Page 109 of When There Was You
I don’t love you anymore, and I don’t want this life. I’m sorry.
I nearly choke on a shocked inhalation as I bolt upright. My eyes widen as footfalls draw closer, but I’m rooted to the spot. Hemi shuffles into the bedroom followed by Butch. He shuts the door and turns to me, assessing my panicked expression.
I’m still frozen in place, the picture in one hand, note in the other, the dresser drawer ajar.
I see the second he pieces it together. The recognition. The flicker of pain. Brows drawing tighter, shoulders sagging.
“I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean to pry,” I murmur. “I went to borrow a shirt and then some socks and it just…fell out.” Is he angry? Upset?
He moves closer, takes the note from my hand, then pulls me against his chest. “It’s alright, Sundance. Ancient history.”
I hold him, offering whatever modicumof comfort I can. In the past or not, what’s written on that piece of paper is wounding, horrible… heartless.
“I’m not sure why I kept it all these years. A fucked-up reminder, maybe. It’s a good thing I did though. I dug it up and showed it to my lawyer and she added it to the evidence. I didn’t know what to do with it afterward, so I chucked in here.”
“Butch,”I whisper. “I’m so sorry.” It’s an awful note, and I’ve clearly dredged up a tough subject, one that he’s mired in dealing withagain, this time through the legal system.
“Forget it, okay? Let’s go to bed.”
He undresses and we crawl under the covers and hold each other. I trail my fingers through his hair, along his arm, across his back. Over and over.
“You look good in my shirt,” he mumbles, half asleep.
I smile in the dark as I continue stroking him. Finally, he succumbs, his breathing evening out with Hemi’s soft snores.
It’s a long while before sleep finds me.
Fifty-Four
Butch takes Emmy to her dance class on Saturday morning. He asked me to join him when we were having dinner at his folks’ house last night, but Gus intervened, saying he wanted to pick my brain about an idea he had. Without realizing it, his father unwittingly provided the perfect opportunity to view those family photo albums on the sly if our conversation doesn’t take too long.
I’m waiting for Gus in the living room, those painful words replaying in my mind for the nth time no matter how hard I try to shut them out.
I don’t love you anymore, and I don’t want this life.
Butch and I haven’t spoken of the note again, and I’m wondering if we’ll ever go there. It sure helps me understand some of his pain. Childhood sweetheart. Married young. Unplanned pregnancy. Then poof, everything you thought was forever…gone.
I thought Mick was going to be my forever. Would have met him at the altar in half a heartbeat. Then poof, everything was gone. I realize that doesn’t hurt like it once did. It’s more of a bee sting than a gut shot.
I take a sip of coffee as Gus enters and sits in his favorite plaid wingback chair. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t his next words.
“I want to start a magazine about car restorations. A quality publication, something upscale, different.”
“Well,that’sexciting.”
“You helped spark the idea, actually.”
“Me? How?”
“Back when you mentioned the lack of car culture on this coast. It got me thinking about a way to share about the classics, resto jobs, show vehicles, barn finds…all of it.”
“It’s a cool idea.”Very cool.“There’s nothing on the market like that now?”
“There are plenty of car magazines, but nothing like what I’m envisioning. I’m talking about every issue being a collector item with professional photography, longer layouts, and articles that carefully detail the restoration process and showcase the result. Maybe it’s a quarterly, so it can be done right, and thick enough that it’s printed on better paper, perhaps bound instead of stapled like the flimsy magazines on the rack.”
“It sounds worth pursuing.” Not that I’m any expert.
“Since you’re in the business, I thought you could advise on what I should do next.”
