Page 11

“Talk to me,” Hettie orders. Before, she would ask, plead. She would almost beg for me to share my feelings with her. Now it’s an order.
“There’s nothing to say,” I tell the cupboards.
“There’s everything to say.” My retort chokes in my throat. “Why didn’t you come and get me, Bo?”
I finally turn to face her. I need to see her face for that question. “It’s been eight years, Hettie, and that’s what you want to know?”
Big hazel eyes stare up at me. There is strength there, more than I ever realized. And hurt.
I did that.
And her eyes also swim with tears. I did that too.
Hettie swallows but keeps her gaze trained on me. “I want to know a lot of things. I deserve to know. But I guess the first should be: why won’t you divorce me?”
The kettle begins to whistle, like it wants no part of this conversation. “Not now, Hettie.”
“Not now? Then when? It’s been eightyears, Bo. We had two days together, and it was perfect. And then we went back home, and it was like you became a different person.”
“I didn’t.”
“Youdid.You treated our love like a dirty little secret, like it was nothing, even though I was wearing your ring. You told me it was a mistake, that you never should have done it. And then I left, and you pretended like I didn’t exist.” Hettie takes a step forward, eyes shining with tears. “I saw pictures of you, Bo, pictures of you with other women. So yes, I want a divorce.”
There’s a steeliness in her voice that wasn’t there before. A toughness that reminds me of her sister, Mabel. Hettie was always the sweet one; she was soft, delicate.
I changed all that. It’s all my fault. But still—
“No.” It’s almost a groan.
Because what else am I supposed to say?
Two steps and she’s right there, her fist raised against my chest like she wants to pound on it. Instead, she rests it over my heart. “If you don’t want me, let me go,” Hettie whispers, her voice a mix of sadness and longing.
I cover her hand with mine, as the kettle continues to scream a protest. “When did I ever say I didn’t want you?”
5
Hettie
There’s a rawness toBo’s words that makes me lean into him. My hand is already on his chest, and the way his is covering mine—strong and callused, but tender.
The way he’s looking down at me is like an ax sliding down the old break in my heart, splitting it open like one of Bo’s logs.
“Bo,” I plead in a tiny voice.
He breathes my name. “Hettie.”
And then my arms are around his waist, and his arms are cradling me and I’m clutching him as tightly as I’ve ever held anyone.
It’s a moment, and it’sgood,despite the fatal crack in my heart.
Suddenly he lets go, opening a gaping, cold space between us—and unzips my coat— pushing it off my shoulders. I shrug out of the sleeves, letting my jacket fall onto the floor behind me, desperate to be back in his arms.
His hands are on my back, in my hair, moving like he’s trying to convince himself that I’m real.
I know what he’s doing because I’m doing the same thing. The soft cotton of his shirt, damp and warm as it hugs the strong muscles in his back. The waistband of his jeans…
On the flight here, I told myself not to hug him. There would be no physical contact. There didn’t need to be any touching. We would communicate as adults, like the friends we used to be, only without the affection, because that could lead to touching.