Deacon had a thousand things he wanted to say, and ten thousand more he wanted to ask, but none of them made it to his mouth. It was as if every conversation they never had in the last year and a half was trying to crowd its way into this one moment, and he was stunned into silence. Around them, the bar’s volume swelled, the music was up, balls were clacking on the pool table, people were talking at tables around them. The chaos pressed in, but it only made the moment more acute, more private.
“Jenna,” he said her name softly, as if it could undo the time between them. It felt like a confession, or maybe a prayer.
Her eyes softened, and she shut them. Her lashes fluttered down, a kind of flinch, and behind her lids, he could see the ripple of something. It made him ache in all the places he’d worked so hard to numb. What had he done to her? What had he left her with?
He watched her. Studying her. Her cheeks flushed. Her lips parted. She took in a shaky breath. He remembered that flush. He remembered those lips. He remembered that shaky breath. Was she still affected by him?
When her eyes opened again, the softness was gone, replaced by the armored look of someone who’d already decided to protect herself. He saw the walls go up in real time, like storm shutters slamming closed.
She turned away. She gathered her coat, her purse, her dignity. She didn’t look back at him as she walked away from the table and headed for the door, moving fast, like if she paused, he’d have a chance to stop her.
“Fuck,” Deacon cursed, low and sharp, the word lost in the noise but satisfying nonetheless. He felt like he’d failedsome cosmic test and wasn’t even sure what he’d gotten wrong.
He stood there for a moment, paralyzed by shock. The warmth she left behind was rapidly dissipating. Then, as if he’d been jolted by an electric shock, Deacon sprang into action. He wasn’t going to let her just walk away again. Not this time.
Out of habit, he grabbed his wallet and threw a hundred on the table. He had no clue what was bought or paid for, he just hoped that would be enough for it. He was out the door in five strides, the sticky-sweet warmth of the bar giving way to the sharp, pine-scented chill of the Hope Falls winter night. His hands, steady in a fight, jammed his wallet back into his jacket as the heavy door thudded shut behind him.
The parking lot was a landscape of icy puddles and slushy tire tracks, halos of orange light from the overhead lamps shimmering on wet gravel.
He caught sight of Jenna immediately.
“Jenna, wait,” he called, voice echoing louder than he intended. He had no plan for what to say if she actually stopped, but he couldn’t let her walk away. Not again.
She didn’t break stride, just called back, “No.”
He jogged after her. “Can we talk? Just for a minute.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she shot back, a sharpness in her voice that both stung and thrilled him.
He’d worried his memory of her had morphed her spirit into something he’d created out of his fantasy. The fieriness of the woman who’d asked the kid if she could knee him in the balls before she’d done it. But there she was, radiating the same untamable energy and it was aimed at him.
“Seriously?” he said, coming up behind her butkeeping a cautious two-pace buffer. “You really don’t think we haveanythingto talk about?”
She spun on her heel, her eyes flashing in the amber light. “Nope.”
“Okay, you don’t have to talk.” He tried a different angle. “Can you just listen to me for a second?”
She didn’t answer, but he caught the sharp inhale, the flare of her nostrils. Progress. Maybe?
She turned so her back was to him, unlocked her car from across the lot, the white Kia Sportage’s taillights blinked, a beacon directing her escape route. She lengthened her stride, probably hoping he would give up once she made it to her car. She didn’t know him well enough to realize he was a very creative, out-of-the-box thinker.
Desperate times. He cut down around the raised F150 and over. She was looking back over her shoulder when she walked into the aisle where her car was parked to get into the driver’s side door that he was standing in front of. He didn’t want to scare her, so he said, “Hi.”
She startled, her keys slipping from her hand and launching skyward like a cartoon banana peel. Years of football drills and hand-eye coordination kicked in before he could think about it. He snatched the keys from the air and held them out to her. She hesitated, then snatched them back, her fingers grazing his for a nanosecond before she recoiled.
For a moment, she just stared at him. He saw the war in her expression, half of her wanted to get into the car and never look back, but the other half, maybe, possibly, really wanted to hear him out. He’d take those odds.
“Why can’t we talk?” he pressed.
“Because this is…” She crossed her arms in a defensive tangle. “It’s crazy. You lied.”
“I lied?” The accusation hit him square in the chest. “When did I lie?”
“Rental car?” She looked at him like he was the world’s biggest conman. “Comped room?”
He searched her eyes for any sign that this was a joke, some kind of test. He saw only pain and disappointment, and guilt twisted in his gut. “It was a rental car. The room was comped.”
“Your name was on the building. I don’t think you can say it’s a comped room when your name is literally on the hotel,” she said, every syllable as sharp and clean as a paper cut.
