Under the Northern Lights(40)

I was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him when he finally came home an hour or so after full darkness. He glanced my way, tilted his head in some sort of nod that was supposed to be a greeting, then shuffled over to the basin to wash his hands.

“Hello, Michael,” I said, my voice crisp. “How was work?”

Eyes on his hands, he gave me a one-word answer in response. “Good.”

Frustration made my eyes well with tears. We’d been on the road to getting really close, and now there was a dam-size wall between us. And he was putting it there, erecting it brick by brick with his frosty attitude and feigned indifference. Clenching my hands into fists, I slowly stood from the table.

“If this is the way things are going to be from now on, then why don’t I do us both a favor and leave. I’m sure you’ll appreciate my absence.” I knew it was a ridiculous statement—I wouldn’t last a week out there on my own with practically zero supplies. Michael knew it, too, and he looked up at me with shock on his face . . . and a trace of fear in his pale eyes.

“What? No, you can’t go out there by yourself. It’s too dangerous.” Drying off his hands, he came over to stand in front of me. He’d been avoiding looking at me since last night, and now, having the full force of his gaze upon me was almost overwhelming. I just wanted to wrap my arms around him, tell him he didn’t have to be scared of this . . . of us.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I stared him down. “Then stop giving me the silent treatment. You wanted to kiss me, so you did. And it was wonderful.” My voice grew soft as the memory flooded through me.

Michael sighed and hung his head. “It was,” he admitted, his voice equally soft. Feeling bolstered by his admission, I took a step toward him. His eyes flashed up to mine, and he held his hand out to stop me. “But it can’t happen, Mallory. I can’t let this happen.”

He indicated the two of us with his hand, and I frowned. “Why?” I asked, tossing my hands into the air. “Because I’m leaving? I know that. You know that. Can’t we enjoy this while it lasts?” He looked away, and I took a step toward him. “I didn’t think I would ever want a winter romance, Michael. I didn’t think I could handle it . . . but then, the weirdest thing happened.”

When I paused for effect, he returned his eyes to me. Curiosity swam in them. Gently, carefully, I laid my hand on his arm. “I realized that I couldn’t stop myself from liking you, couldn’t stop myself from caring about you. Whether or not I acted on it, I was already having a winter romance with you. I am having a romance with you. Right now . . . because I like you . . . so much.”

Michael swallowed, and his pale eyes were suddenly bursting with pain. “You shouldn’t,” he whispered.

“Why?” I answered. “Because you don’t want to leave here? I understand that, and I’m not—”

He shook his head, interrupting me. “No . . . because I meant what I said . . . about not having a heart. Or maybe I do . . . it’s just . . . taken.”

I blinked in confusion, not understanding. “Taken?”

With a sigh, Michael grabbed both of my hands. His were cool from the water, calloused from his hard life, but they felt incredible around mine. “I’m in love with my wife. Still. I came out here to get over her . . . but I don’t think I ever will. She’s all I see, all I think about, and there just isn’t anything left of me to give to you. I’m a shell . . . and you deserve better than that.”

If he had intended his words to push me away, they had the opposite effect—my heart surged with compassion, and I felt even closer to him. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a heart; it was that his heart was broken, shattered . . . and all I wanted to do was fix it. Love on him until he healed, until he could feel again, because I was certain that he could love again in time. But time was a luxury we didn’t have.

“But you feel something for me?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

“I feel . . . guilty,” he answered, his eyes drifting to the floor.

Guilty because he couldn’t have feelings for me? Or guilty because he did? Biting my lip, I took one more step toward him so our chests were almost touching. “Your wife would want you to be happy again,” I told him. “She wouldn’t want you up here, hiding from the world in solitude. She would want you to live.”

His brows creased, and a myriad of emotions flickered through his eyes. He pulled away from me, yanking his hands free from mine. “And I wanted her to live, but sometimes we don’t get what we want.”

I sighed as defeat filled me. But he’d been holding on to this pain for so long. I knew he wouldn’t release it just because I told him to. Hoping I could help him heal by encouraging him to talk about it, I asked, “What happened to her? Did she get sick?”

His pale eyes grew hard and cold as ice; the snowbanks outside looked warmer. “No . . . she got shot.”

I hadn’t expected him to say that, and I blurted something before I could stop myself. “She was murdered?”

Michael’s expression cracked, and the anger shifted into pain. “Some gang-banger shot her for twenty bucks in her purse. I lost the love of my life . . . for twenty dollars.” He collapsed into a chair next to the table like his legs refused to keep him upright. I didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know what string of sentences could possibly ease the pain of that kind of senseless loss.