Where We Left Off

I had his blessing.

One down, one to go.

Sleep eluded me all week. I’d nailed Tommy’s painting to the wall across from my bed, thinking it would serve as inspiration, but in truth, it only made me exponentially nervous each time my gaze settled on the canvas.

Without his answer, my hands were tied, and having your hands tied wasn’t always a bad thing. It meant I could stall. Procrastinate. Wait on making the biggest decision I would ever make. Sure, I’d proposed before, and to say that didn’t mean anything would be to rob that moment of its value. There was something valuable in my first marriage. I’d learned lessons. Learned who I was supposed to be and how I was supposed to treat others. Kayla wasn’t the only one to make mistakes within our union. I’d certainly been responsible for plenty.

I didn’t want to make mistakes with Mallory.

And I hoped it wasn’t a mistake jumping into this, both feet first.

All I knew was that I couldn’t wait another minute without making her mine. Forever this time.

Tommy’s answer was so well kept within the paint that I knew without a doubt Mallory had no clue to its meaning. The image was identical to the one at the studio. The one where Mallory and I were intertwined on the hospital bed, the outline of the boat surrounding our tangled bodies. I’m sure she figured she was looking upon that same image. Only I’d noticed it, tucked away like one of those Search and Find books where the pages were cluttered with colorful objects and distractions.

There, on her fourth finger, was the shiny glint of an engagement ring.

And that’s all I needed.

Well, that and one more thing.

I slouched against the leather cushion, letting the vibration of the potholed road ease out some of the apprehension wound in my chest. My arm swung out the window; my thumb drummed against the steering wheel. To the vehicles passing by, I’m sure I looked the picture of relaxation: the way my sunglasses shaded my eyes from the glare reflected through the bug-splattered windshield, the music thumping out a hypnotizing beat with too much bass, the breezy rush that ruffled my hair, grown too long with neglect.

Yeah, I looked calm and collected. Not a care in the world.

Couldn’t be further from the truth.

I drove past the house one time. Then another. And another. The last swing down the street, I was forced to stop at my destination. The woman watering her plants four doors down—wearing a pink fluffy robe and leopard print slippers—she also wore the look of a person well acquainted with calling the police when a suspicious fellow happened upon her neighborhood. And I definitely looked suspicious. Gone was that carefree dude coasting down the highway. I was all shifty eyes, clammy hands, sweat laden brow.

Hiding out in the driveway wasn’t an option with Nosey Neighbor eyeing me, so I engaged the truck in park and hopped out from the cab, not without flicking a friendly wave to the woman in her robe.

“Evening!” I hollered, then, two at a time, I bounded the steps to the porch, ready to knock when the door fell open before I had the opportunity.

“Heath! We’ve been expecting you.”

They looked like most parents did. Good ones, actually. He was easily six and a half feet, and burly to boot. The handlebar mustache, flecked with gray, was a nice frame around his genial and authentic smile, and the way he kept his hand pressed to his wife’s back did something to my stomach that felt like a memory. Warm and natural.

She was darling, a half-pint with a ruddy stain on the apples of her cheeks. Her blouse was the kind that all women her age wore: billowy to hide her rounded midsection, but dressed up with the glitz of a sparkly necklace she’d likely had for years but only pulled out for an occasion like tonight.

I liked them both instantly.

“Boone.” I nodded toward the man. “Sharon.” Rather than accept the hand I offered, she threw her arms around my waist and pulled me into the foyer, the act camouflaged in a hug.

“Oh, Heath. I can’t tell you how glad we are to finally meet you.” She gave my biceps the type of squeeze an aunt gives, the one that’s just a little too hard to be comfortable but loving all the same.

“This is where we say things like, ‘We’ve heard a lot about you,’” Boone interjected, popping his head around his wife to address me. “And you tease, ‘All good things, I hope.’ To which we answer, ‘Of course! Of course!’”

“So we’ll just skip over all of that?” I asked with a friendly elbow to Boone’s side.

“Yup. No shooting the shit for us. Tell it like it is.”

“I like your style.”

“Give the boy a break, Boone. He hasn’t been in the house thirty seconds and you’re already laying down the law.”

“Only because you wouldn’t let me get it printed on the wall. Told you it would make things easier.” He swiped his hand in the air in an arc as though reading a sign. “Rule number one: no bullshit. Rule number two: see rule number one.” He turned to me again. “You see, we’re simple people around here, Heath. Not much to remember.”

The quick snap of Sharon’s dishrag against her husband’s backside made me jolt. I hadn’t even noticed it there, draped over her shoulder.

“Leave the boy alone! I swear he’ll want out of this family before he ever even joins it!”

Boone pulled straight as a pencil. I did pretty much the same, but it didn’t feel quite as substantial a posture since Boone easily had six inches on me.

Rubbing the back of his neck with a paw of a hand, his mustache twitched up on the right. “How about we crack open a few cold ones before this little lady gets herself into even more trouble, running her mouth like that.”

“Oh, I’ll run you right out that door, Thomas Boone Quinn.”

“Woman, go fetch us our beers!”

Boone tipped the neck of the amber bottle toward me. “Another?”

I waved him off. “Nah, I’m good with the one. Thanks.”

I didn’t want the haze of alcohol to cloud the words I needed to say. To slur my ability to get the job done.

“So you’re a teacher, I hear?” He leaned back against the white Adirondack chair and crossed his legs at the ankles, his hefty boots making a thud. “High school?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been at Whitney for five years now. Senior Honors English.”

This was shit-shooting, but I’d take it. I’d been stalling from the moment Boone walked me through their impressive home and into the backyard. We both knew the reason I was here so I couldn’t understand my hesitation in saying what needed to be said. But my upper lip beaded with sweat and my knuckles were white against the arm of the chair.

I almost excused myself to hide out in the bathroom, but that was a cowardly move.

I released the death grip on the armrest and ran my hands down the thighs of my pants.

“Sir, I have a question I’d like to ask you.”

“The answer’s yes, Heath.” Boone studied something at the far end of the yard. A bird rustling in the tree or a squirrel chase. His head leaned forward as his eyes squinted. I followed his gaze until, out of my periphery, I saw it suddenly swing my direction. “The fact that you would even find it necessary to ask our permission is a testament to the kind of man you are.” Wrapping his lips around the bottle, he pulled in a long, hearty swallow of dark beer and then released a satisfied sigh. “Mallory is our daughter, maybe not by blood, but she’s our daughter all the same. When our son married her, she became family. Forever.”

My chin twitched and I bit my lip, hard.

“So I guess I just need to warn you.”

“Warn me, sir?”

“Warn you that, whether you like it or not, we’re a packaged deal.” Boone cracked the top off another longneck. “You get her, you get us.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder and nodded toward the house. “Even the crazy one in the kitchen.”

I flopped back in my chair and let my head fall against the planks and smiled as I said, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”