Page 52 of The Trust We Broke
She’d grapple with a jar of pickles for twenty minutes rather than let me just unscrew the cap for her.
I wonder if her stubbornness and independence are part of the reason she never came to tell me what was going on before she signed divorce papers. I wonder if she ended up backed into a corner she couldn’t see a way out of.
“Shit,” I mutter. I can’t just let her walk off on her own. Pulling slightly ahead of her, I block her path. “Get on the bike, Luce.”
“I’m fine,” she says. But the crack in her voice surfaces the same conflicted feelings I’ve been grappling with since I first saw her outside the police station. I always wanted to be her protector. From the first day I saw her being bullied at school. No one else seemed to want to look out for her, so I did. And I’d forgotten how much it filled a part of me to do it.
To have someone look up at you, figuratively and literally, and let you know that who you are is more than enough for them.
But…it’s also Lucy.
I reach for the leaf in her hair and throw it away, trying not to think about the way her soft curls feel beneath my fingers. “You’re anything but fine.”
She tips her head back, puts her hands on her hips, and looks at the sky. But the way she worries her lip, takes deep breaths, and swallows deeply and often, says she’s grappling with unshed tears.
“Just move out of my way and let me walk back into town.”
I grab her wrist and tug her closer to me. “You know enough about me to understand that I’m not gonna be able to do that. Just swallow your pride, or whatever fucking bullshit is going on in your head right now and get on the goddamn bike.”
I place my boot ever so slightly behind me, toe planted firmly on the ground, and Lucy looks down at it. She places her hand on my shoulder and steps up onto my boot before throwing her leg over the back of my bike.
Memory is wild. It keeps us awake at night, helps us function in our jobs and pass exams. It helps us make decisions, both good and bad.
But sometimes, it can’t ever replicate the emotion of a moment.
You won’t skid with me on it?
I’d rather be skinned alive than hurt you. I’ve got you, Luce. I promise.
Maybe it’s fate fucking with me. Giving me two first times with Lucy on the back of my bike.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath when I feel her arms slip around my waist. When I feel the way her thighs spread on either side of mine.
“I’m not wearing any leathers,” she says quietly.
“I know, Bug. Just trust me.”
The gruffness in my voice and the use of my old nickname for her catches me off guard.
I feel the hitch of her breath as her chest presses up against my back.
Like self-inflicted torture, I drive slowly back into town. I consider what Butcher said about unfinished business. But to finish it, I’d have to make a decision about what I want. Do I want my wife back or gone? Do I want to try to reconcile who wewere with who we now are? Or should I accept we’re now two different people?
I glance down at her hands and see the faint tan line of a ring on her wedding ring finger. I’m not foolish enough to believe she wore my engagement ring all that time.
I wonder where the man who gave her the ring she wore is.
I wonder where the ring is.
I wonder about the man who got the chance to replace me.
Maybe understanding if she’s married again would be a good starting point.
Those first days in prison, I’d wake up with a hole the size of a grenade explosion in my chest. I’d lost my freedom protecting her, and it hadn’t been enough to keep her.
I’d lost her. The softness to my hard edges.
I’d wake up missing her. I’d go to sleep missing her.
