We don’t say what is hanging right there. The words that will snap us into the future we don’t want to face. Realities we don’t want to embrace.
The problem is, just because I don’t say it, don’t tell her, it doesn’t stop them from coming or slow any of it down.
I love this woman.
I don’t have her yet, but I will.
After the shower, she drapes her body over mine and falls asleep. I draw lines, letters, and numbers around her arms and across her back. I commit to memory the way she feels. The softness of her skin, the weight of her body atop mine. I try to stay awake for as long as possible because I know when I fall asleep, that will be it.
And that’s when getting back to Strutt’s doesn’t feel like the end game anymore. Being like this, with her, no matter where, is.
PARTIV
LOVING HER
40
Henry
It’s justunder a week since we’ve been back in Strutt’s. It’s taken every ounce of willpower not to stop into Hideaway Ink to see her. Touch her. Hold her and see if she’s okay. That’s not who we are to each other when we’re here, though. In Strutt’s Peak, we avoid each other. We bicker and push buttons.
Does she miss me the way I’m missing her?
We got off that flight and Agent Harper was waiting in the hangar with two more agents. There was no kiss goodbye. There was no one last anything. I clung to her hand as I helped her down the ladder. The only thing she said before Harper came close enough to hear was, “I miss you.” And I knew exactly what she meant because I already missed her too. It was two days, and I could touch her, talk to her, and kiss her, whenever and however I wanted. And that freedom was gone. I missed it. I missed her. Already.
The assumption was to go back to the normal we left at home. But our normal had changed. Everything’s changed. So, I’ve started drinking over-priced coffee every day from Brews & Books, which is right next door to her shop. Something called a Bookish Cortado with oat milk. An espresso with equal parts oat milk, and a splash of burnt caramel. If my brothers saw me order this, I’d never hear the end of it. But it’s fucking delicious. Never mind if they knew why I was really coming here.
Brews & Books’ owner, Kathryn Deacon, also happens to be an extension of my family. Her brother is Jack, who I shamefully still owe an explanation to for hijacking his wedding gift to my sister in the Cayman Islands.
“Henry! I’ve seen you every day this week. Are you my new regular now?” Kathryn asks as I step up to the counter.
“Those cortados are too good. Plus, my brothers won’t shut up about getting something called a Kouign-amann?”
She laughs as she takes a box out and starts moving to the pastry case. “They’re pronouncedqueen-amanns,actually. And yes, my adoptive mom used to bake these all the time when I was growing up. I think they’re the perfect mix of buttery and sweet.”
A crash from the kitchen snaps both of our attention toward the noise.
“Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
I look around the shop casually, in case my blonde pixie is lounging with a coffee somewhere.
“So sorry about that. Benny is finally back to help me in the mornings, but I’ve only got a couple of high school kids for the afternoon and evenings.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s a learning curve, to say the least.”
Something she says sparks an idea.
“Out of curiosity, how busy are you at night?”
“Depends. If I host an author event, that’ll pack the place. But otherwise, it’s pretty low key. I tend to get an after-dinner crowd here and there, but the morning and mid-day folks who need a jolt are where the bulk of my business tends to be right now.”
She smiles at me as she pours the espresso into the brown to-go cup.
“I had thought maybe I’d extend the menu and do a dinner thing, but this year has been…” She shakes her head and then looks back to her machine as she steams the oat milk.
Kathryn has had a tough year. She found herself in rehab this past spring and then had to deal with her son leaving for a while to Costa Rica. She’s a tough one, but even the tough ones need a breather, or maybe a partner.
The door chimes behind me as she secures the top on my drink. A small line forms as she slides the box of pastries my way.
“I know you’ve had a tough year, but I’ll tell you one thing”—I look around the shop—“this place is really something. I hope you know that.”