* * *
I bundled on a coat and slipped on my tennis shoes. I didn’t bother to check my hair or change out of my yoga pants. Steven and I were beyond all that. Arms folded against the cold, I crossed brittle grass to his truck. He reached over the front seat to open the door for me, and I climbed inside the cab. The air was close and warm, thick with the tang of whisky on his breath and the earthy smell of his farm that still clung to his clothes.
He looked awful, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t take any joy in that. An empty pint bottle lay on the bench between us. His jacket hung open over his untucked flannel, and his hair stuck up as if he’d been dragging his fingers through it.
A curtain shifted in Mrs. Haggerty’s kitchen window. She’d be on the telephone first thing tomorrow, making sure all the neighbors knew Steven was here, having a clandestine meeting in his truck with his ex-wife. “You want to go somewhere else?”
Steven followed my line of sight to Mrs. Haggerty’s house. His shoulders shook with a somber laugh as he turned the key in the ignition and made a clumsy three-point turn, his huge tires chewing tracks in her front lawn.
Steven’s hand was loose on the wheel. I wondered if I should offer to drive, but a moment later he pulled over in front of the small community park at the end of our street. He killed the engine and got out, and I followed his slow, unsteady steps to a set of swings illuminated by a dull halo of moonlight.
The chains groaned as he eased into one. I settled into the swing beside him, shivering as the cold seeped from the hard plastic seat through my clothes. We sat, listening to the low hum of traffic on the nearby highway, watching the flashing lights of the planes overhead.
“This reminds me of the night Delia was born,” he said, staring up at the night-bright sky. I gave him a long side-eye. Our memories of that night were very different. All I remembered was the pain and the long hours of labor, leaving frantic messages for him between contractions as the time between them grew shorter. All I remembered was Georgia’s face. The smell of coffee on her breath, her hand clutching mine as she shouted at me in her police officer voice to keep pushing, and the fat lip she gave my husband in the hospital parking lot when he finally showed up, hungover and terrified. He’d been there all night, drinking in this park, afraid of becoming a father and screwing it up. “I’m scared, Finn.”
“Of what?”
“I’m scared Theresa’s involved with him.”
I raised an eyebrow, twisting in my seat to look him squarely in the face. The chains spun around each other, keeping tension on the swing. If I took my feet off the ground, they’d turn me away from him and pull me straight again, and I found something oddly reassuring about that. “Aren’t you involved with someone, too?” I asked.
He glanced up at me, surprised. “That obvious?”
“Let’s just say I know the signs.”
He shook his head, staring at the sod and mud on his boots. “It’s not just that. I know I’d probably deserve it if all she was doing was sleeping around. But I’m worried that she’s in over her head with this guy. He’s bad news, Finn. I’m afraid she’s going to do something stupid and get herself in trouble. Something that could cost me my business or my kids. The business I could come back from, but I already lost our kids once, and I don’t think I could…” A muscle bobbed in his throat and his eyes shone, reflecting the streetlamp on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry,” he said in a choked voice. “For everything.”
“I know.” I reached out, my hand held open in the space between us. It hung there for a moment before I felt Steven’s cold, calloused fingers in mine. I squeezed them. Not because I forgave him for doing what he’d done. But because this was a fear I understood. Because I shared it. Because of all the things I had to be afraid of right now, this was the one that terrified me most, too.
Steven’s eyelids were heavy. With a gentle tug of my hand, he pulled my swing closer, until I could smell the liquor and fear and hopelessness on his breath. His head tipped, just enough to be an invitation. Just close enough for our foreheads to touch. It would be so easy to lean into him. It was all so familiar, something I could fall into without thinking. I lifted my feet, my fingers sliding from his as the swing pulled me back to its center.
“Are you really dating an underwear model?” he asked through a sleepy, drunken grin.
A smile tugged at my lips. “My attorney would probably advise me not to answer that.”