I don’t think I’ve been this insecure since I lost the baby. And I’ve never recovered. It bled into every part of my life. A little voice is always askingAre you good enough? Can you do this? Or will it happen again?
My confidence in myself, my relationship with Hank, my art and my body were thoroughly shaken.
I miss myself.
And maybe I miss Hank too.
I must. That would explain what the hell I’m doing.
Sleeping with my ex-husband.
My body aches where he touched me, as if it’s reminding me of what I’ve gained these last few days. Which only confuses me more. It doesn’t mean anything, does it? But earlier today, by the barn, the heat, the intention rolling off Hank almost convinced me we could go back to the way we used to be.
The longing in my stomach, the guilt—the emotions I’ve been hiding from for so long—threaten to break the surface.
I love him. Never stopped.
Yet I’m the villain in our story. I pushed Hank away because I felt like a failure. And in doing so, I pushed away the person who loved me most in this world. I did a fucked-up thing when I walked away without an explanation.
Why would he want me back? I left him cruelly. I lost our baby. How could he forgive me? Why should he?
I chew my lip and stare out the window. The sky is clear, the sun dropping below the horizon. It’s late in the day to be feeding the animals.
He might not be my husband anymore, but I know Hank as well as I know myself. His ebbs and flows. He’s brooding.
Seeing Clint with his daughter today was like salt in a wound. The devastated look on Hank’s face stole my breath. My instinct was to comfort him. I could almost hear his thoughts.
That should have been us.
I pack up my paints and palettes. The cabin feels heavy and dark, so I decide to invoke some Christmas spirit. I hang the wreath, add a pop of mistletoe to the hook. The sprig Papa Blue pressed into my hand as Hank and I left the Christmas tree farm.
“For second chances,” he whispered.
I stare at the floorboards. The darkened spot of hardwood. With shaking hands, I kneel and press a palm against the stain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.”
A tear runs down my cheek as I stand. Then a brief, flickering sensation alights. Calm. Acceptance. It’s gone just as quickly.
It doesn’t feel right to decorate the tree without Hank, so I pad to the kitchen and pull out ingredients for Christmas cookies. My mom and I always have a marathon baking session a week or two before Christmas. Snickerdoodles, gingersnaps, sugar cookies. All fair game. We make massive platters and deliver them to friends and neighbors. A tradition I continued when I married Hank.Home is where the cookies are, my mom always says, and she’s right.
Midway through a bowl of sticky gingerbread dough, the door flies open with a thunderous bang. Zelda skitters inside, shaking snow from her fur.
Hank stands in the entryway, tugging off his gloves and jacket. Briefly, his gaze flicks upward, to the mistletoe, but he says nothing as he moves toward the kitchen.
“Cookies?” His brows slant as he takes off his cowboy hat and tosses it on the table.
I itch to wipe at the smudge of dirt on his cheek. Instead, I nod and flick my wrist, incorporating sugar, eggs and butter. “Cookies.”
“Hell, Bell, you ain’t got no music on.” He pauses at the counter, flips on the radio.
I smile at the sweet gesture of solidarity. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” by the Jackson Five blasts cheerily from the speakers.
“Thought you hated Christmas?” I arch a brow.
“Someone persuaded me otherwise.” He pushes himself against me, warm and cold at the same time. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss.
Bad idea.
“What’s on deck, sugar?” He looms over me, so tall, inspecting the batter in a lilac-colored bowl. He grips the edge of the counter near my hip with one big hand, the bright band of silver on his ring finger catching my eye.
