I’m watching him build a wall, brick by brick, to try to hold them in.
“She’s gone, Greycie,” he finally chokes out. “Dead.”
I cringe hard and my stomach twists. But I give him the honesty I know he needs from me right now.
“I know, Hart.”
“I fucked up.” His voice is rough. Sandpaper on rusted pipe. “I let her down so bad. I was supposed to take care of her. Keep ’er safe. I shoulda been there. I shoulda –”
And then the sobs come. Great, huge, racking sobs that rattle his whole body and leave him gasping and choking while I watch. Paralyzed.
I’ve never seen Hart cry. Not one time. Not ever. But especially not like this. I’ve never seen anyone cry like this.
Like every sob is scraped up from somewhere deep inside him, made up of equal parts blood and guts.
I ache to put my arms around him. I want to comfort him. Say something. But I know he won’t let me. Sometimes Hart can’t stand to be touched. There’s too much feeling in it. Besides, there’s no easing a hurt that deep. To try to make it better would be an insult. I know because I’ve been walking around for months, slowly bleeding out from a mortal wound of my own.
Eventually, the sobs slow and his shoulders stop shaking. Hart draws a long, ragged breath. And then he mumbles that he’s sorry.
But I can’t be sure if he means for falling apart. Or for kissing me.
I figure it’s probably both.
So I tell him it’s okay.
“Come on,” he says. But he won’t look me in the eye. “I’ll walk you home.”
Hart takes my hand and pulls me up off the seat. Then puts one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder to hold the boat steady for me. He offers me his hand again as I move from the boat to the ladder, and I’m grateful. I still feel really off-center. From the beer.
And the kiss.
When I reach the boardwalk, Hart starts up after me. He’s about halfway up when I hear a sickening crack. The ladder gives out under his weight, and he drops too fast to grab hold of anything. It isn’t far to fall. Maybe three or four feet. But the pontoon has drifted out to the end of its short chain, and Hart lands half on the boat and half in the flooded muck.
Before I can even blink, something huge explodes out of the shallow water right next to the old boat. There’s a violent thrashing. Mud flies in every direction. Something bellows, low and angry. A throaty grunting sound that any good Louisiana girl would know right off.
“Gator!”
The scream doesn’t even have time to leave my mouth before I hear the snap of powerful jaws.
“Shit!” Hart tucks his legs up as he rolls on to the boat and Willie Nelson gets a big ol’ bite of air and rusted metal. “Fuck!”
My heart is pounding, only not down inside my chest where it belongs. It’s moved up into my mouth. I feel it pounding against my teeth.
Willie bellows and thrashes again, and Hart hollers at me to get back from the edge of the boardwalk before I fall in and get eaten. He’s sprawled out on the deck, and he kicks the metal side of the boat three or four times as hard as he can.
Pissed as he is, the banging sends Willie Nelson slinking back into the sludge. I track him with my flashlight and watch as he sinks beneath the surface.
“Hart!” I shout his name, but he’s breathing too hard to talk.
“I’m okay,” he pants. “Just gimme a minute.”
My bones disintegrate, and I sink to my knees on the boardwalk. It’s only a few seconds before Hart somehow manages to haul himself up to sit beside me. He’s wet and muddy and still sucking in great gulps of air. His eyes are wide, and his curls are heavy with swamp water.
“Wood must’ve been rotten,” he says. “Probably scared the daylights out of ol’ Willie Nelson.” He tries to laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. “Me crashing down right on top of him like that.”
I reach across to run my hands over his chest and arms. Just to make sure he’s whole. But Hart flinches away. He pulls the pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket with shaking hands, but they’re all soaked. “Goddammit,” he mutters. Then he tosses the ruined pack into the mud before he gets to his feet. “Come on.”
I follow Hart toward the Mystic Rose. We’re about halfway there when I look out at the river and see someone night fishing, right at the edge of the water. Lantern shine bounces off dark red hair. Case is out in that patched-up pirogue of his. What my friends in Arkansas might call a canoe. I hear him whistling to himself. An old Cajun tune I almost know the name of.