She smiles. Barely. I may have spent the last three years without her, but even I can tell she’s faking it. It doesn’t reach her eyes.
It bothers the fuck out of me. I’m a fixer. That used to be my job. Help Bellamy. Make her laugh. Give her anything she damn well wanted.
Even if it wasn’t me.
“Spaghetti.” I flip off the burner. “Pasta’s done.”
She nods almost absentmindedly, then steps into the kitchen. Quietly, she uncorks a bottle of wine and pours herself a glass. Then she retrieves two plates from the cupboard where I’ve always kept them. I blink at the easy action. For an instant, it’s like we traveled back in time, and it sends a pang of wistfulness through my chest.
Focusing on the task at hand, I back up to drain the pasta. She moves. But the kitchen’s a small space and we find ourselves plastered together. She twists around, her chest sweeping against mine, her honey scent wafting over me. I get lost in her—her freckles, the caramel flecks in her eyes.
Fuck. I’m sweating through my shirt and my feelings thanks to that damn fire. Jesus. I’m still staring. Still 100 percent doomed.
What was I thinking coming up here?
I take a step back. “Shit. Sorry.”
She does too. “No. My bad.”
Our voices are formal, like we’re locked in some strange dance we don’t know the moves to.
It’s fucking weird. To see her after three years, to be trapped together. How the hell are we going to co-exist until the blizzard blows over when I’m already falling apart?
And if I know her, she is too.
She flinched when she crossed the threshold. She thinks she’s putting on a cool front, but she doesn’t fool me. She’s still not over it. Which makes two of us.
The day she left comes rushing back in my memory.
As soon as she stepped into the kitchen, I felt it. The air was too tense. Her eyes were wet with tears as she placed her ring in the fruit dish and said she wanted a divorce.
“What can I do, baby?” I pleaded. “Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.”
She laughed softly. “You can’t fix this, Hank.”
“I can. Bluebell, just let me try.”
She gave me a sad smile and picked up a suitcase that looked way too light. “I just need some time. Okay?”
So, holding out hope that time would bring her back to me, I let her go. But she was stubborn and I was a fool, and what happened next was inevitable.
We dish in, each of us taking our plate. I sit at the table, but Bellamy perches at the kitchen island. The distance she keeps pisses me off. I stab at a mushroom.
How the fuck did we get here? We went through the worst thing two people could go through together. And instead of leaning on one another, we fell apart.
I’m not over her. Not by a long shot.
We didn’t marry too young. Or fight all the damn time. Or cheat. We were happy.
Until we weren’t.
Being around her again has stirred all those emotions up. But I can’t tell her I miss her every second of every day. I can’t admit that I daydream about her, that I still have to fight the urge to textgood morningto her. Three years feels like three days. I can still hear her giggly laugh in the mornings, see that mess of dark hair moving under the covers.
“So.”
I blink at the husky sound of her voice. Bellamy twirls a strand of pasta, deciding on a neutral subject. “The farm.”
Fuck. That’s the last topic I want to discuss.
