Chapter 10
After spending the morning at the tree farm, Hank drops me off at the cabin, then heads out to feed the animals.
I do my best to stay busy. I make a fire.
Crank the music to the loudest rock ’n’ roll decibels known to man.
Pull out my easel, paints and a canvas. I gear myself up for a marathon painting session.
Instead, all I do is stare at the blank canvas.
The bright pops of colors of the paints.
I squeeze a tube, transfixed as red splatters all over the palette.
“Fuck.”
Red. Snow. Footsteps. Mistletoe. Hank calling my name through the cabin.
Cool sweat rolls over my skin.
My chest tightens. I drop my brush onto the palette.
“Fuck.” I suck in a painful breath.
I don’t think I’ve been this insecure since I lost the baby. And I’ve never recovered. It bled into every part of my life. A little voice is always asking Are you good enough? Can you do this? Or will it happen again?
My confidence in myself, my relationship with Hank, my art and my body were thoroughly shaken.
I miss myself.
And maybe I miss Hank too.
I must. That would explain what the hell I’m doing.
Sleeping with my ex-husband.
My body aches where he touched me, as if it’s reminding me of what I’ve gained these last few days. Which only confuses me more. It doesn’t mean anything, does it? But earlier today, by the barn, the heat, the intention rolling off Hank almost convinced me we could go back to the way we used to be.
The longing in my stomach, the guilt—the emotions I’ve been hiding from for so long—threaten to break the surface.
I love him. Never stopped.
Yet I’m the villain in our story. I pushed Hank away because I felt like a failure. And in doing so, I pushed away the person who loved me most in this world. I did a fucked-up thing when I walked away without an explanation.
Why would he want me back? I left him cruelly. I lost our baby. How could he forgive me? Why should he?
I chew my lip and stare out the window. The sky is clear, the sun dropping below the horizon. It’s late in the day to be feeding the animals.
He might not be my husband anymore, but I know Hank as well as I know myself. His ebbs and flows. He’s brooding.
Seeing Clint with his daughter today was like salt in a wound. The devastated look on Hank’s face stole my breath. My instinct was to comfort him. I could almost hear his thoughts.
That should have been us.
I pack up my paints and palettes. The cabin feels heavy and dark, so I decide to invoke some Christmas spirit. I hang the wreath, add a pop of mistletoe to the hook. The sprig Papa Blue pressed into my hand as Hank and I left the Christmas tree farm.
“For second chances,” he whispered.
I stare at the floorboards. The darkened spot of hardwood. With shaking hands, I kneel and press a palm against the stain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.”
A tear runs down my cheek as I stand. Then a brief, flickering sensation alights. Calm. Acceptance. It’s gone just as quickly.
It doesn’t feel right to decorate the tree without Hank, so I pad to the kitchen and pull out ingredients for Christmas cookies.
My mom and I always have a marathon baking session a week or two before Christmas.
Snickerdoodles, gingersnaps, sugar cookies.
All fair game. We make massive platters and deliver them to friends and neighbors.
A tradition I continued when I married Hank.
Home is where the cookies are, my mom always says, and she’s right.
Midway through a bowl of sticky gingerbread dough, the door flies open with a thunderous bang. Zelda skitters inside, shaking snow from her fur.
Hank stands in the entryway, tugging off his gloves and jacket. Briefly, his gaze flicks upward, to the mistletoe, but he says nothing as he moves toward the kitchen.
“Cookies?” His brows slant as he takes off his cowboy hat and tosses it on the table.
I itch to wipe at the smudge of dirt on his cheek. Instead, I nod and flick my wrist, incorporating sugar, eggs and butter. “Cookies.”
“Hell, Bell, you ain’t got no music on.” He pauses at the counter, flips on the radio.
I smile at the sweet gesture of solidarity. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” by the Jackson Five blasts cheerily from the speakers.
“Thought you hated Christmas?” I arch a brow.
“Someone persuaded me otherwise.” He pushes himself against me, warm and cold at the same time. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss.
Bad idea.
“What’s on deck, sugar?” He looms over me, so tall, inspecting the batter in a lilac-colored bowl. He grips the edge of the counter near my hip with one big hand, the bright band of silver on his ring finger catching my eye.
He never took it off. He still wants us.
Panicked by the realization, I beat faster, frantically. “Only the classics. Sugar cookies. Snickerdoodles. Peanut butter.”
“My favorite.” His gravelly drawl sends shivers down my spine.
I know. I know they’re his favorite. I made two extra batches. Oh God. Oh fuck.
“Here. Taste.” Without thinking, I dip a finger in the peanut butter batter, then stick it into his mouth.
He blinks at me, shock rolling off him. Then, slowly, he sucks the batter from the tip of my finger.
I’m horrified. Frozen in place.
“Mmm. Tastes real good,” he says with a smug little grin.
“Glad to hear it.” My cheeks flush. Quickly, I move my hand back to the spoon.
Hank threads a finger through my belt loop and tugs.
A small noise escapes me. “You, uh, don’t need to stand here supervising.” I shove the bowl away, worried I’ll overbeat it in my panic. “I am perfectly capable of baking cookies.”
“Know you are.” With a happy grunt, he twists closer to me. His hand, warm and steady, slips to the curve of my back. “Not supervisin’. Just want to be here with you.”
I bite at my bottom lip and evaluate the chiseled angles of his face.
His scruffy hair. The heated look in his eye.
I don’t know what to do with this. Or him.
Every organ in my body sparks with life.
I fear Hank Blue has elevated my emotional wellbeing.
Like a soft-baked chocolate cookie. Or the perfect skin care routine.
There’s this pull, this need between us. Like whatever we started last night, we can’t stop.
I ache to give in. To surrender to it. To go back and go forward at the same time.
I’m spiraling, panicking, when the lights go out. The oven beeps, then goes dark. The radio dies a slow, warbly death.
“Shit.” I lurch out of Hank’s hold and stab the oven’s ON button. “The power’s out.” I scan the bowls of cookie batter. “Now what do we do?”
Hank reaches past me to a shelf. Grinning, he snags a bottle of whiskey. “Looks like it’s time to have ourselves a good ole-fashioned cowboy Christmas.”