Alex: Maybe I’m blocked? If not, can you let me know?
Then two missed calls at 3:00 a.m. on Saturday.
Then at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday:
Alex: I really need to talk to you. Please answer me.
Then a call at lunch and a call around the time Hannah was exchanging numbers with Peter Dawson. Oh God—this time he left a message. She was full-on shaking now. If she were stronger, she’d swipe to the left on this notification and make it disappear. She’d block his number and delete his voice mail without listening. That’s what she’d do if she wanted to stay healthy, if she wanted to continue her trek out of the inky pit he’d left her in. If she wanted to keep moving away from codependency and toward independence. But who was she kidding? Would a starving woman be able to resist a feast, even if she knew it might be poisoned? Maybe. Or maybe not.
Hannah touched the voice-mail notification and the phone opened, recognizing her face. Pressing play, she held the phone up to her ear, worried she might not be able to hear through her own labored breaths. But then his voice hit her, like a snowball to the face, an unexpected shock that takes your breath away and leaves you numb.
Hey. I don’t know if you’re getting any of my messages or if you are just still really upset with me, which I don’t blame you. I really don’t. I have a lot I want to tell you that I should’ve said last year. I know I have no right to ask, but . . . can I see you? I’m going to be in Memphis for a conference in two weeks, right before Thanksgiving. I saw on Facebook that you are living with Mamaw now, and I know I’ll be only an hour away. I was hoping I could take you out to dinner. You know—for old time’s sake? I’ll send you an email with the details. I understand if you never want to see me again, but could you let me know one way or the other? Please? Um, okay . . . thank you. Talk soon. Bye.
His voice was a time machine sucking her back through the weeks and months since she had last seen him. She’d gone to work that morning, kissed him on the forehead like she always did before leaving.
“Have a good day,” she whispered, sneaking a smell of his skin, her habit whenever he was close.
“You too,” he said, turning his face to meet hers and kissing her, for what would be the last time, on her lips.
“I love you,” she said, meaning it wholeheartedly. He was the man who’d held her in his arms while she cried over her father’s diagnosis, when she called his doctor to get a better idea of the treatment plan; he’d comforted her as she heard the word terminal. She loved him. Endlessly.
“I love you,” he said back, lying.
She never would’ve guessed that she’d never hear his voice say I love you again. After she’d found him with Janie, they were never alone in the same room. He moved out immediately, ignored her calls and texts, and fell into a new life without her like in his life story she was written in pencil and he’d decided to make revisions.
She dropped the phone, overwhelmed by the phantoms of her past. His voice brought back all that pain and loss, tears not just filling her eyes but flooding her face and mouth and pouring down her neck and soaking into the collar of her shirt. The kind of crying that hurt, not in some existential way, but also made her chest, shoulders, throat, and head ache.
“Damn you.” She gasped, pushing her fists into her closed eyes till stars appeared. “Damn you. Damn you. Damn you!”
She was angry—beyond angry. She was furious at the audacity of his request. He wanted to talk now? Now that he’d decided it was time? Now that he wanted to see her, he was determined to make it happen? But she wasn’t just angry at Alex . . .
Hannah used the bottom half of her shirt to dry her face and wipe her nose, taking in air through her nose and holding it, then letting it out slowly, trying to regain control before she spiraled too far out of control. She picked up the phone and opened her email, where she saw a similar message to the one in his voice mail.
Yes, she was angry at Alex. She was wounded beyond belief by his affair and the way he discarded her like a piece of garbage. But right now, she was also mad at herself—because she wanted to see him. Desperately.
And even though she knew she shouldn’t, and even though she knew she couldn’t tell anyone in her life that she was going to see him again, Hannah closed out of her email and opened her text messages. She ignored the new texts from her mom; her old roommate, Tricia, who’d just had a baby and couldn’t stop sending pics; Brody, asking if he could borrow her password for Netflix; and even her therapist, asking if they could find a time to have a tele-appointment; and opened the messages from Alex.
Slightly nauseated, mouth dry and sticky from all the coffee and the lack of anything substantial in her stomach, she started typing. She’d often thought about all the things she’d say to Alex if she ever got the chance, and most of those words had four letters in them, but strangely that’s not what she wrote as she typed her first message since she’d texted him about her father’s death.
Hannah: Hey.
CHAPTER 16
“Hey!” a man said, knocking on Hannah’s desk at the Record with his knuckles. She palmed her phone, rereading on Wednesday the series of texts she’d exchanged with Alex Saturday night, and looked up, surprised. Guy stood in front of her, holding out a coffee from Broken Cup, smiling.
The last time she’d seen that smile was when he rang the doorbell Sunday afternoon after helping to get Mamaw’s Buick towed from its resting place halfway back from Memphis. He’d stood on the front porch bundled up for the chill in the air, finding Hannah in sweats and a T-shirt, not expecting company. She cursed in her head, determined not to look like a poor college student at least once when they met up. Saturday had been fun with Guy and Rosie, and she’d thought about it more than once since then, but even with their new friendly rapport she felt a touch like a charity case. Especially when he was dressed like an L.L.Bean model and she was wearing a cocoon of fabric.
“Won’t you come in?” Hannah asked after saying hello, trying her best to sound like a hostess, but ending up seeming sarcastic instead. He shook his head.
“No, thank you, I gotta get home for dinner.” He peeked around her shoulder and into the house, inhaling through his nose. “Though you’re making me hungry. Is Carla here on a Sunday? It smells like her baked chicken.”
Hannah scrunched up her face, glad he was only smelling the dinner she’d thrown together based on Carla’s recipe and not tasting it.
“No, that’s all me. So, better be glad you have dinner waiting at home.”
“Ha.” He chuckled. He laughed at her jokes a lot, which was rare for anyone to do lately. If she ever attempted humor at the office, Monty and Dolores usually looked at her like she was speaking Russian. It was fun to have someone who got her sense of humor at least a little. “You’re a smart lady. I’m sure you figured it out.”
“Smart has nothing to do with it. My dad used to say, Baking is a science. Cooking is an art.” She quoted her father without a single hitch in her cadence, holding up one finger like he always had when making a point, which startled her. She rarely brought up her father to anyone but family.
“Well, sounds like a wise man.”
“Yes, he was.” She wrapped her arms around her midsection, the cold afternoon air hitting her all at once. Guy seemed to notice.
“I won’t keep you.” He put his fists in the pockets of his tan canvas jacket and shifted his weight, like he might be nervous, though Hannah couldn’t be sure since she’d never seen him as anything but self-assured. “I just . . . I didn’t get your number. Thought it would be a good idea to have for our trip to Bethesda. I was going to call the house, but since I was here . . .”
“Oh yeah. For the research thing at the cemetery.” It took her half a second to catch up to his reference. She’d convinced herself that his offer to comb through the graveyard for a random headstone had been a polite promise that would never materialize, so his follow-through surprised her. She’d latched on to the opportunity, unable to
stop thinking about the story for very long since her Memphis trip.
“For sure, that would be great. Here, give me your phone. I’ll put in my number. My phone started working again last night, believe it or not.” She’d filled in Rosie and Guy on the state of her cell phone the night before, during their ride back to Senatobia. She left out the fact that she’d caused its demise with her stubborn bike ride in the rain.
“Well, guess you won’t be needing anybody to rescue you from country gas stations anymore, then, will you?” He passed her his device with a “New Contact” screen open. She typed in her information and saved it under Hannah. Then, rethinking, she added Williamson, in case he had a plethora of Hannahs in his life.
“You’d think, but no. I’m sure I’ll find a way.” She gave him back his phone and returned to her self-hug stance.
“You know you don’t have to wait for an emergency,” he said, that winning smile and confidence returning. She felt that funny flip in her midsection and barely resisted smiling back. “Reach out anytime. About the Evelyn stuff, I mean. I . . . I’m sure Rosie would love it.”
“For sure. I can send you guys the articles if you like,” she offered, remembering Rosie’s request to read them, but also remembering that she should pass anything for Rosie past Guy first.
“Yes, that’d be fantastic,” he agreed enthusiastically. Hannah shivered involuntarily. She curled her toes up in her socks, becoming legitimately cold at this point. “I’m sorry. I’m keeping you out here in the freezing cold. I better let you get inside.”
“I’ll send you those files,” she said, letting him retreat.
“Sounds good. I’ll get all caught up before Wednesday.” He took a step back. “Give my best to your mamaw.”
“Sure,” she responded, submitting to the natural flow of niceties, somewhat reticent to see the conversation end. “And say hi to Rosie for me,” she added at the last minute.
“Will do!” he called back one final time before turning to walk down the front path toward his truck. She closed the front door once he seemed to be safe inside his vehicle, wondering how Guy Franklin had gone from someone she never wanted to see again to someone she looked forward to getting to know better.
She sent him all the image files with the pages of Evelyn’s story later that night. He read through them over the next few days, and they’d been texting off and on ever since. It had grown into an easy banter that reminded Hannah of what it felt like to have a friend. She hadn’t seen him since Sunday, but already it felt easy, organic.
“You just saved my life,” she said, snagging the offered coffee and taking a sip without checking its temperature. The liquid was steaming hot and burned her tongue, but she could still tell it was some sweetened, nutmeggy version of coffee. Not her standard order, but it tasted like changing leaves, snow flurries, pink cheeks, and fall back home. Plus, it contained caffeine, which was the one ingredient she couldn’t live without.
“I feel like I keep doing that,” Guy said, taking a drink from his lidded cup. It had been four days since the low-key rescue from the Gas Depot. With Guy’s help, they’d gotten Mamaw’s Buick towed back to town and dropped off in her garage, where it still sat. Instead of selling the car or having a mechanic give it the death sentence, Mamaw had hired Guy to fix it up, only convincing Hannah even further that he was a handyman.
“You ready to go?” he asked after swallowing.
“Oh my God. I forgot!” Hannah checked the line of clocks on the wall. Half past noon on Wednesday.
“I should’ve been clearer in my text.” He took out his phone and pretended to read. “See you tomorrow at 12:30. Oh, I can see why you were confused. I should’ve used an emoji. My apologies.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” Hannah rolled her eyes and collected her things. “I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted,” she said, which was not exactly a lie. “Let me check in with Monty, and then we can head to the cemetery.” She looked him up and down, really seeing him for the first time that day. “You look kind of fancy today,” she said, trying not to feel like a slob next to his semi-casual but polished getup. Under his dark blazer, he was wearing a patterned collared shirt with a skinny tie and a pair of deep-blue jeans. There was no other way to say it—he looked handsome.
“Oh, this old thing?” he said with a heavy accent, the one that’d made her crack up when they were in the car with Rosie.
“I always feel underdressed around you,” she said, a little annoyed that even though she was starting to like Guy, he still made her feel nervous. She put on her jacket, remembering the chill in the air on her bike ride to work that morning, and took another sip of the drink on her desk.
“I disagree. Rosie thinks you are pretty stylish. She’s already asking for one of those.” He pointed at Hannah.
“My flak jacket?” She rearranged the olive-green canvas material till it sat comfortably on her body. “I got this thing at a thrift store when I was at Northwestern. It’s a million years old.”
“I think that’s called ‘vintage,’” he said to her back as she walked to Monty’s office.
“Vintage my ass,” she said over her shoulder. When she turned back around, she nearly ran face-first into Monty. He stood in the doorway, the lines on his face deeper and sterner than she had ever seen them.
“Oh God, Monty. You scared me.”
“Miss Williamson,” he said in a way that could only mean “Watch your language, young lady.” She dropped her shoulders and softened her facial landscape, adopting her new, pleasant-as-pie persona. “When you are finished with your visitor, could I talk with you?”
“Oh, I was going off-site for my lunch today. Do you mind?” she asked, wondering why in the world Monty wanted to meet with her. Unless it was to try to put her back in classifieds. No, that was the last thing she needed. When his features didn’t soften, she added, “Sir.”
Monty didn’t respond to Hannah and instead looked over her head, focusing on Guy.
“Mr. Franklin. Good to see you again,” Monty said, purposefully avoiding Hannah’s question.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Martin,” Guy responded, sounding friendly, though Hannah didn’t turn around to check his expression.
“Your father is well?” Monty asked, as though he knew everything about the town. As he chatted with Guy, Hannah sized up the filing cabinets lining the back wall of his office, longingly. If only she could look inside them without having to get a pass from Monty.
“Yes, sir. He’s finishing up his busy season. You know how that is.”
Monty nodded, though it wasn’t likely that he had any idea what it was like during the busy season in the construction business. Hannah stopped ogling the cabinets from a distance and tried to check back in with what the men were talking about. But it seemed Monty had completed his duty to be courteous. He looked back at Hannah.
“As always, your lunch hour is yours to do with as you wish, Miss Williamson. We can talk when you return.” He put his thumbs through his belt loops and swayed a little. There was something off about his demeanor—like he was wearing a mask of himself, plastic.
“Thank you,” she said, squinting, wanting to peek under the mask but also not willing to invest the time with Guy waiting right there. “We won’t be too long.”
“Have a good time,” he said, not moving from his office door, watching them in a way that made Hannah shudder as she joined Guy at her desk and retrieved her coffee. How was she going to get out of whatever this new assignment was? She’d worry about it later.
“Let’s do this thing,” she said playfully, in an attempt to shake off the weird vibe she was still picking up from Monty.
“You don’t have to get bossy,” he said, following Hannah toward the front door.
“I feel like he’s still watching us,” she said between clenched teeth.
Guy glanced back and then murmured, “Yup, sure is.”
“Ugh, that guy. What the hell is his problem?” They got outside, and Guy’s
silver Civic was parked along the side of the road right in front of the newspaper offices. He opened her car door. He always seemed to find a way to get to a door before she did. It was annoying but also a little endearing. She was starting to see why some women liked having a gentleman around. Perhaps the southern belle genes were finally having their moment. Gracefully she dipped into the car. When Guy climbed in the other side, she followed up: “We should probably get back ASAP. I feel like a kid with a curfew.”
“What do you think, I’m made of time?” he said, dragging the last half of the word time, putting in h’s where there weren’t usually any. “I have to be back at work in forty-five minutes.”
They pulled away from the building, and Hannah had to steady the coffee cups in the car’s shallow molded plastic holders.
“Damn, Mamaw is demanding!”
“Mamaw?” Guy quirked up an eyebrow. “You think me working for your mamaw is my full-time job?”
“Yes?” Hannah answered, the affirmation trailing up at the end like a question.
“No, ma’am. I help my daddy out before and after work, but I’d go crazy doing construction every day.” He took a full turn onto US 51, south this time. They had to be close to the cemetery, but she hadn’t gone this way down 51 since Uncle Samuel’s funeral.
“So, what is the big secret? Where do you work?”
“I teach at Senatobia Middle School, down the street from the Record.”
“What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me this?” Hannah exclaimed, feeling like she’d just found out he was an undercover agent for the CIA.
“What?” he asked, glancing at her sideways, his eyes smiling and his mouth wanting to.
“How did I not know this?” she asked, surprised at how playful she felt around Guy. It seemed like he wanted to talk to the unfiltered part of her mind, not the one putting on a show. And she liked that.
“Because you didn’t ask,” he responded.
“Whatever. We already had the carpenter/handyman talk. I didn’t think to ask. So, middle school.” She turned her body to face him and curled her knees up. “You must teach a subject, and I’m guessing it’s not woodshop. Let me guess . . .” She leaned back to take him in head to toe.
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