Page 33 of Loud Unspoken Memories

Bex settles by my side on the couch as I try to read more of the autobiography I started yesterday. I’m not successful, however, as I find myself reading the same paragraph over and over, distracted by Dallas’s movements as he prepares dinner.

I can’t help but admire his light-blue jeans when he bends to get a pot from a low cabinet. The right rear pocket has the frayed outline of a wallet that isn’t even there. I suppose when one lives in a place like this, carrying around a wallet isn’t needed. But it speaks to the age of the jeans. Maybe guys are like women, having that one old, comfortable pair that fits so nicely you just can’t get rid of them. And,wow, they do fit him nicely.

His maroon, long-sleeved thermal fleece hugs his torso in all the right places. His strong arms. His tight abs. My insides quiver because I know exactly what those abs feel like. They’re hard as a rock, testament to all the physical labor he does around here. I long to run my hands down them again. But I fear it might not happen. He ran away. Is it because he thinks what we did was a mistake? My jaw slackens and I cover my mouth in surprise. Am I the first woman he’s slept with since his wife died?

I sigh. Well, that’d be another thing we have in common. He’s the first man I’ve been with since Charles. And the only other man I’ve ever been with.

A million questions linger in my mind as I continue to follow his every movement, my eyes growing heavier and heavier.

“Marti.” My eyes snap open. Dallas hovers over me. “Dinner’s ready.”

“I… sorry. I must have dozed off.”

He throws a log on the fire on his way to the table. “I hope you like asparagus. I’m trying to use up the fresh vegetables instead of the canned ones.”

“Good idea. And I love asparagus. Thank you for making dinner. I’ll cook tomorrow.”

He motions for me to sit, then he does the same. “We might not have power tomorrow.”

“How much is left?”

He picks up his phone and looks at his app, which surely isn’t updating without service. “I have no idea. It never went below five percent. Maybe that’s as low as it goes. Either the sensor can’t detect smaller amounts, or the people who programmed the app didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to let their tanks run out.”

“So you have no idea when the power will go out?”

He shakes his head.

“But tomorrow is Thanksgiving.”

A slow breath eases out of him. “I’m aware.”

“You have a lot of food here. I saw a tenderloin in your freezer. And you have apples and all the staples I’d need to make a pie. Do you mind if I try to throw something together?”

“Like I said, we might not have power.”

“Assuming we do, what would you like? Are there any favorite dishes? Something your mom used to make?”

He shrugs, uninterested. “It’s just another day. But do what you have to do.”

“There’s something you should know about me,” I say, cutting into my juicy pork chop. “I’m a pretty good cook.”

“Great. Go for it then.”

The tone of his words tells me he’s anything but excited. But it’s Thanksgiving. We can’t just do nothing.

During our mostly quiet dinner, I make a mental list of possibilities. I know he’s got potatoes. I should be able to whipup gravy. I try to remember what vegetables he has in the refrigerator. If I were at home, I’d make homemade macaroni and cheese. It’s not a traditional Thanksgiving side dish, but one Asher and I insisted on growing up. So Dad always made sure to have some.

I’m going to miss Dad tomorrow. And Charles. And, well… lots of people. Charles and I would spend most holidays together so Charlie would have both parents around. This was going to be the first one Charlie would have to spend without me. And now he’s going to have to spend it without both of us. Will they even make a turkey?

I know firsthand how hard it is to celebrate the holidays after a death. Dad died only weeks before Christmas. I was in no mood. But Asher insisted. He did everything—put up the tree, strung lights outside, bought Christmas presents, even cooked. And though it was the hardest holiday I’d experienced up until then, I was glad he’d done all those things. Because sitting around feeling sorry for myself was no way to spend Christmas.

I glance at Dallas. Is that how he spends his holidays? Up here, alone?

Bex is lying at our feet, no doubt hoping something will drop from the table.

“Have you decided anything about Bex?” I ask.

He nods. “I’m thinking of keeping him.”

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