Charlie had lost her husband, yes. She’d found his body. Slept beside his empty space in the bed each night. Saw his clothes in the closet. Dealt with everyone’s apologies, for weeks, while Luke was getting surgeries at a hospital half the world away. She was the one with her boots on the ground. Still didn’t change his resolution that they didn’t have to live in a haunted house because of it all. [i]Maybe you being here will make it easier to deal with his absence.[/i] Luke’s shoulders lost some of their tension as he let the words settle under his skin. The statement bothered him for some reason, but he couldn’t explain why. It was clear that they dealt with loss differently, and if he had to look at Sam’s old things every day and every night, then he’d do it. He already said his piece. He wasn’t going to beat the subject to death.

When she came to take the club soda can, his hold was so loose that he almost dropped it. Over the years, small touches became their way of telling each other that everything was going to be ok. Or that everything was going to shit. For some reason, words made all their feelings seem much more real, which would be their damnation. Touch could be misconstrued. [i]Tell me that you need me. Say that you think about it too. Beg me to stay, and I will[/i] – that was crystal fucking clear. Her hand on his elbow or his back while he poured coffee? That could mean anything.

Luke’s own hands were worn and scarred from being a shithead teenager, working on a farm, and being in the military. The Army was selectively lenient with arm tattoos, but anything on his hands was a hard no. Instead of ink, he had callouses, marks, and one missing fingernail on his left pinky finger. He’d gotten it caught while trying to fix the tractor two summer ago, and Christ if it didn’t bleed so much that Sam joked about him sleeping outside so he wouldn’t flood the house. The nail never grew back. There was a scar on across his palm from when he tried to get a rabbit out of a fox trap. The rabbit got free, but Luke hadn’t. His hands never truly seemed clean, no matter how hard he scrubbed them.

Gently, he took the fresh glass from Charlie, and his gaze found her wedding ring. His father never took his off after his mom had died. “Then I won’t tell you what I ate out in the desert,” he said, unable to stop his smirk. “You won’t like it.”

The look on his face changed when she asked him about his errands. He took a large sip from the glass, draining most of it, and turned his attention back to the pot on the stove. It was done. He flipped the burner and removed the lid.

“I have to stop by the police station. Anna messaged me when I was in Germany, and she said I still had personal effects from last summer.”

Anna Bowers was the Hingham Valley Chief of Police. She was also the girl who smoked cigarettes with him under the bleachers in high school. If time and life were different, he probably would’ve married her, but she wanted kids, a house, and roots. She wanted everything that Luke couldn’t give her. He never wanted to be locked in this town. He wasn’t Sam. He never would be. Even still, when he was in town, they would go out for beers and have sex. Just familiar people doing familiar things.

She was also exactly the type of person who would show up unannounced if Luke said he was going to do something and then didn’t.

Luke put his tongue in his cheek and didn’t look at Charlie. Instead, he got plates from the cabinet and made a big deal out of making sure that the silverware matched. He’d rather inspect the patterns on the fork handles than watch her remember exactly why he’d spent a night downtown a year ago. He’d gotten in a bar fight with one of the Atkinson brothers, a drunk who liked to say stupid shit. Shit like if Sam and Charlie had a baby, then Sam needed to get a DNA test to make sure it was his. So jail it was for Luke. And he [i]couldn’t[/i] call Sam about it because he’d spiral, so he’d called Charlie. And that was the story.

He handed her a plate. “We’re going to have this all week, so you better like it.” Either way, it was better than funeral casserole.