by Holly Hall
We’re both busy, and Dane doesn’t want to risk anyone making note of any patterns—him and I in close proximity too often to be coincidence. I go to work and run errands in town, and I search every face for a trace of him, every building façade for a hint of his broad silhouette. The little hairs on my arms raise if I spot a maroon truck on the road that looks like his, or that precise shade of sandy hair. If I could only see him, it would make things easier. Maybe. But I’m equally aware of the number of eyes in this town that aren’t Dane’s, and nothing escapes the attention of these people.
We talk and text, but it isn’t even close to being the same as physically being with him, feeling his presence. I’m emotionally worn out, on top of being exhausted from my over-packed patient schedule, so when I pull into my driveway after work one day, it takes a moment to make out the two figures playing catch in the yard between Marissa’s house and mine. It’s Dane and Victor. Seeing them there, playing in plain sight so that I may see them as soon as I pull up, does something to me. I’m immediately glad I won’t be going straight into my house to spend another night alone.
As I’m closing the car door, I hear murmurs from afar as Dane says something to Victor. Then he trots over, a baseball glove still attached to one hand.
“Hey!” he calls as he nears me. I can’t help but smile. I almost reach out to him, then I glance at Victor. Nothing seems safe anymore, not after what Dane told me.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” I greet him.
“I thought I’d surprise you.” We don’t embrace, but I can see the gesture in his soft eyes. He looks like someone who doesn’t have the weight of the world on his back, even though I know that’s not true.
I jut my chin toward Victor, who’s tossing the ball in the air and catching it when it drops. “How’s he doing?”
Dane grins. “Better. It must be that Santos blood because he really doesn’t have a whole lot of experience. He learns fast, though.”
“That’s great. I shouldn’t keep you. Will you come by later?”
His expression darkens, full of meaning. “Will you have me?”
“I think so,” I say coyly. When I start up the front steps, Dane walks backward toward Victor while keeping his eyes trained on me.
“Don’t eat—I brought dinner over.”
“I guess you were feeling pretty confident I’d invite you in, huh?” I tease, unlocking my door.
“Hopeful, Raven. It’s called being hopeful.”
I give him a Dane-inspired grin in farewell and enter my house with a lighter heart than I’ve had in months. Something about that man is good for the soul.
Once inside, I go through the rooms like a whirlwind, straightening up my lived-in clutter. I didn’t expect company, and it shows. Then I trot upstairs to address the rest of me. I shower and scrub and shave and moisturize, then I’m trotting back down with wet hair and zero concern about it.
Hearing the boys near the back of the house, I take a glass of lemonade with me and lounge on the back porch, content to watch. They’ve taken up batting practice, and Dane’s positioned Victor so that my windows aren’t in any immediate danger of stray balls. I watch with my arms curled around my legs, trying to remember how long it’s been since I just sat and enjoyed what was going on around me. Too long. Other than the hike, I’ve been too worried about things regarding Jenson and I to relax, and then I was anxious about being worried, and that didn’t leave me much incentive to wipe my mind and appreciate the pleasure of just sitting.
A female voice rings through the air—Marissa calling Victor in for dinner. Dane helps pack up his baseball equipment and carries it next door for him, then comes striding back over to me with two grocery sacks in hand. I wonder what he has planned. When he reaches me, I don’t think twice before kissing him right on the mouth. Managing to stay in contact with my lips, Dane rotates toward a small iron table that was here when I moved in, dumps the groceries, then wraps both arms around my waist and tugs me closer. It seems we’ve picked up right where we left off.
After a bit of refamiliarizing and mostly-innocent but very inspiring groping, we draw apart, and I motion toward the sacks. “What did you bring?”
“Crab legs. I hope you like seafood.”
Seeing his pleased expression makes my heart warm. I didn’t know how much I missed the simple act of being planned for. “I’ve never had crab legs, but I’ll try anything once.”
Dane tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, running a finger over the sensitive outer ridge. “Oh yeah?”
I nod.
“Not counting the treehouse, have you ever made love outside?”
I mentally flip through my file of sexual encounters. “No.”
“I’d suggest trying that once, but I want you in bed this time.”
The uncharacteristically-alpha comment sends a shiver down my spine. “Scared to put on a show?” I’m definitely not an exhibitionist, but I like seeing that look of mischief he gets when I provoke him.
Dane leans close, kissing my neck. “Not in the slightest. The possibilities were just a little limited up in the tree. The entire time, I couldn’t stop wondering how you tasted.” My cheeks feel like they’re on fire, and he chuckles. “But not yet. I want to feed you first. I was limited the last time I cooked for you too. Don’t want you to think I’m a slacker in the kitchen.”
“Or in bed,” I add with a wink.
“Or that.” Dane grabs the groceries, and I follow him inside to see whether or not he’s all talk.
“Do you have any regrets?” Dane is skimming his thumb over my bare hip, from the top of my thigh to my waist. Each line he draws sends a thrill down to my toes. I’m nearly always alight with energy when I’m with him now.
“About this?” I gesture between us where we’re lying on the bed, full and sated from dinner and each other.
“No. Just in general. I’ve told you how fucked up my story is, yet you’re still here. It makes me wonder what kinds of things brought you to me.”
I shift my arm so it covers my breasts. I’ve tried pulling up the sheets, and every time, Dane asks me not to. He says there’s nothing about me worth covering up, but I’m still not entirely comfortable enough with my body to just let everything hang out. I guess I’m not entirely comfortable with my past, either, and that’s why I haven’t answered him yet. But Dane’s laid everything out there. He bared the ugliest parts of himself and trusted me not to judge them.
“Hmm,” I say, stalling. Now doesn’t seem like the ideal time to bring up the man I was once married to, but he did ask. “I feel guilty that my marriage failed. That I couldn’t give Jenson the unconditional love I vowed to, that I didn’t give him enough of myself to make him stronger. I don’t know. It’s hard to put into words.”
“I think you’re wrong there,” Dane says, and I tip my head back to look at him.
“You gave him something bigger when you left him. Opportunity. He wasn’t going to change when he had you to lean on. You were the one thing he could look at and say, ‘Everything is okay. What I’m doing is okay, as long as I have her.’ You woke him up, Raven, whether you believe that or not. So don’t feel guilty that your paths split.” He winds a finger in a strand of my hair. “People grow and change, and sometimes their partners don’t grow with them. It happens. Knowing you and how stubborn you are, I’m positive you gave it all you had. Now he has to decide to make the most of this chance you’ve given him.”
I clear my throat. What he says makes sense, but I don’t think I’ll ever look at my divorce in a positive light. I valued my marriage, and I hate that it had to end.
“That was brave of you, you know. To leave.”
I cast my eyes downward. I don’t want him to see my doubt. “I don’t know about that.”
He lifts the shoulder my head is resting on, gently prompting me to look back at him. “Some people settle for whatever feels safe, even if it’s wrong. You took a risk leaving, and it will probably be the best thin
g you could’ve done. For both of you.”
Emotion forms in my throat. Even though it was mostly my choice, I fell apart when my marriage did. The months since then have been spent reassembling a stronger, more reliable version of myself brick by brick. But being here with Dane, it feels like I’m made of glass. It’s not that I feel weaker, it’s just that he has the power to shatter this beautiful thing we’ve resurrected from the shards of our broken plans and unfulfilled dreams.
I give him a weak smile. “I want to believe you.” And I do. For Jenson’s sake and mine, I hope he’s right.
SIXTEEN
Because Dane and I can’t see each other as much as we’d like, I try to keep myself busy completing the chores I’ve put off, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy doing them any more. I sweep and power wash my front and back porches, pull the remainder of the weeds from the flower beds, and plant some bright blooms I hope I can keep alive.
When the day gets hot, I retreat inside to dust what furnishings I own and wash the loads of laundry I’ve let pile up. I’m in the laundry room when I think I hear pounding, muffled by the Bishop Briggs playlist that’s blaring away while I’m sorting the rest of my clothes. I’ve almost turned my full attention back to the washer when I hear it again, louder. What the hell? I swear I’ve had more uninvited visitors out here in the middle of nowhere than I’ve ever had in my life.
Dumping towels out of my lap when I stand, I pause my music and trot over to the door. My stomach does a few overzealous pirouettes when I consider that it might be Dane, here to surprise me again. When I peek out the side window, however, I’m stunned by the sight on my porch. Not because it’s whom I was hoping to see, but because it’s the very last person I ever expected to: my ex-husband.
The familiar, rangy silhouette is standing there on my Welcome mat, hands wedged into the pockets of slim-fit jeans, sleeves of tattoos peeking out from beneath his shirt. I didn’t expect my reaction to be so visceral. It feels like someone has ripped a Band-Aid off my half-healed heart.
Jenson hasn’t noticed me looking yet, so I have an unimpeded view of what I once thought my future looked like. Something on the ground has caught his attention, or else he’s just deep in thought, which isn’t a strange look on him. I have to close the curtain and take a breath until the stab of familiarity eases in my chest. When someone you once loved more than anyone, or anything, shows up on your doorstep, the heart sometimes skips past all the disappointment and loneliness and resurrects every good thing that person made you feel.
But why does he have to be here? And how the hell did he find me?
Then I recall everything I felt when I heard that song in Dane’s truck and my anger returns. So that’s why he’s here.
“Jenson. What a surprise,” I say frigidly when I finally open the door.
He looks up at me, milk-chocolate irises warming as his smile lines deepen in the corners. “Hi,” he says, and even with that one word, the gravelly quality of his voice that makes his music so unique is evident. We stand there for a few seconds, absorbing whatever feelings seeing each other has kicked up, the breeze stirring the strands of dark hair that have come loose from the low ponytail he has it pulled back in. Before him, I didn’t look twice at men with long hair and tattoos. But that all changed when he sat me down on those concrete alleyway steps and became the first person who I felt truly understood me. Or so I once thought.
“I never expected to see you here,” I say once I’ve finally found my voice.
“I know. That’s why I had to come, you see.”
Speaking in riddles again, as per usual. I tilt my head to the side, resting it against the doorframe with a huff. I don’t want to be toyed with, and Jenson knows exactly which buttons to push. Speaking cryptically when there are things that need to be aired out is a surefire way to rile me up.
Recognizing that, he shrugs almost apologetically. “There are plenty of walls you put up between us, and I didn’t want the phone to be another one of them.”
“You built a hell of a wall on your own with ‘Skyward,’ ” I retort.
“Raven, you know that’s not what that was—” he begins to say, but I cut him off. I can’t bear to hear his excuses.
“What were you thinking, Jenson?” My voice cracks, threatens to shatter, but I harness my emotion and plow forward. “When you drove to the studio and recorded that song, did you honestly think it was the right thing to do? When your producer said you had another hit single on your hands, you just went along with it, without questioning for one second that it might’ve been wrong?”
His forehead creases, and his mouth hangs agape. He didn’t expect such an outburst. I can practically see him circling like a bird around my words, trying to figure out the safest place to land. “Of course it wasn’t an easy decision. That song means something to me too.”
“I had to hear it on the radio in front of—” I catch myself before I admit that I was with another man. I don’t want Jenson to write off my anger and hurt as embarrassment. “—strangers. And you didn’t even think to warn me!”
His expression is pained. He always wore his emotions better than the rest of us. “Raven,” he begins, and I prepare myself for one of his epic apology speeches as he reaches for both of my hands; a signature Jenson move. I let him have one. “I’m sorry for that. I am. I was wrong not to warn you, and I shoulder that blame one hundred percent.”
“If it’s so easy to apologize, wouldn’t it have been just as easy to forewarn me? So I didn’t have to get sucker-punched by some of the hardest moments of my life when I least expected it?”
Jenson drops his gaze to our interlocked fingers. “I guess I thought that when our marriage ended, you didn’t care enough about the other stuff to be offended if it was released.”
I snatch my hand back as though I’ve been burned. “Didn’t care? You thought that I didn’t care?”
“That was the wrong choice of words.”
“You think? Not to mention that the ‘other stuff’ is not just stuff, Jenson, it was our unborn baby.”
“I know.” He sighs wearily. “I can’t . . . this is all difficult for me too. The only way I know how to process things is to write them down and sing the fuck out of them. Recording that song was something that felt . . . necessary. To heal. Like cutting off a piece of rotted flesh for the sake of the wound beneath. It was painful. Painful as hell. But I feel like I’ve finally put that part of my life to bed.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting tears. I didn’t expect this much emotion to arise just from listening to Jenson recount something we both suffered through. Not only do the lyrics of “Skyward” plainly portray, word for word, the heartbreak we experienced, the melody alone stirs up everything I felt throughout the mourning process. I clearly remember the denial, the bargaining. But, perhaps worst of all, was the acceptance. The feeling that by accepting my baby was gone, I was choosing to forget about her too.
As if he believes he’s the one to blame for my suddenly morose expression, Jenson reaches out like he’s going to touch my cheek, hesitates just inches away, and instead thumbs away the tear that’s escaped from my lashes. “I know it wasn’t the best way to go about it, but one of the things I pride myself on is my transparency with my listeners. You know that. I don’t keep secrets from them. I wanted to be honest. Give them some insight into the things I’ve been dealing with. My art is me, and I am my art, and I want my music to be an immersive experience. That’s what I was trying to give them when I released it.” His tone is pleading, like he’s begging me to understand. I do, partially. I know he needs his work in order to live—he breathes it, survives on it—but I still don’t fully understand why he would put me through this.
“But that song is not just about you, Jenson. It’s about you and me, and what we created. You might’ve written the lyrics, but we both lived through that song. On paper you may own the rights, but in truth you don’t.”
His eyes are downcast, his lips pr
essed into a tight line. When he looks up at me, I can tell he’s regretful. “You’re absolutely right, Raven. I can’t apologize enough for doing that to you. I never, ever, intended to hurt you.”
My shoulders slump, my hackles relaxing. “I know.” It is true. Even in our most heated moments, Jenson was never malicious.
“Just . . . the next time you decide to use anything like that for your music, do you mind giving me a heads-up first?”
For the first time since I ripped into him upon his arrival, he smiles. It’s hopeful. “Of course I don’t. I just thought you never wanted to speak to me again. I ruined everything, remember?”
I wince. I said that to him when I left him, and though the words were begging to be let out at the time, I don’t feel good about them.
The crunch of gravel at the end of my driveway startles me out of the tense moment. A white squad car with the word SHERIFF emblazoned on the side pulls in behind Jenson’s ancient Bronco, and Mike Branson steps out of it. Jenson looks at me and I blink back at him, shrugging. I’m just as confused as he is.
“Sheriff Branson, hi,” I call, not bothering to disguise the confusion in my voice.
He tips his hat, approaching my front steps. “Now, how many times am I gonna have to remind you to call me Mike?” He smiles as he teases me, like this is something we do all the time. It’s a farce. “We know each other better than that, don’t we, Raven? And you are . . .” He trails off as his eyes travel over Jenson.