Raiders of the Lost Heart(30)

He snickered and bowed his head, giving it a slow shake. “Well, thank you. I mean it. You’re the first person who’s really tried to get me to talk, at least in a while. Even Ethan gave up trying a long time ago. Either I must be really good at hiding my emotions or everyone else is in denial that I might have actual feelings.”

“Ford Matthews has feelings?” she said, scrunching her nose. “I’m kidding. But, in all seriousness, you’re welcome. Perhaps it’s weird, but I do actually like you in my own sick, twisted way.”

“Well, as long as it’s sick and twisted.”

“Hey, I’d say this is an improvement, don’t you think?”

He smiled again and it was doing weird things to Corrie’s insides. “We haven’t argued in at least fifteen minutes. Huge improvement.”

Corrie laughed. “Huge. I suppose the fact that you were stewing inside for the last fourteen and a half of those minutes might have had something to do with it.”

He stared at her, tenderly, like they were old friends rather than old rivals. She liked this. Liked this playful side of him.

“Could you have pictured this even a few days ago?” he asked. “The two of us in middle-of-nowhere Mexico, laughing and talking about our feelings?”

“Oh God, no,” she said with a laugh. “I would have bet all my savings against it.”

His smile fell a little. Was it her emphatic denial? Or something else? Great. She’d gone too far. He’s going to close up. He doesn’t want to—

“Does it get easier?” he asked with no context, his tone somber.

“Does what get it easier?”

“That lost feeling you had after your mom died?”

Did he . . . did he want to talk now?

Corrie didn’t want to miss the opportunity to help him get it out. Who knew when he might open up again.

“Yes. It gets easier. Some days are better than others. I might go weeks without feeling sad. And then I’ll be out, and something will suddenly remind me of her, and it’s like the day she died again. But those days are less frequent now. How about you? Do you miss your dad?”

Ford looked up, clearly willing himself to maintain control. He’d looked like he might cry when they’d been in the tent, but those were angry tears he’d been holding back. These tears? These ones were sad.

“I try not to,” he finally said. “I don’t want to miss him. I’m so pissed at him and the mess he left for my mom. He’s been gone for two years, though, and those feelings haven’t subsided.”

“Maybe anger is harder to let go of. Maybe if you let yourself miss him, miss those happy moments and the dad you loved, then eventually the other feelings might start to subside.”

A quick scoff escaped his throat, and this time he looked down and scratched the corner of his eye behind his glasses. Pretended to scratch his eye, that was. He then wiped his hand across his mouth and opened wide, letting out a long exhale.

“I could use a drink. How about you?” he asked.

“What time is it?”

“Who cares?”

Hmm. He had a point. Besides, Corrie was never one to turn down a drink.

“Fine. But grab the sandwiches. We can’t go getting wasted on empty stomachs at one in the afternoon, or whatever the hell time it is.”

Ford popped into the tent, leaving Corrie while he rummaged for Lord knows what. She tossed the partially read dissertation on the platform beside her. Something told her they weren’t going to get a lot of work done today. But it didn’t seem like they were on any specific time frame, and Ford wasn’t worried about it, so whatever. She could go with the flow.

Plus, she kind of enjoyed talking with Ford, just the two of them.

After a few minutes with the sound of glass clanking inside, he returned with a bottle of booze under his arm, a mug in one hand, and the plate of sandwiches in the other.

“What’s this?” she said as he sat next to her, placing the food between them.

“Rye. My private stash,” he said, twisting the cap off the bottle of Rittenhouse and pouring it into the empty mug. “Sorry, I don’t have any glasses.”

“Can’t we grab some from the mess tent?”

“And risk Agnes’s judgy looks? It’s only one in the afternoon, Dr. Mejía. We’re working, remember?” His lip quirked up and Corrie had to laugh. First bras and now booze? They’d never hear the end of it. “Here,” he said, handing the mug to her after taking a sip.

It reminded Corrie of that night in the library. Passing the coffee back and forth. Whispering in each other’s ears.

She took the mug and downed the remaining contents.

“Easy, slugger. I thought you didn’t want to get wasted?”

“Just warming the ole windpipes,” she said.

Or, rather, she needed a little liquid encouragement.

She grabbed a sandwich and took a giant bite as he refilled the mug. “So,” she said in between bites. “Tell me more about your dad.”

He peered at her from the corner of his eye. “I see what you’re trying to do here.”

“Sorry. I thought that’s what the booze was for. Come on, Ford. Let it out. Tell me about what he was like when you were growing up.”