Chapter 55
The flight east to west is an excruciating half hour longer than going the other direction, and from Denver, it's a seven hour drive up Interstate 25 to Durant. Combine that with the inexplicable mid-day traffic through northern Colorado, and it all adds up to way too much time in my own fixated company.
Technically, I'm still not supposed to be driving, but I've got full range of motion in my shoulder now and almost no pain, and I'm beyond ready to dust off my independence and put it to good use.
It's one of those ultra-bright, ultra-crisp days right on the cusp of winter. The sky changes very little from state to state and county to county—just uninterrupted blue for hundreds of miles, and north of Cheyenne, a dusting of snow in the fields and on the hills.
Late afternoon, I stop in Casper for gas and a bathroom break, and when I get back to the car, there's a voicemail. It's from three hours earlier, delayed somewhere in the remote stretches.
I watch a young, skinny guy with California plates affixing cheap mini-mart deer whistles to his bumper as I listen to the message:
"Vic." The sound of his voice triggers a stomach flutter. "Your plane landed. United's website shows the flight on a map in real time. I guess you probably know about that." Papers shuffle; a drawer closes."Ferg ordered a new laptop. He left it on my desk, so I'm, uh . . ." He coughs, takes an audible breath. "Drive carefully, okay? Watch out for ice. And pronghorn. We're having a pronghorn problem up here." There's a knock, and Ruby starting, then stopping, then apologizing. He lowers his voice: "I . . . uh . . . the Christmas party's tonight, but I don't have to go. Whatever you want. I mean, if you want to see me."
I'm expecting to hear the end-of-message electronic chick when he adds, "I hope you want to see me, Vic."
It's another forty-five minutes before I trust myself enough to call him back without acting like a giddy teenager, or crying. I try his house first, not because I think that's where he'll be, but as a warm up. I don't leave a message. Then I call the station, and Ruby answers. With all my worrying and anticipating, it hadn't occurred to me that in the middle of the day, he never answers the phone at work.
"Ruby," I say. "Hey."
"Vic?" She sounds surprised to hear from me. Maybe she wasn't sure I was coming back, either. "Are you in Durant?"
"On my way."
"Well, we all look forward to seeing you," she says.
Then she waits, and the way it works is I'm supposed to state my business.
"So is Walt in? Around?" I say. "There, I mean?"
"Hold on," she says, and I don't know if that means hold on, let me get him, or hold on, let me check, and there's a significant enough difference that it's causing no small amount of anxiety.
After what seems like a ridiculously long time, he answers, and my stomach lurches.
I don't know if it's something hormonal or what, but I have a tough time spitting anything out, and when I do, my voice is flimsy.
"I just got your message," I say, and it's true enough for now. Since minimizing dishonesty is one of my behavior modifications, I might cop to it later when he's more likely to understand why it was necessary.
"Where are you?" he asks.
"About sixty miles south of Durant."
In a pasture along the highway, a spotted horse rolls around on a particularly wide patch of snow while two dogs watch. I didn't even know horses could do that.
"Want me to meet you at Budget?" he says. "Take you home?"
The idea of him taking me home sends ripples through my body, but after all this, I need to center, to prepare before jumping in.
"They'll give me a ride."
"Yeah," he says, with a slight quake. "Okay."
I take so long to formulate my next line that he says, "It's okay, Vic. I understand."
"No, Walt, you don't. I'll be there. Tonight."
"You will? You don't have to."
"I know I don't have to. I'll be there."
When I finally make it home, I don't have the time I had set aside for obsessing over what to wear and how to greet him. I've been robbed of that opportunity by slow rental car reps and increasingly snowy roads.
All the clothes I have in regular rotation are smashed into the suitcase I lived out of for three and a half weeks, so my options are limited. I battle with myself over whether or not to wear the black skirt that's a bit on the tight side like everything else I own, and knee-high boots. I'm self-conscious about dressing that way around here, around him. He's only seen me in a dress once, and that day I don't think he was looking. I don't want to upset the equilibrium, but I really don't have time to labor over it, so I decide to risk it, and it's cold as fuck, so I go with a sweater and tights, too.
About three seconds after I finish my make-up Tabatha picks me up, and she tells me how adorable I look and asks me about Philly and doesn't mention Walt.
The second we walk into the Red Pony, there's Cady talking with Bud and Bud's wife Darika, who I recognize from the pictures. She sees me, and I wave because flipping her the bird wouldn't really be in the spirit of the holiday.
I've already made the rounds, said hi to everyone, and I'm on my second beer and chatting with Lucian and Ferg when Walt comes out of Henry's office. He's wearing a white shirt, pressed, and new-looking jeans, and his hair is all flattened down and neat.
He stands there for a moment with this vague, dreamy smile on his face before he crosses the bar to us.
"Welp," Lucian says, giving Walt a hard look then winking at me. "Don't guess you have much use for us anymore. Come on, Ferg."
Ferg shrugs and follows him.
"What was that?" I say.
He's so close now, but we don't touch.
"Mental illness," he says.
It's awkward for a moment, and inside, the panic starts brewing, the fear that we've ruined it and we can't fix it. But then he leans down the way he does, lips brushing my ear, and he says, "You're beautiful."
And then it's a whole different kind of panic.
We sit down at the table I think of as being ours, from that one night, and I get the feeling he chooses it on purpose. For maybe fifteen songs and two more beers, it's just us. People are getting louder, and Ferg and Cady are dancing, but no one comes over to us, no one comes anywhere near.
The conversation is easy, but we skirt the edges of anything intimate: Philly in fall, and Bud coming on full-time pending a few minor details, and my official return on January 3rd, but I can come back sooner if I want, and rogue horses rolling in snow. He tells me they do that.
There's a lull then, and that extended eye contact that has at times been so unnerving, but that now feels warm and safe, and he says, "So Van der Horn. He was the picture of health after all."
"I know," I say. "Who'da thunk?"
"Totally clean," he says.
My pulse quickens.
"Totally clean. His parting gift."
My throat feels dry, and I'm sweating, so I take a sip of my beer, and still his eyes are on me.
He slides his hand over and lies his fingers lightly over mine, traces my knuckles with his thumb.
"Let's do this, Vic," he says, and I'm not entirely sure I'm following because Van der Horn's healthy blood is the obvious segue to the return of our physical freedom, but I don't know if that's what he's talking about.
But then it seems like maybe it is because he leans in, so slowly, so his lips are hovering there next to mine. He's giving me a chance to decide, but I decided a long time ago. It seems like it's been ages since I've felt his lips on mine, and in so many ways, it has been.
When he pulls back, he says, "Us I mean. Let's do us."
"You know we'll fight. A lot."
"I know. But we're not that bad at it, and we're both fast learners."
Every year at the end of the Christmas party, or at least every year I've been here, he does this thing where he gathers everyone together once everyone's good and drunk, and he spends about thirty seconds thanking us for our service and thanking the cursory folks for their support of Department business. When he gets ready to do that, I find Ferg.
"How's everything?"
"Okay, I guess," he says, and he smiles, and his dimples show.
"How's your grandma?"
"She took it surprisingly well. Like she was expecting it."
"Strong woman," I say.
He nods and takes a sip of his beer, then he says, "You know, I'm glad you guys finally worked it out."
"What?" I say, and I cross my arms, then uncross them, try not to look defensive since it's too late not to sound it.
"You and Walt. I'm glad you figured it out."
I stare at him.
"I'm not an idiot, Vic."
"When?"
"He came into the station carrying your shoes."
"Crap," I say. "I knew it."
"No you didn't."
"So you lied to me?"
"It's only a lie by omission," he says in his nerdy Ferg way. "I didn't actually say I didn't know."
"Are you okay with it?"
"Yeah. I'm fine with it. As long as he spreads some of the crappy jobs out like he's been doing."
"Does anyone else know?"
"I don't think so. But he did just kiss you in public."
"Yeah," I say. "There's that."
Walt steps back against the bar, and everyone crowds around.
He starts by scratching his head and putting his hand on his hip, then doing his whole thanks-for-your-dedication and it's-been-a-particularly-challenging-year-but-I-couldn't-ask-for-a-better-team thing, and he tells all the extra people like Henry and Cady, and now Tabatha, and Lucian, sort of, how much he values them. And then the thirty seconds are up, and I'm thinking I could have him outside in three minutes, just for a little break, just to get some of it out of our system.
But he surprises everyone by saying, "There's something else this time, and I'll be brief 'cause I know there's a lot of beer left to drink yet."
He shifts his weight and looks away, over at the door, then back at everyone.
"Most of you know what a hard time I had moving forward with my life, and that lately I've been doing a better job of that." He bows his head. "And, uh . . ." He looks up again, but he doesn't look at anyone in particular. "Vic and I are—"
Someone says, "In love," in sort of a high-pitched, mocking tone, and before I can stop myself, I turn around and mumble, "What the fuck?" and everyone laughs.
"That's about right," Walt says. "And I'm not . . . we're not asking for anyone's blessing. If you work for the Department, you should know there's no official rule against us seeing each other, but it's your right to have a comfortable work environment. There are various changes and accommodations that can be made. Come talk to me and we'll handle it to your satisfaction."
He rubs the back of his neck.
"If you don't work for the Department, it's not up for discussion. Unless you have something supportive to offer. This relationship is my priority, as it should be."
He shakes his head, shifts his weight again, and smiles.
"I guess that's it. Merry Christmas. And don't drop by the cabin for the next few days."
There's laughter and clapping and hooting and loud Christmas cheer, but no one seems particularly focused on either of us. The only person who looks truly shocked is Bud, and I guess that makes sense. Cady catches my eye and gives me a half smile, and I do my best to return the gesture. It's a start.
When I finally manage to disentangle myself from the crowd, I find Walt standing at the double doors in his jacket. He holds my coat up and says, "Let's go."
"Where?" I say as I thread my arm into the sleeve, but he ignores me.
Once I'm all bundled and buttoned, he takes my hand and leads me out into the middle of the parking lot, which is now a white, seamless expanse glowing with the warm red reflection of the Christmas lights lining the gutter and the windows.
"You're not mad at me for that?" he says, exhaling a condensation cloud and nodding towards the bar.
"I haven't had much time to process it," I say. "I'll get back to you."
Beneath the winter stars, he pulls me to him and kisses me, deep and warm and wet and slow, exactly the way it's supposed to be.
"Come on," he says, leading me towards the car.
"Aren't we going back in?"
"I don't know."
He pulls me around the passenger side and pins me against the door. Even through the heavy layers, I can feel him pressed against my hipbone.
He's kissing my neck, and his hands are busy, touching skin anywhere he can find it: my cheeks, my scarred collarbone, under the coat, beneath the sweater, along the waist of the skirt, and all the time, respiration increasing, hands warming against my body.
He slides one hand all the way up one leg, under the skirt. I inhale a sharp, shocked breath, and he stops, searches my eyes.
"They're thigh-highs," I say.
The corners of his mouth creep up.
He fumbles in his pocket for his keys, unlocks and opens the passenger door, lifts me onto the seat.
"You're the sheriff of this county."
"I know. It's all field behind me."
He unzips his coat.
"What if someone comes out?" I say, but I'm only half committed to the question, if that, because his fingers are outlining the elastic of my underwear.
He kisses me, smiling, and starts unbuckling his belt.
"I'll see them before they see us," he says.
"We shouldn't do stuff like this."
"Just this once," he says. "Trust me."
"I do," I say.
He kisses me again.
"Keep your eyes open."
"I will," he says.