Written in the Scars (19 page)

My chest swells at the thought that my wife did this for Dustin. This is my forever, the woman I love. The little pit bull shoved into this angelic body that fights for what she wants. She’s ready to throw the towel in on us. What’s that say about me?

My shoulders slump and he notices.

“Don’t worry,” he says, misreading my reaction. “Mrs. Whitt got them to look at the server and realize it wasn’t me. I’m still on the team, Coach.”

“Good. That’s good, buddy.”

“Yeah, so . . .” He takes a step back to give me some room. “I’ll just go get warmed back up. Okay?”

I nod encouragingly, but my head isn’t there. Neither is my heart. Both are back on County Road 211 in a little white house with black shutters.

ELIN

My bag hits the table with a smack.

I wince, shaking my hand to give it back some life. My tote is overflowing with papers to grade and art pieces to put stickers on, and I’m dead tired. That’s probably because I didn’t sleep last night and the ten cups of coffee I guzzled today are wearing off, leaving me with a late afternoon slump.

Damn Ty.

All day, my mind wandered like the wind. It flowed from the past, to memories of Ty, to the future and what it would be like without him. The latter rolls my stomach. It creates an inherent need to crouch in a corner and close my eyes and play dead. Because that’s what I feel when I think of life without him: dead.

Everything is just so muddled.

Every part of my life is touched by Ty, wrapped around him, incorporated in him in some way—all the way back to junior high. Every memory I have, he’s in it. It’s his face I see when I’m scared, it’s his voice I hear when I need comfort, it’s his touch I crave when I feel lonely.

“You realize you’re doing to Ty the very same thing you’re pissed at him for, right?”

Cord’s insinuation rang through my head all day, poking me when I least expected it. Is that what I’m doing? Yes, I’m withholding information, but it’s something he would’ve known if he hadn’t left. That’s different.

I think.

I head into my bedroom. I slip off my dress and boots from work and throw on a pair of sweats and a hoodie. It’s all done on auto-pilot. My body goes through the motions while my head and heart have an argument of their own.

My brain thinks I should be logical and fair and tell Ty about the miscarriage. My heart knows I can’t make it through that conversation and feels the need to protect me. My mouth doesn’t want to take sides and spill the wrong way.

I’m scared, plain and simple.

When I enter the kitchen again, I see my phone blinking on the counter with a voice message.

“Hello, Elin. It’s Parker. I wanted to let you know that your husband was in the office this afternoon. He advised me he won’t be cooperating with the divorce, should it go forward. I’m sure you know that, but I wanted to see if your mind had changed in any way. Please give me a call back tomorrow.”

“Ugh,” I groan, dropping the phone onto the counter. Burying my head in my hands, I lean against the wall. “Why do you have to be so damn stubborn?”

A smile touches my lips, even though I fight it. Something about him wanting to fight for us, for me, feels good. Even though it would be easier if he would just let me go, let us end, a part of me deep in the shadows of my gut delights in the fact that he won’t.

Gravel crunches outside and I look out the window. Ty’s truck is sitting behind my car and he’s climbing out.

My breath hitches in my throat. No matter how many times I’ve seen him in my life, he still makes it hard to breathe.

He doesn’t look towards the house. Instead, he walks around the back of his truck. I can hear him banging on something and the tailgate closing.

I wait, but he doesn’t come to the door. I wait still, but nothing.

Slipping on a pair of rubber boots, I head outside. My heart thumps in my chest in a mixture of excitement and dread. Seeing him is going to make tonight a long, lonely night.

Rounding the corner, I see him in the middle of the yard with a rake. There’s a pile next to him of old clothes and I stop in my tracks. He looks up, but keeps raking, a little hint of a smile on his lips. “How was your day?”

His shoulders flex under the brown thermal shirt as he works the rake back and forth. His thighs fill out his jeans, and I pray he doesn’t turn around because I don’t want to see his ass. Not in those jeans. Dear Lord.

“Cat got your tongue?” he teases, dropping the rake. He heads to the pile and grabs a pair of corduroy jeans we bought together at Goodwill almost ten years ago.

“What are you doing, Ty?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

He ignores me and shoves leaves down the leg of the pants. I just watch with amazement that after everything that’s happening, he’s here. Doing this. Like we’ve done for the last decade. Together.

Finally, he looks up. “You gonna stand there or you gonna come over here and help me make this scarecrow?”

“I . . .” I’m speechless. I shouldn’t help him. I should make him leave. But I find myself walking across the lawn and grabbing the pants. I’m rewarded with a mega-watt smile.

“I think the rain that’s supposed to come this weekend will put an end to the scarecrow days. I figured we better get it up today before it’s too late,” he says, working on the second leg.

I watch him, my brows pulled together. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s what we do,” he says, pulling rubber bands out of his pocket and fastening them around the leg holes.

“Ty,” I protest as he takes the pants from me and hands me the shirt. “You have to stop this.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop
this
.”

He rises and looks at me. Bits of broken leaves are splattered across his shirt and in his hair. I want to reach out and brush them off, touch his cheek, but I resist. Barely.

“You can’t come by here anymore and do these things. They aren’t our thing anymore.”

“We’ve been through this,” he mutters. His arms reach into the pile and he pulls up a heap of brown leaves, shoving them into the shirt with more force than necessary. I pull away.

He sighs, releasing a breath that sounds like he’s been holding forever. “I’m not letting you walk away from me. If I have to spend the next ten years winning you back, I will. I’m prepared to do that.”

The sincerity in his eyes causes my bottom lip to tremble. “I promised you for better or worse, until death do us part. This is the worse part. I’m aiming for the better now.”

“Ty . . .” The words are stolen by the look on his face.

“Even if it takes me until the death part, I’ll try. I love you, Elin. I’m going to remind you of that until you believe it.”

“It could take a long time,” I say, my words kissed by a sniffle. “I don’t think your patience would last very long.”

“Probably not. So you should just give in now,” he laughs, pulling his hand away from the side of my face.

He fills the shirt and then grabs a bale of straw and a pumpkin and builds the scarecrow by the road while I watch, lending a hand when I see he needs it.

There’s a calm between us, an ease rooted in a comfort between two people that has been built over a lifetime. This is something I won’t have with anyone else.

My cheeks heat as I realize he’s watching me. He grins and I grin back without thinking.

“What are we naming him this year?” he asks, tugging a hat over the top of the pumpkin.

“How about Docken?”

“Docken?” he laughs. “Where’d you get that?”

“A little girl in my class named her puppy that. It’s just the first thing I thought of,” I shrug.

“Docken it is. But take that off the potential baby name list. It definitely sounds like a dog’s name,” he laughs easily.

I look away.

“Hey,” he says, nudging me with his shoulder. “I was kidding. If you like it, it can stay on the list. Maybe a middle name.”

“We’re done here,” I say, changing the subject and taking a step away from him. “I’m going in. I have a lot of papers to grade.”

“Need help?”

I look at him and can’t help but laugh. “You are not coming inside and helping me grade papers.”

“You love how I help grade papers,” he laughs, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You are not coming in and . . .”

“Eating your pussy? That’s how grading papers with me usually ends, and I do believe I get an A-plus.”

“Damn it, Ty!” I say, turning away so he doesn’t see my face. “Go home.”

“I am home, beautiful.”

I hate that I’m on the brink of breaking, that he makes me forget why I’m mad.

Heading into the house, I hear him toss his things into the truck. “Wanna go to dinner?” he asks.

“Nope,” I call out over my shoulder.

“Want me to make you dinner while you grade papers?”

“Nope.”

“Want me to have you for dinner?”

I shake my head and turn to face him. My hand on my hip doesn’t take away from the smile on my face. “Ty? Enough.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“You are impossible. I’m mad at you.”

“I figured that out. You can stop being mad now.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Then think of how much fun it’ll be being mad at me when I’m in the same house. You can be mean to me all day and night. It would be much more cathartic for you.”

My laugh dances out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“And think of the makeup sex when I convince you to stop being mad.” His eyes twinkle in the sunset. “But I’ll tell ya something, E. I don’t think I can wait very long to get inside you again.”

“Stop,” I breathe, watching him cut the distance between us in half.

As much as I want to fight it, it just feels like it would take way more energy than I have. Plus, I like the playful smile on his face and feeling the hole in my heart being filled a little.

Softening quicker than I anticipated, I choose to give in. Just for a little while. It’ll end in an argument, anyway.

“Can I take you to dinner?” he asks.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw my hands up in the air and head towards the house. “I’m going in to eat leftovers. You can come if you want.”

“Only if you come first,” he chuckles.

I hear his footsteps behind me, and I smile all the way to the back door.

TY

I follow her inside and into the kitchen. She never looks at me over her shoulder, never really acknowledges that I’m here.

She does this every time she’s mad. It’s her version of the silent treatment, although she’s not usually completely quiet. She’ll answer questions with a word or two, but she’s so easy to break. You can goad her right into a full blown conversation. I’ve often thought she would choose another form of being pissed if she knew just how damn adorable she was like this.

Slipping off her boots by the table, she heads to the sink to wash her hands. Just being in the same room with her, even if she’s not looking or speaking to me, is pretty damn close to heaven.

I figure the best way to go about this evening is to pretend everything is normal, that I’ve just come home from the mine and she’s pissed I moved the thermostat. Be natural. Normal. Married.

Opening the refrigerator, I’m pleasantly surprised to see a bottle of my favorite beer in the drawer on the bottom. She doesn’t drink this and I ponder the thought of why she kept it as I pop the tab.