by Staci Hart
“Hannah, his wife cheated on him. With his best friend. I’m sure he does trust you, but are you certain he’ll understand?”
“I … I want to believe he will.”
Lysanne’s face was tight. She took a noisy breath through her nose and let it out. “Do you think Quinton will come around again?”
I considered it. “I didn’t think I would see him at all, never mind twice. After what just happened, I think … I think maybe since I said no with some finality that it might be the end, but how can I be sure?”
“You can’t, not with him.” She watched me for a beat. “If it’s not the end, if you see him again, then tell Charlie. There’s no reason to upset the applecart for nothing, if it is nothing.”
The idea relieved me—to avoid explaining something that I didn’t want to speak of, didn’t want to think of, something that had humiliated and scared me.
And so I said, “All right,” hoping against hope that I was doing the right thing.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in the lighthearted, laughing company of Lysanne, and I found myself more thankful for her than ever. By the time we parted ways, I had all but forgotten about Quinton and the exchange and what Charlie might think of it.
I spent the evening with the children and dinner and baths and stories and bed. We were mostly alone—Katie had left before dinner to go home to her husband—and once the kids were asleep, the house was quiet. Big and empty.
Without any distractions, my thoughts wandered from Quinton—wondering over his intentions, over the truth of our coincidental meetings, over our past—to my future with Charlie.
And when I thought about Charlie, my thoughts led me to Mary, my worry keeping me from considering the good or the happy, only my fears and anxieties. I imagined her in this house, walking the stairs I found myself on, eating in the kitchen I walked into, drinking from the wine glass I sipped out of, sleeping in Charlie’s bed upstairs. No, not Charlie’s bed … their bed.
I’d never even been in his room; we were always in mine, every night. It was unspoken; neither of us wanted to share the bed upstairs and were perfectly content to stay in a space that was our own, untouched by memories of her.
I realized then, as I sat in Charlie’s kitchen in my nightgown, that I’d only thought of his house as my home ever since I walked through the door. It had been so easy to never think of the house and the people in it in terms of the past, only in the present, as if it were all as new to them as it was to me. It had felt like mine, but it wasn’t, and it never had been.
It was very likely that it never would be.
My stomach heaved at the thought—not at the possibility of not having it all for my own, but at the understanding that I’d been wishing for something without my consent or knowledge. I’d fallen into a dream in a way, and Mary’s appearance had been a rude awakening.
I took a very deep breath and moved to the cupboard in search of flour and sugar and to the refrigerator for butter and milk and eggs, and I made my hands busy, made my mind think about something other than the truth of my circumstance, the truth of my heart.
Katie had kept the pantry stocked with supplies for me, always asking what I needed or wanted, sometimes anticipating what I was low on without my having to ask, and I was particularly grateful that night. Before long, I had puff dough in the refrigerator, cakes in the oven, and a dish of apples and raisins and cinnamon in front of me.
It was automatic and comforting, quieting my busy mind and uncertain heart with every stir, with the rolling pin in my floured hands, with the brushing of melted butter and sprinkling of sugar. It was a satisfying act of love and devotion, a remembrance of my childhood and family and home, a way to give a little piece of myself to someone else. And I lost myself in the motions.
I was icing the cakes when I heard Charlie’s key in the door, and I couldn’t stop my smile or the warmth in my chest or my feet from carrying me into the entryway with surprise and joy, my worries and fears gone the second I heard that sound that meant he was home.
His face mirrored my heart.
We almost rushed each other, and in a breath, I was in his arms, the chill of the night clinging to his coat and lips and hands. But I kissed it away as best I could.
Charlie leaned back to look over my face. “Hello to you, too.”
I chuckled and kissed him again, swiftly and sweetly. “You’re home early.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I hit my limit. I thought having a few days off might freshen me up for work, but I’m afraid it did the opposite. It’s literally the last place I want to be.” He held me closer. “Wanna know the first?”
I tilted my head and pretended to think. “Hmm, the subway?”
He shook his head. “Guess again.”
“The bath?”
That one he considered. “If you’re in it, then one hundred percent yes.” He kissed me again.
I breathed him in, feeling like I hadn’t seen him in days, not just a few hours, and he seemed to do the same, his hands and lips telling me he’d missed me, that he wanted to be there just as much as I wanted him there.
The kiss ended with a sigh.
Charlie ran the strap of my apron through his fingers. “What are you baking?”
“I’m icing oranjekoek, and I have appelflappen in the oven.”
“I have no idea what you just said, but it smells amazing.”
I laughed. “Orange cake, apple … how do you say …” I made my hand open and shut like a book. “Flip. Ah … pocket?”
“Like a turnover?”
“Yes!”
He smacked his lips. “I want to eat all of that. Lead the way.”
I threaded my fingers into his and pulled him into the kitchen. “How was your day?”
“Awful. I don’t even want to talk about it. How was yours?”
“Good. I saw Lysanne today, which is always nice. I feel … full after spending time with her. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think I do.” He pressed a kiss into my hair when we came to a stop.
I smiled up at him as he looked over the cake, layered with almond paste and topped with pink glaze.
“So this is … let me guess … the orange cake?”
“Yes, that’s right. I don’t know why it’s called orange cake though; it’s pink.”
“Does it taste like oranges?”
“A bit. It has candied orange peels in it, but the word oranje is a color. The fruit is sinaasappel,” I added with a shrug.
“So … an orange is an apple?”
I laughed. “The first we ever saw of oranges, they came from China, so the word they made for it was Chinese apple.”
He shook his head and sat at the island. “That is so weird.”
“I know.” The timer went off, and I turned for the oven. “Zo gek als een deur.” I pulled out the appelflappen and set the pan on the stove. “As crazy as a door.”
Charlie laughed from deep in his belly. “Because everyone knows doors are irrational.”
“My oma has so many funny sayings. Like, when we were little, if a joke was made we didn’t understand but we laughed, she’d say, Jij bent lachend als een boer met kiespijn. You’re laughing like a farmer with a toothache.” I demonstrated, holding my jaw like my tooth hurt and laughing awkwardly.
That earned another laugh.
“The best was when we asked about her health, and she’d tell us she was kiplekker, which translates to chicken delicious. But it just means healthy.”
“Lekker everything.”
“Lekker everything is right.”
I put an appelflap on a small plate, and he took it with hungry eyes.
“My mouth is actually watering.”
I watched his tongue wet his lips as he picked up the pastry. When he took a bite, he moaned, eyes closing.
“God, how do you do that?” he asked around a bite.
I laughed, pleased by his pleasure. “Years of practice, three or four generations of rec
ipes, and a lot of butter.”
He ate with enthusiasm, and I picked one up to join him.
“Should I get used to you being home this early?” I asked before taking a bite.
Charlie shrugged. “You shouldn’t, but I might be past the point where I care about getting in trouble for ditching. For a minute at least. I’m still riding out Maven’s hospital visit. How awful is that? I just think I’ve hit some sort of limit, some kind of wall. I don’t know how to go in there and pretend anymore.”
My heart squeezed as it sank. “I’m a distraction.”
His brows drew together. “No, you’re saving me.”
I shook my head, setting down the pastry, no longer hungry. “No, Charlie. I’m … I don’t want to be the reason you fail. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He was off his stool and walking toward me before I could move, his eyes dark and burning, his big hands on my face, tipping it up. “Hannah, you might be one of the best things to have ever happened to me.”
My sinking heart rose again, though it still ached.
“Do you understand that I’ve been stuck? I’ve been stuck in my life and in my head for longer than I think I even realized, but you’ve shown me how much more there is, how many things I’ve missed while my head’s been down. You opened a door I hadn’t realized was closed, and now that I’ve seen what’s on the other side, I can’t go back. I can’t pretend I don’t know. I knew I wanted a change, but I didn’t realize just how badly I wanted more from life until I caught a glimpse of what more is. My kids, my family, happiness. That’s what I want. So please, don’t say that. Don’t say you’re bad for me, not when you’ve shown me everything good.”
I didn’t know what to say, my throat tight and eyes searching his.
But I didn’t need to speak. Because when he kissed me, it banished every thought from my mind.
Charlie
I kissed Hannah and told her without words that I needed her. I held her face and spoke through my fingertips, telling her she had changed me just by existing. And as she kissed me back, I knew she understood.
All day, I’d been thinking of her. Every tick of the clock had been noted in my mind as I counted down the seconds until I’d see her again.
I’d been consumed. I had far less control over my heart than I had known.
I didn’t even want it back. I’d gladly relinquished it to her.
Hannah would never hurt me. She would never betray me. It was a truth, innate and instinctive, the knowledge that she only wanted my happiness and I only wanted hers. And I would never go back again. I would never be manipulated again, would never be used, now that I knew what more there could be.
The kiss went on, deeper and deeper. She leaned into me, breathing heavy and loud, hands roaming down my chest, around my waist, up my back and down again, never pausing. Mine weren’t still either, my fingers thirsty for her skin from earlobe to breastbone and to places I couldn’t reach, not with her clothes in my way.
So I rid her of them.
Her apron was first—the one thing I was loathe to remove, reminding myself to have her wear this once with nothing else. My fingers twisted around the tie at her waist and tugged to loosen it, and I pulled it over her head. She wore a nightgown the color of a storm cloud, thin and gauzy, the fabric hanging on the peaks of her tight nipples, the curve of her warm breast soft and supple in my palm. My free hand found her bare thigh, fingertips slipping under the hem and to the swell of her ass.
And her body bent to me, giving and giving and giving, never taking. Just letting me take, letting me touch, letting me slip my fingers into her panties to touch the hot center of her, to trace the slick line and the silky bud, to slip inside her warmth, a prelude, a promise of more, a promise I would fulfill the moment my cock was free.
She moaned into my mouth, the softest, sweetest of tremors of her breath and tongue and lips against mine, and I held her against me, pressed the confined length of me to her, moaning right back.
I stepped with her to the island, and once her weight was against it, she brought her leg up and spread it, opening up, letting me in, my thumb on her clit and my fingers deep inside her until her hips rocked and breath sped and I couldn’t take it anymore.
I let her go, breaking the kiss to push her panties down her legs, the two of us panting, her hands on my chest and pupils dilated. My hands were a blur as they unfastened my belt and pants, my lips finding hers; they couldn’t stay away, couldn’t leave her alone, couldn’t stop. And then the length of me was free, one hand gripping my base, the other pushing her nightgown up her long thighs, her legs spreading again and hips angling for me. She was on the tips of her toes, and I bent my knees, looking for the connection, feeling for the heat of her, sucking in a breath through my nose when I found it, hot and wet and waiting.
I flexed and filled her up.
Her ass was propped crudely on the counter, but she didn’t care, just wrapped her legs around my waist and whispered my name, begging me. But she didn’t have to beg. I’d give her anything, everything.
With a roll of my hips, I pulled out and slipped in again, her shaking hands fumbling with the buttons of my shirt, desperate to touch me. But I didn’t stop, didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop pumping, couldn’t have stopped, not with her hips immobilized, pinned like they were. She was at my mercy, and I would give her what she wanted, what she needed. I flexed again, grinding when I couldn’t get any deeper, giving her the pressure she sought. My hand wanted skin as much as hers, sliding under her nightgown and to her breast, to her nipple.
She gasped, breaking the kiss, and I leaned back to watch her, the vision burning in my mind—the arch of Hannah’s long body, her chin up and eyes closed, neck curved, nightgown hanging on my wrist as I touched her, the creamy white skin of her stomach, the place where our bodies met, the sight of the length of me disappearing into her.
It was too much to control, too strong to contain, my hips moving faster as her brows pinched and she whispered her pleasure. She tightened around me once. I thrust harder, jolting her. She tightened around me again. I moaned her name. And she burst around me, pulsing and flexing and drawing me into her until I came with a rush, my nerves firing, eyes slamming shut as I drove into her with such force, she cried out in the sweetest gasp of ecstasy I’d ever heard.
I leaned into her, wrapping my arms around her to bury my face in her neck, my breath ragged and body still pulsing inside her. Her arms wound around my neck, fingers in my hair, breath against my skin, sending goosebumps over me. And I breathed her in, the smell of comfort and sweetness, and I knew with absolute certainty that there was never anywhere in the world I’d been so happy than in her arms.
“I missed you,” I whispered into her hair.
She kissed my neck with smiling lips. “It was only a few hours.”
“I know, but I missed you anyway.”
“I missed you too,” she whispered back. “Take me to bed, Charlie.”
I leaned back and gazed into her sleepy, sated face. “What about the kitchen? All your hard work?”
“I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but you.”
All I could do was kiss her, kiss her with an aching heart and blissful joy, and do anything she asked of me.
16
Refuge
Charlie
The next morning, I kissed Hannah goodbye at my doorstep and practically skipped to work. If it’d been raining, I’d have done a sad imitation of Gene Kelly and gotten soaked while I tap-danced and spun around light posts with a lovesick smile plastered on my face.
I was affected. With every day, I was changed.
I’d spent the whole night with Hannah in my arms, and the second the front door had closed behind me that morning, the only thing I could think about was getting home to her again. In my mind, I knew I was infatuated with her. Years and years of being miserable had left me with a surplus of emotion and desire, it would seem. Logically, I realized that a large part
of how I felt was chemical.
But deep down in my heart, it was more. I knew that too. This wasn’t just an overlooking of flaws or an easy connection with someone who meant nothing.
She meant everything to me.
It was blind devotion I felt, and all because I trusted her.
For the first time in my adult life, I had found someone to trust implicitly and completely. In the time I’d known Hannah, I’d come to call her my friend. I’d let her in and learned from her. I had turned that corner as I chased my happiness, and this time, I saw her just ahead of me. And I wanted to reach for her hand. I wanted to pull her to a stop. I wanted to finally hold happiness in my hands after they’d been empty for so long.
It was crazy to feel so much. I knew it. I recognized it. But after so long with someone who had hurt me for sport, my heart was willing and ready to be treated with respect and care.
It was like stepping into the sun for the first time.
I gave myself a pass on the rush of emotions when I considered that, this far into Mary’s and my relationship, we had nearly been engaged. But where my feelings for Mary had been thin and superficial, I felt Hannah in my marrow. I needed her to fill up my heart every night, like cracked earth dried to dust, soaking up every drop of water to try to find itself whole again.
The workday was slow even though I was busy with my mounting workload. I’d been fielding questions about said workload and my absence too, conversations with people whose eyes were shrewd and probing. Because no one could possibly understand.
“Sick kid,” I’d say. “You know how it is.”
I wanted the life, and I couldn’t get it without shirking my job, so shirk my job I would, and I wouldn’t have a single regret about it.
Maven was fine, though I’d keep making excuses to get home to my kids every night, to tuck them in and play trucks and Barbies and to sing songs while they bathed. I wanted to be home on the weekends for lazy Sundays and outings and walks and laughter and time.
That was really what I wanted and needed most of all—time. And I had precious little to spare.
