New Husband. Old One Gone novel · Chapter 10 of 32

Chapter 10: The Skiff's Name

Mama went back inside and I sat on the swing until the coffee was gone.

Then I went to work, because the jon boats weren't going to fix themselves.

Corey showed up at seven on the dot, gray in the face and shaking, and scraped barnacles off a center console till noon without being asked.

At five I washed the fiberglass off my arms with the hose and drove downtown.

The Ropewalk's big iron doors were open.

Sawyer was at the top of a twelve-foot ladder, taking down the yellow ribbons one column at a time.

He'd already done six. They were folded in a box on the floor, neat as flags.

He saw me and stopped with a ribbon in his hand.

I walked to the foot of the ladder.

"I'm sorry," I said.

He started to come down.

"No, stay up there. I have to say it to your boots or I won't get through it."

He stayed.

"I'm sorry I threw you in the river. I'm sorry I said you'd known him a year like it was a crime. You kept a promise to a man who was drowning. That's the whole reason I'd trust you with anything."

I took a breath.

"And Saturday night I knew you'd known something. I didn't ask you how long, because I didn't want the number. Then I yelled at you for not telling me. That's on me."

He came down the ladder anyway.

He stopped on the bottom rung, so we were eye to eye.

"My turn," he said.

"You don't have to."

"I'm doing it anyway, Gwaltney. Hush." He set the ribbon on top of the box. "I should've walked into that yard Tuesday and told you all of it, and let you throw me in the river for the right reasons. I'm sorry I decided for you. I won't do it again."

"You'll do it again."

"I'll try very hard not to, and you'll yell at me when I do."

"That I can promise."

His slow smile came.

I reached up and took a piece of yellow ribbon off his shoulder.

"You're taking it down," I said.

"There's a wedding Saturday. Real one. Somebody's paying."

"Ours was real."

He looked at me for a long moment.

"Was it?"

I put my hand flat on his chest, the way I had in the hallway.

His heart was going hard.

"Say the thing again," I said.

"What thing?"

"You know what thing. You said you wouldn't say it till I asked. I'm asking."

His eyes went dark.

"Ro."

"Say it, Pickard."

He got off the ladder.

He took my face in his hands. They smelled like brick dust.

"I love you," he said. "I've loved you since you sang 'Free Bird' wrong in my granddad's boathouse with epoxy in your hair. I loved you in the dress and I loved you throwing me in the river. I'll love you if you leave tomorrow."

"I'm not leaving tomorrow."

"Okay."

"I'm not leaving tonight either."

He went very still.

"Say it plain, Ro. I'm not guessing."

"I want you," I said. "Tonight. Upstairs. In that bed you keep giving away. Yes."

His shoulders dropped.

Then he kissed me.

It wasn't the truck. It wasn't the ballroom. It was slow, and it didn't stop.

I backed him into the iron column, and the box of folded ribbon went over, and neither of us looked.

His hands slid down my back to my hips and lifted me onto my toes.

My tank top was stuck to me from the yard.

He found the bare skin at my waist and ran his thumbs along it, and my knees went.

"The doors," I said against his mouth. "The doors are open, Sawyer."

"Let 'em watch."

"Your crew comes back for the truck at six."

He swore, and laughed, and pulled me by the hand across the heart-pine floor.

He hauled the big iron doors shut one at a time with me hanging on his back, kissing his neck.

The bolt dropped with a clang.

We didn't make it to the stairs before he had me against the wall again.

The stairs went on forever, and I made them longer.

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