Page 138 of The Widow and the Wanted

The clock ticks.

Downstairs the piano stumbles into a brighter tune.

Okee opens his eyes and looks toward the door. “How long?”

“Long enough for her to do what she said she’d do.”

I rub my thumb along the side of his neck once, slow, then let my hand fall.

He walks to the washstand and braces both hands on either side of Lula’s little bottles. He stares down at them like they might tell him something.

Camphor. Peppermint. Feverfew. Some dark tincture with a label in her neat hand.

He picks one up, then sets it down careful. He turns then, leaning back against the washstand. The lamplight softens the hard planes of his face, but not enough to hide the trouble there.

“Ever since the three of us have been together,” I say, “you ain’t been right.”

His face goes still.

I nod toward the window, toward the street we cannot see enough of, toward wherever Lula is. “You care for her.” His throat works, and before he can deny it, I make myself plain. “That ain’t an accusation.”

Okee stares at me. “You and I are already—” He stops, searching for the word, or maybe refusing all the ones that come to mind. “Wanting is not the same as keeping.”

That pummels me right in the gut.

“No,” I say. “It ain’t.”

His voice drops rougher. “She has a life to reclaim.”

I draw a slow breath and look around the room. Her suitcase. Her shawl. Her notebook closed on the small table. The bed where she’d slept. The washstand crowded with bottles. Her things mixed with ours now in ways none of us had planned.

“I caught myself daydreaming over it,” I say.

He looks at me then.

“About her staying. About waking up and her being there. Fussing at us both for tracking mud across her floor. You reading in some chair. Me fixing whatever she says needs fixing.” I huff a quiet laugh, but it don’t loosen the ache in my chest. “Stupid things.”

Okee don’t speak.

“Not just bedding her,” I say, softer. “Though God help me, I think on that plenty too.” I shift closer. “I think about the three of us. All the time now. Her between us. Her looking at you like you hung the moon and looking at me like she might forgive me for being a fool. You touching her. Her touching you. Both of you looking at me.”

My voice roughens, and I hate it some, but I keep on. “And then I think about this being over. About taking her somewhere safe and tipping my hat like I’m some kind of gentleman. Saying goodbye. Watching her walk off with a piece of my damn heart in her pocket.” I swallow hard. “I can’t abide it.”

The words sit there between us, too warm for the room. Okee’s hand closes around the edge of the washstand until his knuckles pale.

At last he says, “I love her.”

The words come out low. Almost angry. I nod.

“I love you,” he says, turning to me. “Still. Always. That has not changed.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Okee.” I take his face in my hand. “Yes, sweetheart. Of course I know.”

His eyes shine in the lamplight.