Page 69 of Love Wells Kept

I watch her calmly leave, her hand brushing against the kitchen archway on her way out. Quiet footsteps disappear quickly in the night, and the stairs creak gently under her weight as she heads back to the guest room.

A balled-up fist slams down hard on the counter. Once, twice, then three times.

You fucking idiot. Your wife wanted you to touch her, and you pushed her away.

It feels as if my heart’s been torn from my body and run through a shredder. I hate this. This isn’t the hard way, it’s the excruciating way. And just when I think it can’t get worse, I return to a bedroom that feels like her, sheets that smell like her. My heart and head pound.

I don’t sleep.

Kate

At five a.m., the kitchen’s abuzz with cowboys grabbing paper lunch bags and fighting over Beryl’s strawberry Danishes sitting on the speckled white island counter. Right where I kissed Jackson and inflated my lungs with his breath, felt the familiarity of his taste on my tongue. Right where he said sleeping with me would be pretending and knocked the wind from my chest without warning.

Trying is enough. That’s what I told him. The truth is, I was still hoping if I waited long enough, loved hard enough, he’d come back to me. I was hoping so hard, I didn’t notice when it turned to begging.

Bleary-eyed, I make my way through the throng of ranch hands and reach for some caffeinated elixir to bring me back from the dead.

Beryl flicks the end of a dish towel at Colt’s arm, scolding him for taking two Danishes when there aren’t enough for everybody to even have one. He yips, dropping the gluttonous second pastry on the counter, and the other guys heckle him.

“Get out of here, you animals.” I groan through the headache. I feel hungover from the lack of sleep and excessive crying. “You’re going to wake up the kids and Jackson, and then you’ll have a serious problem.”

“Too late.” Jackson saunters into the room before nine a.m. for the first time since he’s come home. His fingertips press so hard to his temple, I feel the stabbing sensation in my own skull.

Everything in the kitchen is normal except me. I may as well be trapped inside a glass box. Seen, but not felt or heard.

“Well, good morning, honey,” Beryl says. She’s the only person I’ve known who’s genuinely cheerful so early in the morning. Even Austin, who I don’t think has ever slept later than five o’clock, is sitting in his usual spot at the table and scowling at his cattle ranching magazine as if it’s personally wronged him.

Shoving a Danish into his mouth, Denny raises his hands high above his head to shoot finger guns at Jackson from across the room. He chews frantically, leaning forward so stray flakes of pastry crust land on the counter. At least he’s a tiny bit more respectful since getting married and having a kid.

“I’m taking him fishing today.” Denny looks directly at me as he says it.

“Oh, um…” I perceive Jackson in my periphery. Things have shifted since last night—he doesn’t feel like he’s my husband, doesn’t know whether he’ll ever love me again, and I don’t know where that leaves us.

Yesterday, hearing that he’s leaving the ranch for some quality time with his brothers would have me jumping for joy. Today it feels like an awfully convenient excuse to avoid being anywhere near me because I’m hanging on to a marriage he’s not sure he wants to be in.

“I’ll be fine.” Jackson addresses my hesitation. “It’s sitting in a camping chair on the pier.”

Denny nods. “The fresh air will do him good. Dad’s gonna tag along too—the old man’s been working himself to the bone around here. He needs a day off. Poor guy’s not even awake yet.”

“Okay.” I give the both of them a thin, tight-lipped smile over the rim of my coffee mug.

“I need some coffee before we go,” Jackson says. His eyes cut to mine, and he starts toward me. Well…toward the coffee machine next to me. Coffee usually gives him a headache, so he must be exhausted if he’s willing to risk it. “Couldn’t sleep at all last night. Was just lying in bed, tossing and turning.”

Whose fault is that?

His pained expression meets mine, and I hope my eyes convey that I didn’t sleep either. I’m sure the under eyes that appear bruised and my sallow complexion give it away.

“Don’t worry, I’ll have him back before dinner,” Denny says, popping the last bite of Danish into his mouth. “Probably in one piece. Except…can you drink beer with all your meds?”

“No, he can’t,” I answer for him.

“Designated driver?”

“Hasn’t been cleared to drive yet,” I reply.

Denny scoffs. “Shit, what can you do?”

Break my heart.