Page 40 of All We Could Still Have

That my little sister was dishing out advice to me indicated how much I had screwed up my life. Still, I hung up determined to heed her warning. First, though, I needed to finish the article on Hank so I could get him out of my life. I flexed my fingers, thinking about how to start the piece, but the words wouldn’t flow. I knew the only way to cure my writer’s block was to visit the restaurant again, this time with an open mind.

Kyle parked his Jeep in a spot a few blocks from Pendleton 88 on the other side of the road. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked.

I didn’t want to do it at all, but I knew the only way I would be able to write the article about Pendleton was to have a normal meal there without Hank sitting across from me, watching my every move.

As Kyle and I meandered toward the restaurant, a group of twentysomethings turned the corner and advanced in our direction. Kyle glanced at them, muttered under his breath, and lowered his head toward the ground. One of the women wore a red hat with a pom-pom like the woman who had been cheering for him at the hockey rink.

“Do you know them?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he took my hand and all but pulled me toward the restaurant, jogging across the street before we even reached the crosswalk.

By the time we arrived at Pendleton’s entrance, I was out of breath. “What was that all about?”

“It’s freezing.” He made a big act of shivering. “Just want to get inside where it’s warm.” On the drive over, a local DJ had said the temperature was thirty-eight degrees, which was downright balmy compared to the single-digit readings on the thermometer over the past few days.

Alarm bells went off in my head. “You’re acting weird.”

He spun his wedding ring around his finger but didn’t say anything.

As we waited to be seated, the door to the restaurant opened, blasting us with frigid air. Kyle’s entire body tensed. I glanced over my shoulder. A man in his fifties helped a woman out of her coat and hung it on the rack. As they stepped forward and came into Kyle’s line of vision, he relaxed.

The busboy finished clearing a table, and the hostess led us through the dining room to a small booth in the back corner. Because I was so focused on Kyle, I had forgotten to look for Hank, but I saw him now. He stood a few tables away with his back to me, talking to a young couple. Thick salt-and-pepper curls twisted over the nape of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder. His eyes met mine, and he nodded in acknowledgment. He excused himself to the couple and limped toward us. The thud of his walking boot striking the floor sounded ominous as he got closer.

“Twice in the same month, Nikki. I’m honored.” He smiled at me, but his expression hardened when he looked at Kyle. “Kyle Sebastian, number seven,” he said. “Your hockey team has had a lot of reason to celebrate this season.” He made it sound as if that were a bad thing.

Kyle knocked on the table. “Let’s hope our winning ways continue.” He stood to shake Hank’s hand.

Even though my husband towered over him, Hank appeared more commanding. He wore a quizzical expression as he spoke to Kyle. “You’ve been spending a lot of time at the Penalty Box after games,” he said, hesitating before pumping Kyle’s hand. “I’ve seen you there once or twice.”

Kyle’s ears reddened. “You should have come over to say hello.”

“Didn’t want to intrude.”

Kyle sank back to his seat. I could tell by the way he ran his hand over his five-o’clock shadow that he was nervous.

“They have some good live entertainment,” Hank said. “That girl, she can really sing. What’s her name?”

Kyle pulled at the collar of his shirt. “No idea.”

Hank shifted his attention back to me. “The food was so good you couldn’t stay away.” He flashed his dimples, and I got that same queasy feeling I’d had last time I was here.

“I wanted to eat here again before I finish my article.”

“I’m looking forward to reading it.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Order anything you want and enjoy. It’s on me.”

He took a step away from the table and turned to face us again, addressing Kyle. “I’ll keep an eye out for you at the Penalty Box.” Hank’s words sounded threatening rather than friendly.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

Kyle shrugged. “No idea.”

“Why do you think he shaved his beard off?” I twisted the napkin in my lap as I waited for Kyle to answer. Seeing Hank’s clean-shaven face threw me in a way that made no sense. “Maybe the better question is, Why did he ever grow that nasty black beard in the first place?”

Kyle turned in his seat and looked at Hank, who was thumbing through the reservations book.

“Don’t make it so obvious you’re looking at him.”

“He’s not paying attention to us. He’s helping a customer.”

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