Page 91 of Then You Happened
“Yep. I’m good.”
And when I look back in the mirror at the goofy smile on my face, I know I just might be.
30
JACK
The door is ajar.
Black trash bags, which look to be full of shredded photos, line one side of the floor. Framed photos are arranged in a gallery on one wall. There are black-and-white stills of the landscape, colorful ones of exotic places overseas, muted ones of the everyday on this ranch. The other side of the room has unframed 8x10s hanging from clips on a crisscross of strings. There is a small workstation with a laptop, camera parts, and accessories beneath a row of windows.
The studio is clean but cluttered, minimalist in décor because the items that make the biggest statement are her work.
I move to the clipped pictures. There are images of a hand on a coiled rodeo rope, some of the thumb and forefinger pinching the top of a cowboy hat, and still more of the nostrils of a horse with what looks like a smiling mouth.
Details.
That’s the first word that comes to mind. She picks the tiniest detail, focuses on it, and lets the background become the canvas somehow. I’m sure there’s a term for it, but fuck if I know it.
I run my fingers over them. I feel stupid doing it, but they call to me, and I can’t help but feel as if I am meeting a whole different side of Tatum Knox while looking at these photos.
It’s as if the hardened woman with a defiant temper and determined streak a mile long is also this introspective observer. She’s someone who watches and waits and only clicks that button at the most perfect of opportunities.
The last image against the wall startles me. It’s nothing like the others. Not animal or landscape or part of life. It’s of a letter, and the words on it call to me to read it, to step deeper into this world of this woman I don’t quite understand but want to. The sloppy handwriting reminds me of the last letter I received that pushed me to take some time to find myself again.
I know she’s standing behind me. I can sense her—can smell the scent of her skin—but I don’t turn to face her. I can’t seem to take my eyes off the photographed letter in front of me.
So, I give her a minute to come to terms with the fact that I just invaded what I can only assume is her private sanctum.
“I was right. You need to start taking pictures again. Your work is incredible.”
The floorboards creak as she moves closer, but I keep reading the words of a desperate man telling his wife he’s sorry. The wishes for a happier future. The blessing for her to have a next time. His final goodbye.
I read the words with contempt. I see a selfish man who can’t face the deeds he’s done. I see a coward.
I stare at the scrawled writing reflected on glossy paper a few more seconds and finally understand the conflict of emotions Tatum Knox has lived with. How she could love her husband and hate him at the same time. How she heard the words and believed them, only to find out all the lies behind them.
When I turn to face her, I’m knocked astride momentarily.
Sure her cheeks are flushed and her hair is wild from the sex we just had, but there is an intensely raw honesty in her eyes that tells me she knows I know.
That tells her that her secret is out.
That tells me she trusts me when trust isn’t something she gives freely.
Fucking everything.
“Did you love him?” I ask without hesitation, hating the wince she gives me but needing the answer all the same.
“What kind of question is that?” She sputters over her response, spine stiffening, and eyes narrowing.
“A simple one,” I say, knowing a part of me is asking for selfish reasons considering I just had sex with her against the wall and hate the thought of her loving someone who didn’t deserve her. “Did you love him?”
She opens her mouth and then closes it, her thoughts having to catch up with her mouth. “Of course, I loved him. Why would you even ask me that?”
“Not everyone loves their partner.”
She twists her lips but keeps her eyes on me, not shying away from my directness that makes most squirm. “He was my everything . . . and then he wasn’t.” Her voice is a whisper that is tempting me to ask so many questions.
