Chapter 3 #2
She nods almost absentmindedly, then steps into the kitchen.
Quietly, she uncorks a bottle of wine and pours herself a glass.
Then she retrieves two plates from the cupboard where I’ve always kept them.
I blink at the easy action. For an instant, it’s like we traveled back in time, and it sends a pang of wistfulness through my chest.
Focusing on the task at hand, I back up to drain the pasta. She moves. But the kitchen’s a small space and we find ourselves plastered together. She twists around, her chest sweeping against mine, her honey scent wafting over me. I get lost in her—her freckles, the caramel flecks in her eyes.
Fuck. I’m sweating through my shirt and my feelings thanks to that damn fire. Jesus. I’m still staring. Still 100 percent doomed.
What was I thinking coming up here?
I take a step back. “Shit. Sorry.”
She does too. “No. My bad.”
Our voices are formal, like we’re locked in some strange dance we don’t know the moves to.
It’s fucking weird. To see her after three years, to be trapped together. How the hell are we going to co-exist until the blizzard blows over when I’m already falling apart?
And if I know her, she is too.
She flinched when she crossed the threshold. She thinks she’s putting on a cool front, but she doesn’t fool me. She’s still not over it. Which makes two of us.
The day she left comes rushing back in my memory.
As soon as she stepped into the kitchen, I felt it. The air was too tense. Her eyes were wet with tears as she placed her ring in the fruit dish and said she wanted a divorce.
“What can I do, baby?” I pleaded. “Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.”
She laughed softly. “You can’t fix this, Hank.”
“I can. Bluebell, just let me try.”
She gave me a sad smile and picked up a suitcase that looked way too light. “I just need some time. Okay?”
So, holding out hope that time would bring her back to me, I let her go. But she was stubborn and I was a fool, and what happened next was inevitable.
We dish in, each of us taking our plate. I sit at the table, but Bellamy perches at the kitchen island. The distance she keeps pisses me off. I stab at a mushroom.
How the fuck did we get here? We went through the worst thing two people could go through together. And instead of leaning on one another, we fell apart.
I’m not over her. Not by a long shot.
We didn’t marry too young. Or fight all the damn time. Or cheat. We were happy.
Until we weren’t.
Being around her again has stirred all those emotions up.
But I can’t tell her I miss her every second of every day.
I can’t admit that I daydream about her, that I still have to fight the urge to text good morning to her.
Three years feels like three days. I can still hear her giggly laugh in the mornings, see that mess of dark hair moving under the covers.
“So.”
I blink at the husky sound of her voice. Bellamy twirls a strand of pasta, deciding on a neutral subject. “The farm.”
Fuck. That’s the last topic I want to discuss.
I run a hand through my hair, lean back in my chair. “What about it?”
“How’s it doing?” She shifts on the stool, one foot dangling, like she’s ready to run. “Seemed busy when I got here.”
“It’s surviving. Just like all of us.”
She makes a little sound of affirmation. “Where’s your Bronco? I didn’t see it in the yard.”
I grimace, my chest pinching. “Sold it.”
Her eyes are wide. “You loved that Bronco.”
I did. A classic 1966 cherry-red Bronco. Restored by my own hands.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Well, things change.”
Silence engulfs us as we look at each other. Even Zelda’s staring.
“What about you?” I ask before she can pry further. She’s pushed me, and it makes me want to push her. “You plan to paint while you’re here?”
She won’t. Bell’s always been superstitious about her work. No one sees her paintings until the very end. Not even me.
“Luka thinks I should.”
Goddamn if my shoulders don’t get tight. It’s what I thought. She’s moved on.
“Luka?” I fight to keep a cool head even as jealousy slices deep. Even as I keep a death-grip on my fucking fork, wishing it were Luka’s neck.
Is he the asshole who takes care of her now? I wasn’t ready to give up the title of husband three years ago, and I still mourn its loss. The idea of someone else taking it over stings.
“My new agent,” she says.
A loud breath escapes me.
Thank Christ.
“Anyway.” She picks up her wineglass and drains it. “I haven’t painted anything really worthwhile, since—” Face flushing, she cuts herself off.
“Since you left?” I can’t stop from directing my annoyance, my anger at her.
With a sigh, she sets her fork down. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too hard.” She shakes her head, eyes fluttering closed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That sounds about right. You not wanting to talk.” A wave of melancholy sweeps over me.
“I know I left. But you left too. In your own way.” Her voice is a hollow void of emptiness.
“Whatever you have to tell yourself to make it better.”
“Fuck you, Hank.” Fire flashing in her amber eyes, Bellamy pushes back from the island. Zelda leaps into action, pacing around the table, her anxious, insistent whines filling the kitchen.
“This was a stupid idea,” Bellamy says, exhaling a dark little sob. “You staying here.”
Guilt rolls through me. Dammit, I’m an asshole.
The tear that tracks down her cheek almost breaks my heart in half.
I reach for her. To fix this. To pull her into my arms and hold her. “Sugar—”
“Don’t call me that.” Then she’s gone, climbing up the ladder to the loft without another word.
Whining, Zelda paws at my pant leg.
“Fuck.” I drop my head into my hands.