Page 10 of Never Enough

My house appears ahead—the small blue clapboard with the white porch railing and the lemon tree I planted last spring that is growing at the speed of a snail caught in some tree sap. Everything looks the same as it did this morning, when I left for the bakery with nothing more complicated on my mind than whether the eclairs would set properly.

That was four hours ago.

Four hours ago, I was single. Unattached. A woman whose biggest problem was a temperamental sourdough starter and an underachieving lemon tree.

Now I'm married. Moving. Constructing an alibi. And still, still feeling the ghost of Henry Blankenship's mouth on mine like a brand I can't wash off.

He pulls into the driveway. Kills the engine.

The sudden silence is enormous. No road noise. No engine hum. Just the tick of cooling metal and a mockingbird in the live oak by the mailbox, running through its catalogue with the manic energy of a performer who doesn't know the show's been cancelled.

“Pack what you need for a few days,” he says. “We can come back for the rest this weekend.”

“This is insane.”

“It's practical.”

“Those aren't mutually exclusive.”

He looks at me then. Full on. No glancing. No profile. Those blue eyes, steady and warm and so certain it makes my teeth ache.

“Gracie,” he says. Just my name. Nothing else. Just the two syllables, said in that low, careful way he has—the way that makes it sound less like a name and more like a question he's been carrying for a long time.

I hold his gaze.

The mockingbird cycles through three more songs. A cloud moves across the sun and the light in the cab shifts from gold to gray and back again.

“Six months,” I say. “That's it.”

“That's it.”

“And then we figure out the legal stuff. Quietly.”

“Quietly,” he agrees. “I’ll wait here and drive you out.”

“No. That does not work for me.”

“Why the hell not?”

Because I need private time to FREAK THE FUCK OUT! Instead, I say, “because I need my car to get to work in the morning. Also, you are not the boss of me.”

He grins, but holds his hands up, feigning innocence. There’s not an innocent bone in his finely sculpted body.

“Yes ma’am. I’ll see you there, then.”

I nod. “Oh, one more thing, Henry.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to keep your hands to yourself.”

A beat. His eyes drop to my mouth—just for a second, just a flicker, so fast I almost miss it—and then back up.

“I'll do my best,” he says.

Which is not the same as yes.

And we both know it.