Page 129 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
“I hate them,” I say simply, because the elegant speech in my head just burned to ash. “I hate what they said, and I hate that it took you back to a horrible time.” I press a kiss below his jaw. “You didn’t deserve any of it. Not at eighteen. Not yesterday. Not ever.”
His breath leaves him in a long ribbon. “Felt like I was eighteen again,” he admits. “Taking up all that undeserved space.”
“Don’t say that,” I say and pull back enough to look him in the eyes. “It wasn’t true then, and it’s not true now. You’re not a thief or a sham or whatever the hell else they said.”
It hurts me to think of them saying those things to him. Telling him he’s not good enough, not good enough for me.
“Those, yes, good-for-nothing assholes don’t get to decide if you’re right for me or good enough for me. Or good enough for anyone. Who the hell do they think they are?” I say, fired up again.
“They seemed to know my family.” He pulls me close again and nuzzles my temple. “What if they’re right about my family? What if the whole lot is rotten, not just my dad?”
“That doesn’t change who you are, Ben,” I say into his skin. “But if it bothers you that much, then we’ll find out. You said your family is from here. There are people here who knew your grandfather. It was thirty years ago, not three hundred.
“But whatever we find doesn’t define you. Whatever we find is just the past. You are who you are, and you should be proud of what you’ve built. You didn’t build your bar on the Hoffman Heritage. You built it onyourback.”
I pull back again, making sure he sees the truth on my face.
His eyes soften. “You’re very sure about that.”
“Yeah, and regardless of what we find, you have a legacy. The bar, and this right here.” I take his hand and press it to my stomach.
His hand warms through the thin cotton, wide enough to cover almost everything, and so gentle.
“Our legacy,” he says, so quietly it’s almost just breath.
“Exactly.” I flatten my palm over his, holding him there. “This kid will never stand on the stoop with a key that doesn’t work.”
He shakes his head, his eyes glassy. “Never."
“Good,” I whisper. Then my stomach rumbles. “Now, I really,reallyneed that toast.”
He breaks out in a grin and throws the covers back like a man on a mission. “I think I can manage that one.”
“Extra butter,” I say, dead serious.
“Doctor’s orders?”
“Paige’s orders.”
He kisses my forehead and slides out of bed. “Yes, boss.”
I watch him pad toward the door, and think: I could get used to this.
He turns back. “Hey, your dad doesn’t have a shotgun, does he?”
I grin. “I think you’ve already done the worst, Ben. Just be really quiet on the stairs. They creak. Walk on the edges.”
Chapter Forty
Ben
I don’t know why research feels different when it’s done in a living room, but it does. The table at the Pint turns reading into work; Paige’s couch turns it into a long conversation with pauses.
The room helps—lamps on instead of overheads, the river throwing a stripe of moving light across the ceiling whenever a car takes the bend just right, the ticking clock keeping time as it passes.
Paige has her laptop propped on a throw pillow, feet tucked under my thigh. Every now and then, she absentmindedly rubs a slow circle over her stomach with the heel of her hand. It shootsa quick, specific happiness through me every time she does it, like a private signal I get to notice.
On the coffee table: a small mountain range of library books that still smell like dust and plastic jackets. Historic Paducah. River Town Commerce 1890–1960. A binder of scanned city business licenses that somebody at the library printed for us. Beside them, a legal pad in her neat handwriting labeled QUESTIONS, as if we’re running some sort of committee meeting.
