Page 16 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Lumberjack

The hallway is a museum of a life he lived with someone else. Someone he loved, who died, who is still everywhere in this house.

At the end of the hall, past the spare room, a closed door. His bedroom. The one he didn't take me into last night.

The one with the closet full of her clothes he still hasn't moved.

My stomach drops. Not with jealousy. With clarity. Painful, morning light clarity about exactly where I fit in this equation, which is in the spare room. The guest bed. The space reserved for things that don't belong to the permanent collection.

In the kitchen, Wal stands at the counter pouring coffee into two mugs. He's already dressed. Jeans, boots, a gray henley. Sawdust in his hair from a morning I slept through.

"You've been at the mill already?"

He nods. Slides a mug toward me. "Parker's Auto opens at eight. I called. They'll tow your car in, have a look."

Business. Logistics. Morning after conversations that sound like checkout procedures at the B&B down the road.

"Thank you." The coffee is black. Strong enough to strip paint. "Got any cream?"

He opens the fridge. Pulls out a carton of half and half that looks brand new. My throat tightens because he doesn't use cream. He bought this. For me? Or was it already here?

Stop it, Hattie. Stop reading into dairy products.

Maple trots in, nails clicking on the hardwood. She goes to Wal first, presses her head against his thigh. He drops a hand to her ears automatically. Then she comes to me, sits at my feet, looks up.

"She likes you," he says.

"She's Cora's dog."

Something shifts behind his eyes. A door closing. I can see it happen in real time, his face going from open to measured to careful.

"She was."

"Wal." Setting down the mug takes everything I have because my hands want to shake. "Last night was. I don't even have words for last night."

"Me neither."

"But I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest."

His jaw tightens. He turns from the counter to face me, arms folded across his chest. Guarded. Ready. A man who's been expecting the blow since before I woke up.

"Ask."

"Was last night about me? Or about not being alone?"

The silence is brutal. He stares at me. Those dark eyes working through something I can't read.

"Because I walked past your hallway this morning," I continue, "and Cora is everywhere. Which she should be. She was your wife. But the bedroom door was closed and you brought me to the spare room, and I'm trying not to make that into something but my brain won't stop."

"Hattie."

"And the texts, Wal. The texts were safe because they were anonymous. You could talk to me because I wasn't real. But I'm standing in your kitchen right now being very, very real, and you've been at the mill since before dawn like you needed to put distance between us before I even opened my eyes."

"That's not."

"I'm not done." My voice cracks and I hate it. "I spent two years with a man who kept me in a compartment. I was the girlfriend for Tuesday nights and Saturday mornings. I was never the whole life. And I can't. I cannot do that again. Even for you."

He unfolds his arms. Takes a step toward me. Stops.

"You weren't a compartment last night."