Page 17 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Lumberjack

"Then why the spare room?"

The question sits between us. His jaw works. Both hands grip the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles white.

"Because my bedroom still has her books on the nightstand." His voice is low, strained. "Her reading glasses in the drawer. Her robe on the hook behind the door. And you deserved better than being laid down next to another woman's things."

Oh.

"But you haven't moved them," I say quietly. "In two years."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because moving them means she's really gone." He swallows hard. The muscle in his jaw jumps twice. "And if she's really gone, then the last two years were just me sitting in an empty house talking to a stranger on my phone because I couldn't figure out how to be alive without her."

The honesty guts me. Absolutely guts me. Because he's not being cruel. He's being the most honest person I've ever met, and the truth is that he's not ready. He might never be ready. And I fell for him anyway, fell before I even knew his face, andnow I'm standing in his kitchen with bare feet and blisters and a heart that's doing something catastrophically stupid.

"Wal." My eyes burn. "I can't be the reason you deal with your grief. And I can't be the woman who waits in the spare room while you figure out if you're allowed to love her."

"That's not what I'm asking."

"What are you asking?"

He doesn't answer. Because he doesn't know. His face makes that clear. He's a man caught between the woman on the wall and the woman in his kitchen, and he can't figure out how to hold both, and I cannot be the one to wait while he does the math.

"The car should be fixed by this afternoon," I say. My voice sounds wrong. Too bright, too controlled. Teacher voice. The one I use when Marcus asks where dead goldfish go. "I'll call Tessa from the auto shop."

"Hattie."

"Thank you for the coffee. And for the spare room." Moving toward the door takes every ounce of teacher calm I've got. "And for three months of texts that made me believe someone could want me for more than just Tuesdays."

"Hattie, wait."

I grab my bag from the spare room. Shove my feet into the ruined ballet flats. Maple follows me to the front door, tail low.

On the porch, the mountain air is cold for August. Or maybe that's just me. My phone is dead, my car is dead, and the man I've been falling for through a phone screen just told me his dead wife's reading glasses are still in his nightstand drawer, which is the most Walden Kirby thing I've ever heard.

I walk toward town. Three miles. Didn't kill me last time.

Behind me, I hear the screen door, but no footsteps follow. He's standing on the porch, watching me go. I know this becauseI know him. Three months of texts taught me the shape of his silences, and this one is the worst he's ever given me.

Halfway down the gravel drive, tears spill over. Hot, furious, stupid tears that I wipe away with the back of my hand. A kindergarten teacher from Reno who fell in love with a wrong number and then fell harder in person, and now she's walking downhill in ruined shoes because the man she wants is still married to a ghost.

My phone is dead. Can't even text him.

Which is probably for the best, because the last text I'd send would be something like: I love you, you impossible, grief stricken, wonderful man. But I'm not going to fight a memory for a place in your life. You have to choose to make room.

Whisper Vale appears around the curve. The bakery. The general store. A small auto shop at the edge of town where a sign says OPEN.

The walk takes twenty minutes. Every step hurts.

CHAPTER FIVE

HATTIE

Friday afternoon, 2:47 PM. My classroom smells like finger paint and goldfish crackers. Marcus is telling me about his dog's birthday party. Sophie is crying because her crayon broke. Two kids are arguing about whether clouds are solid, which is actually a fair question when you're five.

This is what normal looks like. This is my life. Twenty two small humans who need me to know what sound the letter M makes, who need me to arbitrate the crayon wars, who need me to be present and steady and okay.