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“Don’t walk away from me!” There’s an edge to her voice that’s new—the Hettie I knew would never speak sharply to anyone.
“I’m getting you a warmer coat,” I snap over my shoulder, still mid-stomp toward the house. “Or else come in inside before you freeze.”
She must be cold. I’ll make her tea.
Tea, like it’s a normal visit. Like it’s not a heart-attack-worthy shock that my wife, who I haven’t seen in eight years, has just shown up to say hi.
Or wants to say more than a hello.
My mind always shifts to Hettie when I dream about the accident, so when she showed up out of nowhere, I’d been already thinking about her. Thinking hard, the way no manual labour can wipe from my mind.
She says she wants a divorce. I don’t blame her.
But no.
Hettie follows me reluctantly, a far cry from an over-excited Kody. I let them both in the house and kick the chew rope toward the dog to distract him as I toe off my boots. “How did you get here?”
I don’t look at her as I head to the kitchen area to fill the kettle but I can hear as she takes off her boots, says something in a low voice to Kody.
She’s in my house.Ourhouse—the one I planned to build for us.
I push down all of my feelings, and there’s a lot of them. I push them all down and fill the kettle like it’s a normal day and Jean’s come over with cookies.
I can tell she’s in the kitchen because she steps on the floorboard that I haven’t gotten around to fix, and also because of her scent. Sweet, like spring blossoms. Different from what she used to smell like.
I sound like some sort of dog able to sense her through scent and hearing.
“I flew,” she says, and my hand tightens on the handle of the kettle at the sound of her voice. That sweet, soft voice; always cheerful, always understanding.
Hettie is here. She’s in my kitchen. She wants adivorce.
“I took a plane,” she adds. “Two planes, actually, since you can’t fly directly from Victoria to Battle Harbour. And then I took another plane here.”
That finally makes me look at her. The sarcasm is new.
“I meant, how did you get here from the airport?” My voice is strained with the effort of holding all of it in. I clench my fist before I reach for the mugs.
“I don’t need tea,” she says. “You don’t even like it.”
“How did you get here from the airport—and please don’t say you walked?”
“Buck gave me a ride.”
I stifle a groan. If Buck brought Hettie here, then Jean will know she’s in town, and that means that she’ll, first of all, tell everyone, and second, be over any minute now to find out everything.
I keep my back to Hettie, waiting for the kettle to boil and listening as she moves around my kitchen. I can’t look at her—not yet. Not when all I want to do is grab her up into my arms and not let her go.
The urge is so strong that I grip the edge of the counter to stop myself.
“How are you?” Hettie asks. She’s in the middle of the room, within touching distance.
I screw my eyes closed. I can’t do this. “I like tea now.”
“You—oh. I’m happy for you. What are—?”
“I think we’re beyond basic small talk, don’t you?” I ask in a gruff tone.
“You never liked it anyway.” The smile in her voice almost breaks me but I steel my shoulders. I still can’t look at her, because if she does turn out to be a dream, or some figment of my imagination brought about by being alone all the time, I don’t want her to vanish.