Chapter 11
Candles constellation around the living room. The fireplace roars and crackles. Christmas songs play on Hank’s phone, the sound tinny but joyful. On the coffee table, picked over cheese and crackers and slices of salami. A devoured bowl of cookie batter. Half-empty mugs of hot toddies.
Now we’ve graduated to shots of whiskey.
Hank sits on the floor, back pressed against the couch.
I lie lengthwise behind him on the cushions.
Balanced on his bent knees is a New York Times crossword puzzle book.
One big hand holds a pencil, the other absentmindedly strokes its way over Zelda’s speckled belly as she snores lightly beside him.
“Gotta admit,” he drawls, casting a longing glance at the coffee table. “Mice food was mighty satisfactory.”
I scoff. “You can’t fool me, Hank Blue. I saw the way you devoured that cheeseboard.” I hover over his shoulder, staring at the grid of black and white squares. “Two across. Crow’s call.”
“Caw.” He sips his whiskey, then passes it over his shoulder to me, even though I have my own glass.
“Easy.” I rotate on the couch, fighting the urge to sniff his hair. To run my fingers through the tufts curled stubbornly at the nape.
The scratch of pencil against page. “Five down. Seven words. A holly jolly…”
“Holiday.” I swallow down the rest of the whiskey, exhale a spiced breath in victory.
He nods his head. Then, scribbles it into the book with those long, calloused fingers. While he hunts for the next clue, I ease closer again. Like some freaky couch voyeur, I take in the crinkles at the corner of his eyes. The way he chews his lower lip. The dark whiskers trailing his sharp jaw.
I tell myself to stop looking at him. Tell myself to stop thinking about the million small things I once adored about Hank Blue.
A cowboy who played chess and read Fitzgerald while also loving ice-cold Pbrs, karaoke and bar fights on Saturday nights.
Hank contained multitudes. I was sold. I was a goner.
Maybe I still am.
Needing an excuse to cool down, I sit up and hop off the couch. I pull the bottle of whiskey from the mantel and refill the glass.
Hank lifts his chin, eyes me. “You put up my stocking.”
“C’mon, get out the bah humbugs.” I giggle, the whiskey taking effect.
“No bah humbugs.” He rumbles with a laugh. Then, more seriously, he adds, “Thanks. I’m glad you did.”
Flushing, I force a shrug. “I was confident you’d stay.”
His gaze maps me as I return to the couch, sitting up this time, hoping it’ll keep me from giving in to the urge to huff his aftershave scent.
“Do you still do crosswords as often as you used to?” I ask, pulling my legs beneath me.
His broad shoulders stiffen. Without looking at me, he says, low and intimate, “No. I’ve never finished a crossword completely on my own.”
“I haven’t done trivia since I left.” It comes out like a breathless confession.
This time, he turns, intense sapphire eyes locked on my face. “I can’t do karaoke without you.”
I swallow. I could go on. Confess all the things I’ve missed about being married to him. I miss waking up with him, miss the way he’d let me use his heat to warm my cold feet, miss the presence of the one person who just “got” me and loved me even when I was being grumpy and stubborn.
“Two clues left.” He clears his throat, drops his attention to the crossword. “A mess or fiasco.”
I sip my whiskey, considering the clue. “Shit show.” I giggle at the thought, then moan. “Just like my career.”
The leather couch gives a rubbery squeak as Hank peers back at me. “Somethin’ tells me shit show won’t be in the New York Times.”
“Try trash fire.”
“That’s two words. It don’t count.” Rotating his lean body, he turns and slides his hand down between the leather seats.
He grips my ass and pulls me toward him, only stopping when my knees hit his chest. As he inches forward, I open for him, giving him space to settle between my legs.
He frowns at the pout on my face, rubbing a thumb over my lower lip. “What’s this for, sugar?”
His sapphire eyes hold mine until, heart aching, I drop my gaze.
“Bell,” he says firmly, warm palms curling around my thighs. “Talk to me.”
I stare into the fire, wishing it’d burn the tears welling in my eyes. The pressure I’ve been ignoring returns, builds. My shoulders inch toward my ears and my heart lodges itself in my throat.
“I’m still working at the gallery as an assistant,” I admit, chancing a look at him. The whiskey’s making me honest. “I was a one-hit wonder. No one wants to buy my paintings. They suck, honestly.”
“They don’t suck.”
“You have to say that.”
“No, I don’t. We’re divorced, remember? I don’t owe you anything. I’m sayin’ that because it’s the truth.”
“Ever since…” I lick my lips, push on, my insides constricting with heartache. “Ever since I lost the baby, I can’t paint. And when I do, I hate it. Every canvas, every color I pick feels wrong.”
Pain creases his face, his voice a broken rasp. “I’m sorry, sugar.”
“My agent thought coming up here would inspire me, but…I feel as lost as I did in San Francisco.”
“Are you happy there?” he asks, a solemn grit to his voice I’ve never heard before.
I shrug a shoulder, tears burning hot behind my eyes. “For the last two years, I’ve felt like tinsel without its sparkle.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. Just his presence is enough.
My skin warms as his hands land on my cheeks. I let my eyes flutter shut, my head lolling in his firm grip.
“Nothing worked out like I planned,” I whisper. A tear slips down my face. “Nothing’s the way I wanted.”
I could add more to that. Because I messed up. Because I miss Silverwood. Because I don’t have you.
His strong throat works. “It’s not too late, Bell. For anything. For everything.”
Suddenly, I feel very sober. I stare at Hank. He lingers in my space, handsome and earnest as the day I met him. My pulse speeds up. The smell of whiskey on his breath. The plaid of his flannel shirt, green and brown and tan. His golden-brown hair and the way it catches the light of the fire.
It’s hard to steady my heartbeat, to quiet the way it thumps with a reminder. My Cowboy. My Hank.
With a trembling exhale, I press a hand to my mouth. “I drank too much.”
“No, you didn’t, but it’s okay. C’mere.” He moves in, bringing his whiskered cheek to mine, his hands slipping around my shoulders to pull me in for a bear crush of a hug. His weight, his calm cause my stomach to swoop in a delicious way.
“I like your hugs.” I smile into his chest.
“I like givin’ you hugs.”
I slip my hands beneath the hem of his shirt, reveling in the feel of his smooth skin, the way his abs contract, that sharp suck of breath before he breathes easy, steadily.
Then he’s pulling back, but not away. His mouth finds mine and I’m kissing him, kissing him because I want to, kissing him because I have no choice.
Every minute we’re together, he breaks off another piece of me. Our past has never felt closer. All the reasons we grew distant and selfish are overtaken by the million little reasons we fell in love.
“Bell.” Chest heaving, Hank pulls back, a hunger darkening his eyes.
My breath staggers. He’s looking at me like he wants me back, like I am still his, and he is still mine. Like what we used to have is still there.
I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as Hank Blue on the edge of losing it.
“Yes, yes.” I nod and gulp and lunge for his lips.
My hands rake through his messy hair, and he responds with a pleased sound in the back of his throat.
He breaks the kiss, urging my arms up and stripping me of my sweatshirt.
Urging me down on the couch, climbing on top of me.
We tangle together, a sync of heartbeats and hands.
A rhythm we memorized as we fell in love, a rhythm we still have.
For tonight, at least.