Marcel didn’t do the things a lover was supposed to do. He didn’t make her a better person. He didn’t make her want to be better, and she didn’t do those things for him, either.
His fingers stilled. “Why was Paris over? It wasn’t because of me, was it?”
Betsy closed her eyes. “No, it was because of me. Because I failed.” It was the first time she’d said it out loud. Betsy had replayed it over and over in her head, said it to herself again and again, but she’d never articulated those exact words before. She’d always said she made a mistake, a dangerous mistake, but just a mistake. She’d never owned her failure. Now she was burning again, but it wasn’t with the heat between them. It was with shame.
Everyone had had such high hopes for her.
Especially herself.
She wasn’t ready to examine that too closely.
“Rather than beat it to death, maybe we could go back to the singing my praises and giving me orgasms. I like that better.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Do you really?” She lifted her head and met his gaze.
So much for not beating it to death. Why couldn’t she leave the hows and whys of this thing between them alone and just enjoy the moment? She’d been managing so well for about five minutes.
She saw from the look on his on his face that she didn’t really want the answer.
Betsy reluctantly peeled herself from his arms. Their idyll was over. Whatever spell they’d been under had unraveled. “I know Mom would like it if you’d stay for Sunday dinner.” At his stricken look, she added, “Caleb and India will be here, too. No big deal if you can’t.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Betsy.”
She tried to convince herself that the sharp pain that stabbed through her was just because she was hungry and craving her mama’s fried chicken.
“Okay.” Betsy hated how forlorn and sad she sounded at his refusal.
“I came to give you that check because I’m leaving,” he added. “I can’t stay here.”
“I said okay.” She wouldn’t look at him as she slipped into her dress. “Will you zip me up?”
“It doesn’t sound okay.”
What did he expect? “You want me to tell you it’s okay that you’re leaving again to go somewhere no one knows you, no one loves you, only to drink yourself to death alone? That’s not going to happen. So go. I can’t stop you, but it won’t be with my blessing.”
“That’s a little overdramatic, don’t you think?” His breath ghosted along her neck as he helped her with her dress.
After he’d zipped her, she turned to face him. “No, I don’t.” She studied him hard for a moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity. “I think you decided that you came back. You showed your face so you fulfilled your promise to me, and now you can go off and do whatever it is you want to yourself in peace. I know you, Jack. I know how your mind works. And I can’t stop you. But you should consider that no one knows how much time they have and you may not want what you’ve got. I can see it in your eyes. But would you rather spend it drinking whiskey and choking on the ashes that we’ve talked so much about or have more days like today?”
“You can’t save me. I already told you that.” He shook his head.
“Only because you won’t let me.”
“You don’t understand.” The defeated expression on his face was killing her.
“Maybe I haven’t been to war, but this—” she gestured at the space around them “— isn’t what I wanted, either.”
“I’m supposed to be dead.” His voice was low and gravelly.
“You told me last night that you already were. That you just brought back a body for me to mourn,” she reminded him.
“Yes.”
The one-word answer infuriated her. He was being purposefully obtuse and drowning himself not because he couldn’t break the surface, but because he just didn’t want to. “Dead men don’t talk about the taste of sweetness, Jack. And they sure as hell don’t move their tongues like you just did.”
“When I’m with you is the only time I’m not dead, Bets.”
His confession cooled her anger. “So be with me.” She didn’t understand why it had to be so complicated. One plus one equaled two. Betsy plus Jack equaled happy. It wasn’t so difficult a prospect.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.” He wouldn’t look at her, and this conversation sounded very much like the one they’d had the night he left.
His answer wasn’t good enough. “People rarely do. That’s not specific to me. Stay for dinner.”
“And eat food I can’t taste, laugh while I can’t breathe and surround myself with everything I can’t have?”
Part of her softened at his words, but she knew him too well. That’s what his words were designed to do, to deflect her attack. Even if they were true. “You’re not even trying. You don’t know. Give living a chance. No matter what you think, you’re not dead,” she cried.
“No, Betsy. It’s you who doesn’t know.”
“Maybe not, but I dare you to have dinner with us and find out what I do and do not know.” She put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin in defiance.
He raised his gaze to hers again, something dark there. “Fine. After dinner you come home with me and spend the night.”
Anticipation and expectation curled in her belly. Another night like today? She’d take it. “How is that a chore?” She rolled her eyes and slipped into her shoes.
“You’ll see what it’s like to be me.”
“Fine.” She lifted her chin another notch. Yeah, spending the night with him was some kind of punishment. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
Betsy waltzed out of her room as if she’d just one-upped him, but as soon as she was out of sight, her shoulders sagged. She’d practically bullied him into staying. The same way she’d bullied him into letting her take him to the bus station.
Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? He didn’t want her help.
Well, that was too bad, because he was getting it.
She needed to do something to get her mind off what had just happened, and what was going to happen again later tonight.
And inevitably, what was going to happen in the morning. His regret, his— No. She wasn’t going to think about that. There were potatoes that needed peeling and oil that needed heating for the fried chicken.
“Hey, Bets. Is that Jack’s car in the driveway? Am I setting another place for dinner?” Caleb asked as he barreled through the door.
He was still in his policeman’s uniform. It made him look taller, more imposing. As if he needed it. He was already a big guy, but there was something about the uniform that made his jaw look harder, his eyes brighter, and his black hair shinier. When Betsy was little, she always thought he looked like Christopher Reeve. Except he had brown eyes instead of blue.
“You better take off your gun before you sit down to the table.” She looked pointedly at his duty belt. “You know Mama doesn’t like to have it in the house. Let alone at the dinner table.” She took down the cast-iron skillet her mama used for the fried chicken and started making the preparations.
“Didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes. Jack is having dinner with us tonight.”
“How did