At ten years old, sneaking her into the barn to see Cain on her seventh birthday. She didn’t know it until they’d gotten down there, but he’d hidden a big piece of cake and three forks under his sweater, and the pale skin of his belly was covered in frosting.
At twelve years old, taking her to the tack room for a Band-Aid when she’d fallen off her bike and scraped her knees. He cleaned them and blew on them and covered them up as Cain stood off to the side making her giggle.
At fifteen years old, on her twelfth birthday, giving her the prettiest bracelet she’d ever seen—with a horse and an apple and a banjo and his heart.
At eighteen years old, saving the day when he came to take her to the homecoming dance, bearing a fistful of forbidden flowers. He’d kissed her for the first time that night, and though she knew they’d never have the chemistry she shared with Cain, he’d proved his love for her in a way that Cain never had and—seemingly, at the time—never could.
At nineteen years old, coming home for his first extended visit after a long year apart. He’d swung her into his strong arms, holding her close and whirling her around before dropping a sweet, quick kiss to her lips. “Ginger!” he cried. “You grew up, and you’re so beautiful!”
At twenty-one years old, with every right to self-pity and anger, he’d come home ready to love her. And she let him. She gave herself to him, and he called it the best night of his entire life, holding her body next to his.
It was true that her feelings for him had never truly evolved from a place of profoundly loving friendship to romance, but memories of being held in Woodman’s arms would always twist the bindings of her heart. Until the day she died, she would remember how tenderly he’d held her, how safe she’d felt leaning into him, and how much he’d loved her. Truly, deeply, forever loved her . . . in a way she’d never been able to love him in return.
“Oh God, Woodman,” she sobbed. “We were never supposed to happen like we did. We were never supposed to end like we did. I’m so so-o-o-orry. So f-fuckin’ sorry.”
Woodman was such a good man—such a kind, loving, protective person, such a good friend—surely there was a woman in the world who would have been lit on fire by the way his eyes could turn dark green with want, by the careful touch of his lips on her breasts, by the way his voice would get raspy when he told her he loved her. It just wasn’t her. And she’d lost him before she could let him go, before she could set him free to find a woman who could have loved him the way he deserved.
Resting her forehead on her bent knees, she cried—for Woodman’s loss and for not being able to give him what he wanted; for his sweetness, which she would miss forever; for his friendship, which she would die grieving. She cried all the tears that hadn’t fallen for three long months, and then she cried some more—tears of guilt, of regret, of loss, and of sorrow, all the while wondering how she would ever feel whole again now that he was gone.
She heard the front door open and felt Cain’s boots vibrate across the hardwood floor before she heard his voice bark, “Ginger?” with so much growly urgency, it made her gasp.
Cain. Her shoulder slumped with relief to hear his voice.
“Here,” she said, raising her head and swiping the back of her hand across her weeping eyes and runny nose. “I’m over here on the stairs.”
In a second he was standing before her, his helmet clutched in his fist, his coveralls covered in grease, with matching smudges on his face. He squatted down and placed his helmet on the floor by her feet.
“How you doin’, princess?”
She tried to take a deep breath, but it was ragged and sobby. “Not good.”
“Let me take you home,” he said, offering her his hand.
She took it without thinking, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the rough, warm skin closed around her cold fingers.
“Stay with me,” she whispered.
She wasn’t looking at his face, so she couldn’t see his expression, only hear the coarse gravel of his voice when he said, “I won’t leave till you’re feelin’ stronger.”
“I hope you have nowhere to be for a while,” she said, opening her burning eyes.
“You underestimate yourself, Gin. Worst step of all was facin’ it. You did that tonight.”
Her face crumpled, and she threaded her fingers through his, clasping them. “You were right. He deserved so much b-better than me, Cain. So much better. So much more.”