Under the Northern Lights(71)

Setting down his spatula, Shawn walked over to me. Rubbing my arm, he said, “I’d do anything for you, Mal—you know that. But . . . if you want me to, I can move my stuff out this afternoon. Unless . . . do you want me to stay for a while? You must be pretty shaken up.”

After everything he’d done for me, it seemed cruel to immediately kick him out, but I knew it would be misleading if I let him stay. “No, I’m fine. You can go home.”

I started heading for the slider so I could let the dogs out, but Shawn stopped me. “Mallory . . . wait. I don’t . . . I don’t think we should . . . I mean, I think we should . . .”

“Shawn?” I said with a smile. “Are you going to start making sense soon?”

Shawn let out a nervous laugh, then ran a hand through his shaggy hair. After exhaling a deep breath, he said, “I love you, Mallory. I’ve always loved you, and thinking you were dead . . . well, that put things in perspective for me. I think we divorced too soon. I think we should get remarried.” He nodded like his thoughts were suddenly completely clear; then he dropped down on one knee. “Will you marry me? Again?”

Staring at my ex-husband, on his knees, proposing . . . again . . . suddenly made me exhausted. “Shawn, come on . . . get up.” Not letting him argue, I reached down and helped him to his feet.

Before I could tell him that I wasn’t going down that path again, he held his hands up. “I know you’ve just gone through a huge ordeal, and I know it’s going to take you time to adjust. I’m not trying to pressure you or rush anything, just . . . think about it, okay?”

With a soft, compassionate smile on my face, I shook my head. “I don’t need to think about. I already know my answer.” It’s the same as every other time you’ve asked me.

He put his fingers against my lips, silencing me. “No . . . I don’t want to hear it yet. I’m going to ask you again later, and you can tell me your answer then. Once you’ve had time to think about it.”

Annoyance began to eat away at my gratitude—he did this to me all the time. “Shawn,” I said, my voice firm even with his finger over my mouth.

He shook his head. “Nuh-uh. Tell me later. Now, how many eggs do you want?”

I could only gape at him. He was so bullheaded sometimes. And I knew from experience he wouldn’t listen to a single thing I said right now. Even if I told him there was no way I’d ever marry him again, he’d ignore me and ask me again in a few days. Persistence was Shawn’s specialty . . . it was how he’d gotten me to marry him the first time—a fact that continually bit me in the ass, since now he believed that as long as he didn’t give up, I’d eventually say yes.

Throwing up my hands, I told him, “Fine. Three. Over—”

“Over easy, I know. I remember.” His smile was huge as he got to work. Huge and hopeful.

After breakfast, I politely asked Shawn to move his stuff out. Shocking the hell out of me, he actually did. I think the only reason he did was because he was confident he’d be moving back in a few days when I said yes to his proposal. I’m sorry, Shawn, but that’s not ever going to happen. My heart was utterly and completely tied to another man. A man I could never have.

I thought about Michael all day long. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing, what he was thinking, and what he was feeling. Was he as torn open as me? Scoured from the inside out? Whenever I pictured his scruffy beard, ice-blue eyes . . . warm smile, I felt like sobbing. I cried so often and so quickly that I was genuinely concerned I wouldn’t be able to stop. It was like I was mourning him. I supposed I was. He’d made his choice to stay; I’d made my choice to leave. I was mourning us. What we could have been and what we would never be now.

My parents and my sister came over at dinnertime, hands full of food from the diner. Good thing, since I was still in my pajamas and hadn’t felt up to the task of making dinner. Kind of strange, since making dinner now would be so much easier than it had been all those months. Did I actually miss the hundred thousand steps it took to make a meal? Was it . . . too easy now?

“Hi,” I said, throwing on a smile as I opened the door wide.

Mom didn’t buy my fake cheeriness. Or maybe my outfit had tipped her off. “Are you okay?” She tilted her head as she examined me. Mom was letting her hair gray naturally, and there were long streaks of silver mixed with the brown; the way she put it up in a loose bun emphasized the coloring. She had a few extra pounds on her and rarely wore makeup anymore. She said it was to look the part—her restaurant being called Nana’s Diner implied that she was older than she actually was—but I think she just liked not having to worry about her looks.

I nodded at her question, then shook my head, then nodded again. Finally, I shrugged. “I’m not sure what I am, Mom,” I said with a sigh. “Glad to be home, but . . .” Missing Michael with every breath.

“But what?” Patricia asked. Her piercing eyes turned analyzing, like I was suddenly a patient, not a sibling.

“But hungry,” I told her, not entirely lying. I hadn’t had anything since Shawn’s breakfast.

I ushered them into the house, then shut the door behind them. I’d been fielding phone calls all day from concerned friends and neighbors. I’d told everyone I was fine—when I was anything but—and it had zapped me of my strength; I collapsed onto the couch with a huff.