“That’s just not fucking fair.” I slam my hand into the wheel.
She turns, gives me a small, sad smile. “And such is the justice system. Did you know my lawyer told me that we’d have to prove there was a pattern of abuse? I have medical records for six years, public photos leaked to gossip sites of what he did to me in that parking lot, and I still have to prove that he’s a dangerous man? The court is protecting him, over me and my girls. It’s an uphill battle.”
That’s like pouring salt in my already festering wounds. Why the hell is the world like this?
By the time I realize I’ve driven us there, I’m parking in a space in Hannah’s condo association. It’s dark, the street lamps glowing orange outside, and I cut the engine to soak in the silence.
After tonight, and our heavy conversation on the way home, I’m positive Hannah is about to flee from my truck. But when I unbuckle my seatbelt, she does the same, and we simply turn to each other.
“Thank you for getting me out of there. And … showing restraint. I know you wanted to put him through the floorboards.”
“I was thinking the bar itself, but those would have done, too.”
We fall quiet, and the moment seems to charge up in its intensity.
“You are truly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.” My hand moves of its own volition as it sweeps a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Walker …” she breathes, her eyes fluttering closed.
“The things I’d do for you, to you, if you’d only let me.” I hear the desperation in my voice, trying to keep my hammering heart in its cage.
This is the first time I’ve touched her, pulled back the curtain on my feelings. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, and I’m a goner. I couldn’t stop myself if I tried.
Leaning across the center console, I take her face in my hands, and bend ever so gently to make our lips touch. Hannah doesn’t lean in, but she doesn’t back away. Coaxing, ever so slowly, I kiss her with the tenderness of a thousand feathers. She tastes like her drink, a little spicy from the ginger beer and sweet from whatever gloss she was wearing on her lips.
I can’t believe this is happening, I’ve dreamed it so many times. As I tilt my head to deepen it, I feel Hannah’s hands come up to my jaw. We’re holding each other’s faces, lost in this moment, the kiss morphing from a test, a question, to something cosmic. Other-worldly. Soul-jarring.
Before I know it, we’re practically clawing across the console to get closer, my hands lifting her and trying to get her on my lap. The truck is tight quarters, and our kisses become rushed, heated, and not nearly enough.
Hannah breaks off, heaving breaths in and out of her lungs, as she stares at me. Her expression is something between blind lust and “what the hell was that?” Perhaps she didn’t know I had it in me, that we had it in us … but now she does.
“Let me take you on a date?” It’s a question, but I also am not asking.
It feels like we’ve, or maybe she has, been fighting this inevitability for some time. I want to grab at the chance while it’s in front of me.
“Walker … you don’t want to date me.” She leans her head back against the seat, sighing as she looks at me.
“You have no idea how false that statement is. I’ve been waiting six years for a date with you.” My voice is quiet, but deadly serious.
And she knows it, by the gasp she inhales. We stare at each other, every unspoken thing I’ve never said floating in the ether between us. It’s the first time I’ve really made it known, my prolonged longing for her.
Maybe it’s the moment, or that I kissed her under my spell. My ego would like to think it’s the latter.. Whatever it is though, my heart soars into oblivion when Hannah nods and whispers, “Okay.”
13
Hannah
I’m going on my first date in over seven years.
The last time I even thought about dressing up, introducing myself to a man, sharing a meal, feeling the newness and possibility of something … well, I was a twenty-something with no attachments and could say yes to anything at the drop of a hat. My stomach was tighter, my boobs didn’t have stretch marks, and I didn’t get less than six hours of sleep a day.
But despite all that, I don’t think I clean up too terribly.
I give myself a once over in the mirror, marveling at the woman who looks back at me. A month and a half ago, I wouldn’t even know who she was. I have on a black lacy blouse over black skinny jeans, with dark magenta high heels. It’s an outfit that would have gotten me a screaming lecture and maybe even a shove back into our bedroom from Shane.
Your body is mine, I don’t want anyone seeing it. Are you trying to be a slut? His ugly words ring in my ears. But then it would be the opposite whenever I put something modest on to wear to a game; do you want my teammates to think my wife is some frumpy, fat chick?
When I was with Shane, I ended up going silent toward the last year of our marriage. If I could just nod my head, never let a word slip out, then it meant I wasn’t waiting for a slap or a shove every other second. I relented, submitted in every way possible—even sexually—and lost myself in the process. And it still wasn’t enough, because he found ways that I’d “screw up” or “purposely get it wrong.”
His voice from Hudson’s the other night drifts through my head, and I squeeze my eyes shut. That night was a disaster, up until the end of it. So many emotions were packed so tightly into it; at the beginning I was happy to be having a night out with Colleen, then surprised and giddy at having Walker buy me a drink, then embarrassed, ashamed, and upset when Shane showed up. He put me down in the same ways he always had, except it was the first time we’d spoken in months. Then to have Walker drive me home and kiss the daylights out of me. To come in both crying to Dahlia about my soon-to-be ex-husband and confessing about the hot kiss I’d just shared with the eligible bachelor in my parking lot … it was a lot to digest all in the span of a couple of hours.
Attempting to put them out of my head, I slather on another coat of nude matte lip-gloss, just because I can. It’s taken me weeks, and I’m only giving myself inches, but slowly I’m allowing myself to pick things I’d wear, or makeup I think looks good. It’s kind of like I’m a teenager again, testing out different styles and choosing which ones make me feel good about myself.
There is no doubt that whatever I wear, Walker is going to like it. I don’t need to be self-conscious around him, even if I’m giddy like a schoolgirl. I’ve recognized the way he’s been looking at me, maybe always has, with this hunger like he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off me if we were alone in a quiet place.
Just the thought makes everything south of my waist clench, and dirty, naughty thoughts about just how incredible he has to be in bed fill my brain.
If that kiss in the car is any indication, we’ve got a passion that could explode off the charts. Heck, it would eliminate the charts. It’s half the reason I agreed to this date, because I am so caught up in my lust for Walker that I can’t think straight. Not that I don’t want to go …