I wanted to fill those shelves with albums we used to listen to on the turntable I inherited from my grandfather. And I had books too—but she rolled her eyes at their worn spines, curled corners, and stained rings on the covers from where I’d leave a can of A&W Root Beer for too long.
It’s hard not being her husband. I did it well until the very end. And maybe she’ll never know that my last act was exactly what she asked me to do, but I know it. Still … it’s like doing the same thing for so long you don’t know—or can’t imagine—doing anything else. I never could imagine being anything but her husband.
Here I am.
Not being her husband.
And five years later, it’s still unimaginable.
She exhales, letting her shoulders release the tension my presence has caused. “How are you?” she whispers as her gaze makes a slow climb to meet mine. There is so much packed into those three words I find it hard to take my next breath.
Five years.
It’s taken her five years to ask me that.
Does she want my honest answer? I can’t imagine she does.
Not wanting to lie, I search for facts. I tell her what I know because it doesn’t give away how I feel. Besides, there are no words for how I feel. “I’m working a lot. Next month, I’ll be out of town for several days at an auction. We’re looking to buy another grinder.”
Her delicate fingers fold in front of her as she leans against the counter. She’s the complete opposite of me—graceful in her moves, petite in stature, and every inch of her skin is soft and flawless. I’m a pile of big bones wrapped in thick layers of muscle. My hands are large and calloused. A harsh terrain of bristly whiskers in dark red and a few patches of gray cover my face. Her eyes are rich shades of brown with flecks of gold that illuminate in certain lighting. I have eyes in a standard blue color. Nothing deep. Nothing icy and mesmerizing. Just … run-of-the-mill blue eyes.
“Lucy said your dad’s closing up shop.”
I nod, feeling the twinge of a smile pulling at my lips. My dad has always been the ultimate litmus test for every relationship I’ve ever had. Hal Barnes, my best friend from high school, thought it was hard to find friends, especially girlfriends, because his parents owned a funeral home. His grandfather had been an undertaker as well. Hal’s mom excelled at making dead people look alive again. However, Hal preferred to say she was a cosmetologist—which she was—but she chose to be a mortuary makeup artist after she married his dad.
I managed to make Hal and his family look completely normal. Funeral home directors and mortuary makeup artists are necessary jobs. People die and someone has to get them ready for their funeral and burial.
My family, on the other hand, took death and preservation to a whole new level—one a little less necessary—but there is … or was a demand, a disturbing demand, for what they did.
Chapter Four
THEN
I didn’t know Tatum’s last name, so I couldn’t look her up. Lucky for me, Redington was a small town with only one realtor named Tatum. Tatum Bradshaw the sign said when I parked my truck on the street to attend the open house at a home I couldn’t afford. My living situation was complicated—some might have even said flat out lazy.
Straightening my tucked-in button-down and running my hands through my shaggy red hair, I clomped my “nicer” work boots across the street to the two-story house with a paneled wood door stained deep brown. As I contemplated knocking or just walking into the house—after all, it was my first open house—the door opened and a young couple holding a brochure passed me.
Tatum’s wide smile vanished when her focus shifted to me. I half expected her to slam the door in my face.
“Sorry, you can’t afford this house,” she said with big attitude and narrowed eyes.
“That’s a little presumptuous of you.” I smirked, taking in her fitted black dress pants, floral sleeveless blouse, and high heels. Her wayward hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back. When she moved one hand to her hip, her gold bracelets clinked against her watch. I devoured all five feet, six inches of her attitude and silently begged for more.
“I’d hardly call it presumptuous given the fact that you live at home … with your parents.”
It should have been a little embarrassing—being called out like that. But I saw the bigger picture. She looked me up. After she stormed off and gave me the bird, she looked me up.
“By choice. Not necessity,” I said with the biggest grin on my face. My three roommates were my parents and my younger brother—not exactly things to share on a first date to impress a woman when you’re twenty-two with a full-time job.