Written in the Scars(47)

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.