Chapter 4
Hank’s bed is warm and soft.
Strike that.
My bed is warm and soft.
I shift, burying myself further into the blankets, listening to the howl of the wind outside, the scrape of the branches against the side of the A-frame.
Finally, with a sigh, I kick tangled blankets from my legs. I pad across the chilly floor and peer over the railing, surveying the living room and kitchen below.
Hank’s gone.
For a moment, there’s a twinge of regret in my lungs, but I push out a breath. Good. After last night, we need the space.
No doubt, despite the weather, he’s out on the ranch, tending to the horses, helping Papa Blue.
Quickly, I wash my face and change into jeans, a thick cable-knit sweater and fuzzy blue socks.
I make the bed, pausing when I catch sight of the photo of Zelda wearing a wreath around her neck, then climb the ladder.
Downstairs, I find a full coffeepot, the red light telling me it’s still hot. I pour myself a cup and bring it to my nose, inhaling its hazelnut scent. Absentmindedly, I stare out the window where a dizzying swirl of snowflakes falls from the slate sky.
Hank’s still pissed I left.
I don’t know how to tell him that I had to.
I swallow, blinking back tears as the rabbit hole of memories sneaks up on me. My hand drifts, down, down, down to my stomach.
It’s been three years since I lost Cody, and I still haven’t gotten over it.
Losing a baby at twenty-two weeks. It wasn’t supposed to happen. The second trimester is supposed to be safe. Happy.
The doctors said it was a placental abruption. That it could have killed me along with our baby. That I should consider myself lucky. But I didn’t feel lucky. It felt like a crushing weight on my chest, in my heart.
Hank tried so hard to be strong, but he was just as devastated as I was. We’d been married for six years, but that day, in the hospital, was the first time I’d ever seen my husband cry.
After we came home from the hospital, I didn’t want to talk about it. It was all Hank wanted to do. When I wouldn’t talk, he went to Buck’s.
I loved being pregnant. I was so happy to give Hank a baby. To start our family. Then, in one moment, our little dream was gone. I was devastated. I couldn’t be around it. Couldn’t be around Hank. Couldn’t stand the sadness, the brokenness in those beautiful eyes.
Everything hurt. Hank hurt. Our families hurt. Guilt consumed me. What-ifs took over my thoughts and I couldn’t stop tearing myself apart. What if it was my fault? What if that little slip off the ladder was what had caused me to lose Cody? What if I’d gone for an extra checkup after it happened?
The doctors swore I did everything right, but I couldn’t stop feeling like I should have protected my baby. Like I failed.
I was so scared, and I was certain I never wanted to try again.
“I don’t want to have another baby.” I gasped the words out after the doctor left my hospital room. Left me sewn up and sore and without my baby. My heart said it wasn’t a time for rash decisions, but my brain had other ideas.
Hank, sitting beside my hospital bed, tightened his grip on my hand. “It’s okay.”
“Do you?”
“Bell.” His ragged voice was a hook, tearing out my soul.
“Hank. Do you?”
“Not if it means losing you.” His throat worked. Tears glittered in his sapphire eyes. “I almost lost you once. I can’t do it again.”
I didn’t believe him. Hank should be a dad. He dreamed of it, and he’d be the best at it. I might have been terrified of having another baby, but that didn’t mean Hank should be denied the chance. Why should I stop his life just because I couldn’t give him what he deserved?
I thought leaving it all behind would help, would heal.
But it hasn’t. I’ve tried to fix the grief inside me.
Tried to paint my way through it. Tried to ignore it.
Tried to talk to a therapist. But nothing worked.
Not fully. Everything inside me has felt shaken up but contained for so long. A soda can under pressure.
That little baby changed everything. Broke me. Broke us.
But only because I let it.
My stomach rumbles, snapping me out of my trance.
Slowly, I wander to the fridge. Tilting my head, I take in its contents, then blink.
Every shelf is full. A true Christmas feast. Pumpkin pie.
Ham. Potatoes. Even the tin can of cranberry sauce I love and a random pack of candles stacked on top of a jar of mayo.
When I notice Papa Blue’s infamous chocolate chip zucchini loaf, my mouth waters. Without a second thought, I grab it and carve myself a hunk. Then, like the heathen I am, I stand over the kitchen sink and inhale a giant slice.
As I chew, I take in the open space of the cabin.
In every crevice, a memory.
The archway where we’d meet under the mistletoe after working a long day at the tree farm. “Kiss me,” I’d say, pressing up on tiptoes to meet Hank’s grinning mouth.
The fireplace where we’d hang stockings and then trade our ornaments.
Every year, we’d get each other an ornament that best symbolized the year.
The year we were married, I got Hank a cowboy and cowgirl couple, complete with matching boots and hats.
Our fifth, the year I landed an agent, he got me an artist’s palette.
Our last Christmas together, I put our sonogram in a mini rectangle ornament frame.
“Nugget.” Hank got down on his knees in front of me on Christmas Eve. His voice was low and rough with joy. “That’s it.”
I sighed happily. “His name’s not nugget.”
Hank’s hands flexed, then spread out on my belly. He laughed, glancing up at me. “Nickname, then.”
“Yeah, sure, okay. But he needs a cowboy name,” I added a bit more seriously.
“Whatever you want, Bluebell.” He smiled up at me, unconcerned, big palms still on my belly, rugged yet gentle.
“Westley?”
By the twist of his lips, I could tell he hated it. But he’d never say it, so I went on.
“Cody?”
“Hmm. Like that one.” He pressed a kiss on my belly.
“Me too,” I said breathlessly.
Wrapping an arm around my waist, he pulled me closer. He inhaled. Exhaled. Breathed us both in.
I reached down, palming his smooth cheek. Feeling like there was something so big between us, something so, so special.
He looked up, like he already knew what I wanted to say.
“I love you too, sugar.”
The memory washes over me like acid. “Fuck,” I mutter, puffing a lock of hair out of my eyes and turning back to the sink.
I hate this.
I shouldn’t be here.
Stuck in a cabin for God knows how long with my ex-husband? It’s my worst nightmare. I wasn’t counting on Hank being here. He makes it worse. The memories. I wanted to deal with my demons alone.
I need to keep myself busy.
Sighing, I scan the room. The fireplace, the bookshelf and chairs. The corner where we always put our tree.
Bare. This place is so damn bare. There’s nothing, not even a scrap of Christmas cheer.
That’s what I’ll do.
I’ll decorate.
It’s exactly what I need. Mindless work to take my mind off everything. The memories. Hank’s surly attitude. The storm roaring outside.
To set the mood, I make a fire. Then, from the small storage space, I pull out two boxes and a large plastic tote.
I open the first box and laugh. I can’t help it.
Hank’s décor is ridiculous. He’s cheesy like that.
He loves fruit cake and the not-so-politically-correct 1964 Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer movie.
While he preferred traditional Christmas décor—gaudy red and green decorations and multicolored lights—I preferred a more minimalist approach.
Bare garland, creamy ivory stockings and white lights that screamed winter wonderland.
Our different tastes made us bicker and laugh and tease, but we made it work. We always made it work.
Until we couldn’t.
I lift a one-eyed nutcracker. Then dump it back in the box.
Nope. This is my Christmas.
For the next few hours, I busy myself with unpacking. By the time noon rolls around, I’ve successfully sorted the decorations and the snow globes, and I’ve untangled the lights.
That’s when I realize Hank’s décor and mine have been mixed together so thoroughly, they’ve merged into one gigantic pile.
I swallow.
It never used to be like this.
It’s so sad that we’re now living two completely separate lives, when for so long, they were one. We were one. Loved careful and close. Like a secret between two souls.
For some, Christmas means big, chaotic families, early mornings and a hundred activities, but for Hank and me, it meant our cabin.
It meant five days of cozy cooped-up togetherness.
Late mornings tangled in the sheets, then working the tree farm with Papa Blue in the afternoons.
At night, we lit a fire and decorated for the upcoming holiday.
Dropping into a crouch, I dig through a box and feel the soft edge of fabric, a small loop catching my index finger. I pull out the decoration, along with the second just like it, and hold them up in front of me. Our stockings. I bite my lip. Do I hang Hank’s? Why would I? He’s not staying.
I agonize over the decision, my chest aching, then decide to hang neither. Back in the box they go.
I’m chewing on a candy cane and pondering next decorating steps when the door flies open. The blast of air rustles the garland wrapped around my neck like a boa.
Hank’s cheekbones and the tip of his nose are bright pink, windswept. Snow dusts his Stetson, those broad shoulders covered in a thick Carhartt jacket. Zelda beelines for me, pawing my leggings and letting out happy yips as I rough her fur.
Maybe he means to, maybe he doesn’t, but he stops at the threshold.
My mind instantly goes to our tradition. Of meeting there after work. How he leaned in. How warm his mouth was against mine, his big hand sliding up my cold throat and cradling my jaw as he kissed me.
The memory is quickly sideswiped by another.
Blood. Footprints.
If I could burn this memory, I would.
Hank’s mouth moves. He’s speaking, but I’ve heard none of it.