Page 242 of These Tears

‘Communication is everything,’ Anders concludes, brushing a curl of wood from his sleeve. ‘By that I mean: your woman talks and you nod, get it?’ He chuckles aloud.

Elias and I share a glance, a crooked smile lifting on his face.

We lift our hands in a wave and plaster on polite smiles one would give to well-meaning people who ask the wrong questions.

For now, nobody knows the truth. We let them believe the story began with love rather than tears and threats. They see slow mornings and warm dinners, their cousin steadier than he used to be, healing beside a woman he’s chosen to keep close.

Perhaps they are not entirely wrong about the healing part.

We are not exactly repairing each other. Some hurt cannot be fitted neatly back into its original shape. But among the jagged pieces, we may be building something that did not exist before, after all.

It’s strange – almost embarrassing – how foreign this feeling is at nearly thirty-four. I’ve lived long enough to convince myself I understood love. I’ve known love. Felt it. I thought Ron had been it.

After all this time I thought I clung to him because he felt safe. He was not merely safe. I loved him – or… loved the people we had once been together. Safety became habit, habit became silence, and neither of us admitted how far apart we had drifted until he chose betrayal over honesty.

I am no longer consumed by anger, but forgiveness still remains beyond me.

What does survive is a reluctant gratitude for the years that were real – even if their ending was not – and for the chain of foolish decisions that brought me here – to Elias, who nuzzles into my hair as though he can breathe me into himself.

41

We're still standing outside when Elias leans in and takes in the scent of my hair, then groans out, ‘Is that the new shampoo you made?’

‘No.’ I laugh softly, pulling back just enough to keep us steady and keep me from falling too fast. ‘I failed that one. Sunna gave me a bottle she made.’

I want to learn to make things with my hands the way everyone else here seems to be able to, but no matter how many batches I stir, mix or pour, something always curdles, separates or comes out smelling vaguely medicinal. I’ve come to accept that the camera is my only real tether to art.

‘Is the room finished?’ I ask.

He shakes his head, sawdust drifting from his hair and shoulders as he brushes himself off again.

‘What in the world are you making?’ I trail after him as the door clicks shut behind us and the cabin’s warmth curves around me.

‘I’ll finish tonight. I need to shower, I’m itchy all over. Can you heat the stew? I’m starving.’

He tilts closer, slowly enough to suggest something chaste.

But Elias has never delivered affection in a chaste way.

His mouth closes over mine with urgency, and I open beneath it.

The kiss is a taking. Every one after it, a claiming. Hunger pressed into flesh like a brand from heaven and hell alike. He always drags me right to the edge of something reckless and consuming—

Then sawdust hits my tongue.

I jerk back. ‘Oh—wood…’ I spit, fishing grit from my mouth.

His eyes darken. ‘You’re not far off,’ he purrs.

‘No. No—go shower.’ I laugh. ‘Your cheeks feel like sandpaper,’ I add as I brush the dust from his beard and start for the kitchen.

‘I’ll shave then.’

I spin so fast my neck complains. ‘Don’t. You. Dare.’ My eyes narrow as he walks backwards down the corridor with a smirk. Finally, he turns and proceeds.

The firm slopes of his buttocks perfectly outlined in those damned tracksuit bottoms disappear around the corner, and warmth curls low in my belly as I attempt to peel off my coat on the way.

I wrench my gaze away from that spot, trying to reel in the purpose of the day. Then I clock the damn fishing gear.