Page 9

It’s as secluded as we could get in a packed bar, and I’m thankful for it. I’m not in the mood to share tonight, and I’m certainly not in the mood to fend off well-meaning townspeople who think it’s their duty to protect me from my wife.

“Good with me.”

I follow her through the bar, shifting to avoid bumping into people.

We make it through the crowd and settle into the rickety, mismatched wooden chairs.

The entire bar looks like something out of the Old West, or it probably did when it first opened, but it hasn’t been kept up well enough to look like it has any particular decor style.

There’s a lot of wood, vintage beer posters, red neon signs, a faded pool table and darts in one corner, and a thick layer of dust on everything.

There’s also no set menu. Years ago, Elsie and I made nacho fries with extra jalapenos our go-to order, along with whatever beers the bartender wanted to give us.

“The usual?” I ask as we sit. When I look up at Elsie, she’s gone white, her normally rosy cheeks bleached of color. Concern lances through me, and I don’t stop myself from reaching for her, my hand circling her forearm. Her skin is overly warm beneath my palm. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head and forces a smile onto her face. “Nothing, that sounds good.”

My brow crinkles as I stare at her, trying to figure out what she’s not telling me.

Briefly, irritation flashes through me, because she’s once again hiding something, hiding what she’s feeling, unwilling to tell me.

But I push it down, try to grab hold of the patience I’ve been so desperately clinging to like a frayed rope hanging over the edge of a dangerous cliff, and ask, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course,” she says, nodding. For a moment, I think about pressing, about asking her point blank what she’s keeping hidden behind that brick wall exterior, but I don’t.

I need space to calm the roaring in my chest, so I gesture to the bar and say, “I’ll go order. Be right back.”

My body feels unsteady as I make my way to the bar, and I try desperately to push down the anger that bubbles in my chest. I did so well giving her space, respecting her wishes, until three weeks ago.

But that night, something inside me cracked, and I haven’t been able to grasp that patience I was holding on to before.

I hate that going on a date with my wife feels awkward. I hate that there’s something going on with her that I don’t know about. I hate how lost and helpless I feel. I hate that I can’t fix it and that she won’t even let me close enough to try.

I allow myself a look back at her after sidling up to the bar, and something heavy settles in my stomach at how unsure she looks, with her head ducked as she scrolls on her phone, avoiding the gazes anyone from town shoots her way.

I want to wipe that look off her face, to make her feel whole again, but I can’t, and that feeling threatens to strangle me.

I don’t know how to love someone who won’t let me love them back, and I hate that most of all.

“Hey, Beau,” Grant, one of the bartenders, says, wrenching my attention from Elsie. “What can I get you?”

“Two beers and nacho fries with extra jalapenos,” I answer.

His brows lift before his eyes dart around the room. He’s looking for something, and I know exactly what it is as soon as his gaze settles on the table I just left. On the woman sitting alone beside it.

“You’re here with Elsie?” he asks, and I don’t miss the tone of concerned reproach in his voice.

Damn small towns. Damn small-town people who think they know what’s best for everyone.

A muscle in my jaw ticks, and my hands ball into fists at my sides. Seriously, where the hell is my patience? “Can I just get the food, Grant?”

He gives me a long, lingering look, one full of meaning I don’t care to parse. “Sure thing, Beau. Give me a minute.”

I settle into a bar stool as I wait and allow my eyes to flit back over to where Elsie is seated.

Her honey hair is down like it always is when she’s not dancing—then it’s in a tight bun at the back of her neck—and she’s dressed in an oversized turtleneck, her sherpa-lined leather jacket draped over the chair behind her, and jeans that hug her curves so beautifully that I had to force my gaze away from her when we left the cabin so I didn’t slip on the ice.

That’s not what I notice now, though. She looks uncomfortable again, her hand pressed to her stomach beneath the table.

I’m about to head back without waiting for the food when Grant returns. “Nacho fries,” he says, sliding a massive plate across the wooden bar top. “And two beers.”

I grab it all without looking and shout a thank you over my shoulder as I stride back to the table. Elsie glances up as I sit, her eyes blowing wide at the plate of nachos fries, and I stare at her, confused.

“Did you not want these?”

Her attention turns from the nachos to me, and she shakes her head. “No, of course not. This is great. Thank you.”

My stomach twists again at how stilted this all feels. Three weeks ago, we didn’t have this issue. Of course, there wasn’t much talking going on that night. I swallow hard at the thought and shift in my seat before motioning for Elsie to go ahead.

The plate of nachos between us smells amazing, and my mouth waters as I watch steam rising from it.

I hadn’t realized how starving I was. I was happy to discover that Elsie was eating some when I was at the house last month, but I’m just now realizing I haven’t exactly been taking care of myself all that well either.

I eat and sleep when I can but mostly work myself to the bone and hope I’ll be exhausted enough to pass out without noticing how empty my bed feels without her.

Elsie doesn’t look as enticed by it as I am, but she lifts a fry without much substance on it and bites into it. I take a much heftier one and do the same, but I keep my eyes on her. She’s chewing slowly, her hand still pressed to her stomach.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

Her eyes snag on mine and hold. Something passes behind them, and then she pushes her chair back, the legs squealing against the dirty hardwoods. She spares me one more look before darting away. My heart pounds in my throat as I follow her.

She makes it to the bathrooms before me and tries the door to both, but they’re locked. I reach her just as she makes a beeline for the front door. She crashes through it a second before me, and by the time the icy air hits me, slicing straight to the bone, she’s heaving into the bushes.

I slide my hands beneath her hair without thinking, brushing against her sweating neck.

I hold her hair back with one and use the other to rub small circles on her back.

The move throws me back in time to every other time I’ve done this.

After drinking too much or during very unfortunate stomach bugs.

And then, more recently, months ago, when she would get sick multiple times a day during her pregnancy.

The hand on her back stills as a thought grips me.

I’m wrong, I have to be. But the timing adds up.

That night flashes behind my eyes again, burned into my memory like nothing before or after it.

We weren’t careful. In fact, we were anything but.

We were careless in a way we had only been one other time before.

She finally stops getting sick, standing to her full height beside me. Her body is shaking, and she presses a trembling hand to her mouth before turning to face me. Sky blue eyes lock on mine, and I see the answer there before I even ask, but I have to.

“Els…”

Her shoulders slump, and a tired sigh escapes her. But her eyes still hold mine, a fire behind them that I haven’t seen in so long. One that was doused months ago. “I’m pregnant.”