by Nia Arthurs
Hansley groans and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into his chest. “This is a trap.”
“It’s an invitation.” Her lips quirk.
“Why do you want Asia alone?”
“Your precious wife can handle herself, can’t you, Asia?”
I pat Hansley’s hand. “Go fishing with your dad.”
“Blink twice if you want me to stay.”
I laugh. “Hansley, go.”
“Stop being so clingy, son. You’ll smother her.”
“She’s right.”
“How can I survive when I have you two ganging up against me?” He kisses my forehead and then slants his mom a firm look. “I’m going, but ma…”
“I’ll be nice. Now shoo.”
With one last lingering look at me, Hansley joins his dad at the door and walks out with the fishing gear. A few moments later, I hear a truck’s guttural engine.
It slowly fades to silence.
I turn to Mrs. Nicholas. “How can I help, ma’am?”
“Oh please. Call me Zo.”
“That’s a pretty name.” I round the counter and wash my hands at the sink.
“Not as pretty as yours.” She winks. “Were you really strangers when you married Hansley?”
“We met once before. The day my fiancé—my ex, I mean… uh…the day he dumped me.”
She chuckles.
“Why? Is it obvious that we’re strangers?”
“Quite the opposite.” Zo throws a bunch of spices over the salmon cuts. “I’ve never seen him this relaxed and at ease before.” She pauses. “Well, except with Sharon.”
“Sharon?” I perk up. “Who’s that?”
“Brett’s sister and Hansley’s best friend. They met in preschool. After the… tragedy, they didn’t see each other again until they were older. Hansley doted on Sharon like she was his morning star. I thought for sure they’d get married…” Her voice tapers off. “I’m sorry. You probably don’t want to hear all this.”
My stomach twists into knots.
But why should I run from this topic?
It’s not like Hansley’s my actual husband. The fact that he loved Sharon McQueen—a gorgeous, well-educated member of upper society—since pre-school means nothing to me.
Whatever.
I’m totally not bothered by it.
“No, I’m fine. Hansley and I haven’t had time to discuss this stuff. Did he…” I tap my fingers on the counter, “ever date her? Before she passed?”
“I don't think so. They were always friends. I don’t think Sharon ever took him too seriously.”
“Hm.”
“After Shar died, Hansley took it pretty hard. I thought for sure that he would never settle down and give me grandkids.” Her lips inch up. “Your marriage took me by surprise.”
“Us too,” I mumble.
“I was skeptical at first, but after seeing how much Hansley fusses over you,” she bobs her head. “It reminds me so much of him and Sharon. And I,” she stirs the pasta, “well, I have hope that he’s fallen in love again.”
My smile trembles on my lips.
Hansley hasn’t fallen in love again.
He’s still in love.
With a dead girl.
His heart still beats in her hands.
And I can never compete with that.
Twenty
Hansley
I lug my fishing gear off my body and set the boots on the porch to dry.
Dad does the same, his movements sure and steady. His hair is more grey than brown now and there are deep wrinkles around his eyes and lips—mostly from spending so much of his time outdoors.
A twinge of sorrow winds through me when I notice all the signs of his aging.
My parents are getting old.
I wish I could stop time. Keep them with me forever.
Dad seems to sense my thoughts and slaps my back with a grunt.
“You’re not allowed to get sick, dad,” I say, pointing at him. “So don’t be stubborn and go see the doctor when mom tells you to.”
“Don’t be stubborn and give your mom grandchildren when she asks you to.”
Normally, I’d shut that thought down. Hard.
But today, I hesitate as an image of a baby with light brown skin, Asia’s eyes and my curly hair pops into mind.
It doesn’t scare me.
Damn, it… it’s everything.
Dad gives me a knowing look.
I shake it off and open the door. Lured through the foyer by an incredibly delicious fragrance, I stop short when I see Asia and my mom working side-by-side in the kitchen.
Her bright laughter bounces against the walls. Music pours from the speakers hidden in the corners of the room, intertwining in a warm, homey melody.
Both Mom and Asia are dancing to the rhythm as they work and giggle like sisters lost at birth.
My eyes fall on Asia. She pulled her hair into a high ponytail and it swings back and forth with every shake of her shoulders. The light bounces against her brown skin and the soft, contented smile on her bee-stung lips.
Her brown eyes fix on me and, I swear, my heart stops beating for a solid moment.
Just freezes.
Everything inside me strains toward her.
Every muscle.
Every vein.
Like steel drawing near to a magnet.
That magnet doesn’t ask for permission.
It doesn’t beg.
It just is.
And the steel can’t help but be pulled to it. Caught up in it.
Asia glances away first and pulls her bottom lip into her teeth. The hell? Is she worried about something? Did the talk with my mom go south?
No, but they’re dancing.
They’re having fun.
Is she faking it?
The thought sends a dark cloud hurtling over my head. I knew I shouldn’t have left her alone.
Dad grunts as he enters the kitchen.
Mom brightens when she looks at him, love pouring from her eyes. “How was the trip.”
“Successful,” dad says.
Asia glances at our empty hands. “I don’t see any fish.”
“Because we didn’t catch any.” I stalk around the counter.
“Then why was it successful?”
“Because he got to say everything he wanted to say.” I drop my hands on her shoulders and lean in for a quick kiss.
She kisses me back, her eyes fluttering closed and her hands hovering above me so she doesn’t get any flour on my T-shirt.
Kissing her is the most natural move in the world.
And I find myself wanting to do that everyday.
Every morning.
Walk in and see Asia.
Just Asia.
In my kitchen.
In my living room.
In my bed.
And, I want to kiss her.
Touch her.
See her smile.
It’d be easy to lose myself in her, but I don’t let the kiss linger. My parents are only five inches away. Though it kills me, I keep it short.
The way she sighs when I pull back, I start to wonder if I imagined her stress-chewing her bottom lip.
Her expression flickers and darkness flashes in her eyes again.
It’s there.
A wall between us.
One that wasn’t there before.
Asia and I have always been transparent with each other. Since the moment we first met, we tackled hard conversations and exposed our scars. She’s holding herself back all of a sudden and I don’t get why.
“What did you guys talk about?” I ask, my gaze darting to my mother.
“This and that.” She presses her slender hand against the counter. “You?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Her jaw drops. “At all?”
I shake my head, recalling the silence my father and I shared at the lake. He’d squinted his eyes into the distance and gracefully thrown his line, letting it
whip and zig-zag before finding its home in the still lake.
I did the same, calling on years of fly-fishing with him. Despite my skills being rusty, I kept up. My father’s training was just too ingrained in me.
And we stood there.
Staring at the sunset.
Inhaling the woodsy air.
Him saying nothing.
Him speaking in the quiet.
Dad never needed to use words to get his point across. And I didn’t need an interpreter to understand him.
I heard the scolding in the way his bottom lip quirked what you did in Vegas was irresponsible.
In the slight narrowing of his eyes I trained you better than that.
In the grunt that was low enough to not scare the fish you need to make it right.
When he squeezed my shoulder as we were heading back to the car, I heard every reassurance—We still love you. You’re still our son. It’s going to be okay.
The principle of actions being louder than words was the standard I grew up on, but I can’t say it’s a principle that aligned with my lifestyle. Women tend to like being told what they want to hear.
As long as we both walk away satisfied, I’ve never had a problem playing that game.
Until now.
Now that I’m realizing I want something more.
With Asia.
Every word is measured.
Every action means something.
Because she means something.
She means more to me.
I squeeze her shoulder gently. “Everything okay?”
“Yup.” She eases away from me.
“Asia.”
She tilts her head. Blinks rapidly.
My eyes fall on her lips.
She’s stressing about something and it bothers the hell out of me.
“Food’s ready,” mom announces, a big smile on her face. “Let’s eat!”
I clench my jaw as Asia backs away from me. She’s doing a great job avoiding my gaze as she helps mom set the table.
I move toward her, intending to grab her hand and drag her to the bedroom so we can talk privately. Sensing that she's my target, the sneaky woman grabs a bowl and skitters to the dining room, putting as much distance between us as possible.
I want to call her out on it so badly the words jump to the tip of my tongue.
But I hold myself back.
Whatever’s on her mind, she clearly doesn’t want to talk about it now.
Hauling in a deep breath, I gather around the table and enjoy dinner with my parents. They ask Asia a ton of questions about her childhood, her job, and her family.
Asia answers everything politely. Quietly. Respectfully.
She laughs.
She jokes.
She nibbles at her food.
From the outside, she’s totally fine.
But I know her a little better than she thinks.
Much better.
When my parents suggest we pull out the childhood photo albums, I prepare to put my foot down. I’ll cart Asia over my shoulder if I have to. To my surprise, she turns my mother down before I can.
Mom’s smile doesn’t waver. “Sure thing. You two have a good night.”
"Good night,” dad says, dipping his chin.
Asia returns the greeting and scurries to our bedroom, walking ahead of me and disappearing into the adjoined bathroom with her suitcase and toiletries.
I hear the shower running and sit on the bed, waiting patiently for her to return.
When she opens the door, she’s dressed in a cotton T-shirt and shorts that expose her long, slender legs. Her hair loops into a pointed bun at the top of her head and she’s not wearing any makeup.
Her skin glows in the shadows. Effortlessly beautiful.
Asia clears her throat. “Aren’t you getting ready for bed?”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re upset about something.”
“I’m not.”
“Asia.”
“Hansley,” she slants me an exasperated look, “we have an early flight tomorrow. I have a ton of work to catch up on. Can we not do…” she points between us, “whatever you’re trying to do right now?”
“Either tell me outright or I pick you up, hold you in my lap and trap you there until you talk.”
Her lips flatten and annoyance flares in her eyes.
I don’t care.
I’m good for the threat and she knows it.
With a sigh, Asia glances away. “I talked to your mother.”
“About what?”
She sighs. “About Sharon.”
Twenty-One
Asia
The moment I say her name, Hansley’s expression tightens.
“She's the one who broke your heart, isn’t she? She’s the one you can’t get over,” I whisper.
He doesn’t deny it.
The truth hangs in the air like a shroud.
Pain explodes in my chest.
Why does it hurt so much?
Why do I care?
From the moment I heard Zo talking about Sharon and Hansley, I knew—somewhere deep inside—that she was the woman buried in Hansley’s heart.
His confirmation changes nothing. It only exposes the truth in my own folly. I let myself get carried away because of a drunken mistake.
Even though I kept telling myself that it wasn’t real, a part of me entertained the thought that it could be.
But that’s as much a fairytale as what Thad and I shared before it all fell apart.
Hansley used me for a good time.
For a distraction.
So he could blind himself to the pain of losing her.
I’m just another one.
Another pair of legs.
Another mouth to kiss.
Another woman to throw away when he’s done.
But I knew that.
He was always honest.
It’s his thing, isn’t it?
Being so upfront that no woman can accuse him of leading her on.
But that honesty of his, that persistence in drawing the line and crossing it and drawing the line again is what gets confusing.
Of course I let myself be swayed.
Every girl wants to think they can change the playboy.
That they can be The One.
Idiot.
His real love was gone and I’m just a counterfeit. A complicated hook-up. A wrinkle in his no-strings-attached plan. One that will be ironed out when I’m done saving his business.
That’s all.
I know that now.
And I won’t make the same mistake twice.
I’m not going to close my eyes and pretend that true love exists just because we got married the way we did. A marriage certificate doesn’t fix a broken heart. Doesn’t change reality. Doesn’t create miracles.
It doesn’t make a family.
My parents taught me that. They thought accidentally having me and then joining their lives together by law would be a solid enough foundation to stand on.
But it wasn’t.
It will never be.
A marriage certificate is just a piece of paper saying that two broken, imperfect people made a perfect, impossible vow.
The pain stings right now, but it’s necessary.
I need to face this so I can get over myself.
Over him.
Over these feelings that keep cropping up without my permission.
I rummage through my suitcase. “You don’t have to answer that.”
Hansley says nothing.
Which is fine.
Because I’m right.
Because he doesn’t have to explain himself to me.
Because we’re not really married.
We’re not dating.
We're not friends.
We’re just stuck.
Exhaustion pulls me under.
I want this marriage to be over. I want to
get back to my real life.
Since I met Hansley in Vegas, it’s been a never-ending rollercoaster ride. Nothing has gone according to plan and I’m losing my freaking mind.
I need…
I don’t even know.
Just… not this.
Hansley gets up from the bed.
I hear him heading my way and stiffen immediately. “Don’t touch me.”
“Come here.”
“No.” I roughly shove my clothes aside. It’s a mindless task. I’m not looking for anything in there. I just know I can’t look at him.
I can’t see his dark brown eyes and know that he’s not seeing me.
I can’t kiss his lips and know that he’d prefer to be kissing someone else.
My heart can’t take that.
It just isn’t strong enough.
Hansley gets down on one knee. His stare fixes on my face for a really long time. I wonder if he’ll pick me up and cart me to the bed like he promised, but he doesn’t.
A rough sigh rumbles through his chest. He scrapes the heel of his hand against his cheek and the stubble makes a light sound as it scratches against his flesh. “Shar was my best friend.”
“So I heard.” Blindly, I pull the cover over the suitcase and zip it up.
“We never saw each other that way.”
“Your mom has a different opinion.” That came out as an accusation.
I really didn’t mean for it to sound that bitter. He has every right to like someone else.
He has every damn right.
Why am I acting this crazy? Why can’t I stop?
“I never…” Hansley’s voice gets quiet. “I never told her. She was dying and—I didn’t have the courage.”
I turn slowly. “Why didn’t you tell her how you felt?”
“I couldn’t.” He blows out a breath. Glances up.
The moment his brown eyes fall into mine, I jolt back.
Raw, pulsing pain.
That’s all I see.
Hansley’s in front of me, letting all his walls down.
There’s no wise-cracking.
No practiced smiles.
No BSing.
It’s just him.
And his hurt.
And his bleeding heart.
I gasp, my chest expanding with a tortured breath as I feel the weight of the moment land on my shoulders. It’s a privilege to gain access here, to him, to peer into his broken pieces.