the suit-clad congressman.
Brindle cleared his throat and gazed out over the auditorium.
“It’s my honor to speak to you tonight at Marysburg High.
As you know, my constituents are the reason I’m here, in every possible sense.
And tonight, I’d like to share with you some crucial information about our national debt and the dangers of our ballooning deficit before I open the floor to questions. ”
Beside James, Elizabeth took a shaky breath, her long, blunt fingers curling into fists on the armrests. Without thinking much about it, he covered the hand closest to him.
Her fingers were stiff under his. Cold. But as Brindle ran through his PowerPoint presentation, complete with endless bar graphs and alarming spikes in various charts, they gradually loosened and warmed, flattening against the plastic armrest.
Abruptly, as the congressman seemed to be reaching the end of his speech, she turned her palm upward, and their fingers intertwined.
Holding hands. They were holding hands for the first time in almost thirty years.