Hook, Line, and Sinker: Chapter 12

Hannah was eleven when she got her first pair of headphones.

She’d always sung along loudly to whatever played on satellite radio. Always had a knack for remembering the words, knowing exactly where the tempo picked up. But when she got those headphones, when she could be alone with the music, that’s when her enjoyment of it soared.

Since they were a gift from her stepfather, of course they were completely over the top. Pink noise-canceling ones that were almost too heavy for her neck to hold up. So she’d spent hours upon hours in her room lying down, head supported by a pillow, playing the music her mother had loaded onto her phone. Billie Holiday had transported her to the smoky jazz rooms of the past. The Metallica she’d downloaded, despite lacking her mother’s permission, made her want to rage and kick things. When she got a little older, Pink Floyd made her curious about instruments and method and artistic experimentation.

Music could cut her straight down the middle. Nothing else in her life had the power to do that. She often wondered if something was wrong with her that a real-life event could have less of an impact than a song written fifty years ago. But those two parallel lines—real life and art—had never collided like this. And for the second time since she’d met Fox, he was inside the experience with her. This experience she’d always, always had alone. Wanted to have alone. The first time had been at the record expo in Seattle when they’d shared a pair of AirPods in the middle of a busy aisle, the world ceasing to exist around them. The second time was now. In his living room.

Fox sang her father’s words, filling the unadorned living room with an echo from the past that wrapped right around her throat and squeezed.

His singing voice was slightly deeper than his speaking one, low and husky, like a lover whispering to someone in the dark, and that fit him so well, the intimate quality of it. Like he was passing on a secret. It racked her with a warm shiver and circled her in a hug she desperately needed, because, oh God, it was a beautiful song. Not just any song, though . . . It was about her family.

She knew from the first refrain.

An intuition rippled in her fingertips until she had to grasp them together in her lap, and as more and more lyrics about a fisherman’s growing dedication to his family passed Fox’s lips, his image begun to blur. But she couldn’t blink to rid herself of the moisture, could only let it pool there, as if any movement might swipe the melody from the air, rob her of the growing burn in the center of her chest.

So many times she’d tried to bridge the gap between herself and this man who’d fathered her, and never succeeded. Not when she’d gone to visit the brass statue in his honor up at the harbor, not in looking at dozens of photographs with Opal. She’d felt a tremor of nostalgia upon opening Cross and Daughters with Piper, but . . . there had been nothing like this. Hearing the song was almost like having a conversation with Henry Cross. It was the closest she would ever come. This explanation of his conflicting loves—the sea and his family.

At one point, at least while writing this song, he’d wanted to quit fishing. He’d wanted to stay home more. With them. It just didn’t happen in time. Or he kept being pulled back to the ocean. Whatever the reason may be, with his confession, he finally became real.

“Hannah.”

Fox’s worried voice brought her head up, and she found him rising from the couch, coming toward her. He let the paper float down to rest on the table, and she watched it happen through damp eyes, her heart flapping in her throat.

“Sorry, I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect . . .”

She let the sentence trail off when her voice started to crack. And then Fox was scooping her up off the floor into his arms. He seemed almost stunned that he’d done it, circling for a moment as if he didn’t know what to do with her now that he had her, but he finally turned and carried her from the room. With her forehead tucked into his neck—when did it get there?—she watched as they stopped in front of the door to his bedroom, his muscles tensing around her. “Just . . . I’m not suggesting anything by bringing you in here, okay? I just thought you’d want to get away from it.”

Did that make any sense? Not really. But to her, it did. And he was right. She wanted to be removed from the moment before it ate her alive, and he’d sensed it. Fox shouldered open the door and brought her into his cool, dark bedroom, sitting them on the edge of the unmade bed, Hannah curled in his lap, tears creating twin rivers down her face. “Christ,” he said, ducking his head to meet her eyes. “I had no idea my singing was this bad.”

A watery laugh burst out of her. “It’s actually kind of perfect.”

He looked skeptical, but relieved she’d laughed. “I didn’t remember what the song was about until I was halfway through it. I’m sorry.”

“No.” She leaned her temple against his shoulder. “It’s good to know I’m not made of stone, you know?”

His fingers hovered just above her face momentarily, before he used his thumbs to brush away her tears. “You’re the furthest thing from that, Hannah.”

Several moments ticked by while she replayed the lyrics in her head, content to be held in an embrace that was unrushed and sturdy. “I think maybe . . . up until I heard the song, there was part of me that didn’t really believe Henry could be my dad. Like it was all some mistake and I’ve been going along with it.”

“And now?”

“Now I feel like . . . he’s found a way to reassure me.” She turned her face into his chest and sighed. “You helped with that.”

His forearm muscles twitched beneath her knees. “I . . . No.”

“Yeah,” she insisted softly. “Opal thought Henry might be where I got my love for music. It’s weird to think it came from somewhere. Like a little boop of DNA makes my spine tingle during the opening notes of ‘Smoke on the Water.’”

Fox’s chest rumbled. “It’s ‘Thunderstruck’ for me. AC/DC.” A beat passed. “All right, I’m lying. It’s ‘Here Comes the Sun.’”

His warm T-shirt absorbed her laugh. “There’s no way to hear it without smiling.”

“There really isn’t.” He stroked his fingertips down her right arm, then seemed to pull back, as if he’d done it without thinking and realized it was too much. “I always wonder why you don’t play an instrument.”

“Oh, do I have a story for you.” Her arm still tingled from where he’d touched it. They were sitting in the dark, speaking in hushed tones on his bed. She was in his lap and wrapped in his arms, and there was nothing uncomfortable about it. None of the awkwardness that would normally come from blubbering in front of someone who wasn’t Piper. Although Hannah couldn’t deny there was an underlying tension in Fox. Like electricity that he didn’t know how to turn off but was clearly trying to. “I went through such an obnoxious hipster phase when I was thirteen. Like I thought I was truly discovering all these classic songs for the first time and no one understood or appreciated them like me. I was terrible. And I wanted to be different, so I asked for harmonica lessons.” She tilted her head back, found his eyes in the dark. “Word to the wise, don’t ever learn the harmonica while you have braces.”

“Hannah. Oh God. No.” His head fell back briefly, a laugh puffing out of him. “What happened?”

“Our parents were in the Mediterranean, so we walked to our neighbor’s house and they were in France—”

“Ah, yes. Typical neighborhood problems.”

She snorted. “So their landscaper offered to drive me and Piper—who had actually peed her pants laughing—in the back of his truck.” She could barely keep her voice even, the need to giggle was so great. “We were driven to the closest hospital in the back of a pickup truck while the harmonica was stuck to my face. Every time I exhaled, the harmonica would play a few notes. People were honking . . .”

His whole body was shaking with laughter, and Hannah could tell he’d finally, fully relaxed. The sexual tension didn’t leave completely, but he’d shelved it for now. “What did they say at the hospital?”

“They asked if I was taking requests.”

He was laughing before, but now he fell backward, the sound booming and unrestrained. Hannah yelped as the mattress dipped, causing her to roll without warning on top of him. She ended up sprawled with her hip against his stomach, her upper half twisted so their chests were pressed together.

Fox’s laughter died when he realized their position.

Their mouths were only an inch apart—and Hannah wanted to kiss him. Terribly. His darkening eyes said he wanted the same. If she was being honest, she wanted to straddle his hips and do a lot more than kiss. But she listened to her instincts, the same ones she’d heeded that afternoon, and held back, scooting away so they were no longer touching and her head was resting on his pillow. Fox watched her from under his hooded eyelids, his chest rising and falling, then carefully arranged himself across from her, his head on the other pillow. As if following her lead.

They stayed like that for a while, several minutes passing without either of them saying a word. Almost as if they were getting used to being in a bed together. Being this up close and personal without the weight of expectations. It was enough to simply lie there with him, and Hannah needed him to know that. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was important for him to know that nothing needed to happen between them for this time together to be worthwhile.

“All right . . .” he started, watching her steadily. “I guess we’ve worked up to it.”

Hannah didn’t move. Didn’t even swallow.

Fox shifted on the bed, held out the wrist on which he wore a leather bracelet. “This belonged to my father. He worked down the coast a ways. A fisherman, too. He married my mother after she got pregnant with me, but the marriage didn’t last beyond a few pretty miserable years.” He twisted his wrist, making the leather turn a little. “I wear this to remind myself I’m exactly like him and that will never change.”

* * *

The way he said it dared her to recoil. Or issue a denial.

But she only held his gaze and waited patiently, her fist curled into his pillow, eyes and mouth puffy from crying. Cute and compassionate and singular. One of a kind. And she was interested in this sob story?

What the hell was this, anyway? A heart-to-heart in the dark with a girl? His headboard should be cracking off the wall right now. She should be screaming into his shoulder, drawing blood on his back. The cornered animal inside him bayed, begging him to distract. To reach over and fist her dress, drag her across the bed and roll right on top of her, make her dizzy with his tongue in her mouth.

His weapon had been taken away, though. She’d disarmed him this afternoon.

No armor. Nothing to deflect with.

And part of him seriously hated the vulnerable state in which she’d left him. The railing of his ship had disappeared, no barrier to block him from toppling into the turbulent sea. He didn’t want this kind of intimacy. Didn’t want sympathy or pity or understanding. He was just fine continuing to guard the wound. Pretending it wasn’t there. Who the hell was she to come and rip off the bandage?

She was Hannah. That’s who.

This girl who didn’t want to have sex with him—and yet was still interested. Lying there in his bed wanting to know more about him. No sign of judgment. No impatience. No movements at all. And as much as he resented the intrusion into his inner hell, Jesus, he fucking adored her, wanted to give her anything she wanted. So badly that it burned.

I wear this to remind myself I’m exactly like him and that will never change.

With his words hanging in the atmosphere, he stuffed his hand under the pillow, putting the bracelet out of sight. “I never made a conscious choice to be like him, I just was. Even before I’d ever been with a girl, it was like . . . everyone treated me like being . . . experienced was inevitable. There is something in my personality, the way I look, I guess. The parents of my schoolmates were always saying, Look out for that one. He’s got the devil in his eyes. Or, He’s the one your mama warns you about. It didn’t make sense when I was younger, but as I got older and started to recognize my father’s behavior with women, I figured it out. My sixth-grade teacher used to say, He’s going to be a heartbreaker. Everyone laughed and agreed and . . . Look, I don’t remember exactly when it started, only that I eventually embraced that image once I was in high school until there was a blur. Just a fucking blur of bodies and faces and hands.”

He breathed in and out through his nose, locating the courage to keep going. To completely unwrap himself in front of this girl whose opinion mattered so much to him.

“When I was a senior, my mom sent me to visit my father for a weekend. He’d been trying to reach out, sending cards and whatnot. They didn’t have a formal arrangement, she just thought he deserved a shot. And . . . after a couple of days at his place, I knew. I knew I didn’t want to be like him, Hannah.”

Some details he kept to himself.

Already he felt like this whole seedy explanation of his lifestyle was corrupting Hannah. This sweetheart with all the fucking promise in the world and a head full of songs didn’t need his past taking up space in her mind. They were on opposite ends of the bed, like two sides of the moon—one dark, one light—so he wouldn’t tell her about the revolving door of women he’d witnessed coming in and out of his father’s apartment that weekend. Or the sounds he’d heard. The flirting and fighting and cloying smell of pot.

Fox swallowed hard, begging the pace of his pulse to slow. “Anyway.”

A full minute passed while he tried to get it together. He wasn’t sure he could explain the rest until Hannah slid her hand across the bed and threaded their fingers together. He flinched, but she held on.

“Anyway,” he continued, trying not to acknowledge the warmth spreading up his arm. “I always had decent grades, believe it or not. Probably have Brendan to thank for that. He was always roping me into study groups and forcing me to do flash cards with him.”

“Flash cards are so Brendan,” she murmured. “I bet they were color-coded.”

“And alphabetized.” He couldn’t help pressing the pad of his thumb to her pulse, rubbing the sensitive spot once before forcing his touch back to platonic. There was no distracting her with sex—she didn’t want it. As much as that disappointed him, he was starting to find there was something freeing in not having to perform physically. In not having to fulfill an expectation. “Most of my friends stayed close for college, but I got out of here. I wanted to get rid of this image. This . . . label as the local stud. I’d earned it, fine, but I didn’t want it anymore. So I left. I went to Minnesota and I found new people. I was a new person. The first two years of college, I dated occasionally, but nothing like what I was doing in high school. Not even close. And then I met Melinda. We didn’t go to the same school, but she lived close by and . . . I thought it was serious. I’d never been in a real relationship before, but it felt like one. We went to the movies, out of town. I stopped seeing other people. It was like, shit . . . I can do this. I don’t have to fit into the mold anymore.”

A sharp object slid between his ribs, preparing to skewer.

“At the same time, I had this friend, right? Kirk. He was the one who introduced me to Melinda. As his family friend. Kirk and I shared a dorm room, both of us majoring in business. Sophomore year, we decided to work together on a start-up. We had this idea for an online stock footage company that would specialize in aerial shots. From drones.” He shook his head. “There are companies now that do this. Your production company has probably used one. But back then, there wasn’t anything like it. And we worked on it hard. We were going to be business partners. I was, like, a million fucking miles from who and what I’d been in Westport, you know?”

Was he really going to tell her the next part and humiliate himself on purpose? It was bad enough that he had to live with the embarrassment of what happened back then, let alone watch Hannah register it. But her grip was firm on his hand, her eyes unwavering, and he just kept going, like he’d been given an invisible push, no idea where he would land but knowing he couldn’t stop now.

“One holiday weekend, Melinda was home visiting her parents. I’d lied, saying I was going home, too. I didn’t, though. I never went home back then. I wanted to pretend Westport didn’t even exist. No one knew who I’d been, and I wanted to keep it that way.” He let out a long breath. “That weekend, I came back from finishing a paper in the library, and they were in our dorm. Together. Watching a movie in Kirk’s bed.” He tried to pull his hand free of Hannah’s, because he was starting to feel dirty over what was coming and he didn’t want that filthiness touching her, but she held on, tightening her hold. “So I confronted them. Explained that Melinda and I had been seeing each other for months. Kirk was livid, but Melinda . . . she just laughed.”

Hannah frowned. Her first visible reaction to the whole sordid story. For some reason, he absorbed that reaction like a sponge. Yeah, it was confusing, right? Yeah. She thought so, too. That was something. He’d have to explain in a minute, and her confusion would clear up, but for now, that frown provided him the push he needed to finish.

“Turns out, I was her hall pass.” The sharpness in his sternum pulled back and lanced forward. “She reminded Kirk that I was her free pass, they’d established it on day one, so he couldn’t be mad she’d cheated. I was just the side-door guy. Not a serious boyfriend.” He shrugged jerkily. “I didn’t know they were dating because he never brought her around me. Because of this. Because he was jealous over her finding me attractive. And spoiler, she’d definitely called his bluff on the hall pass. He was not okay with it at all. He walked away from the start-up, moved out of the dorm. Never wanted to speak to me again—and I couldn’t blame him. I’d done the exact type of shit everyone expected me to do since grade school. Brought sex with me everywhere I went, intentional or not. It didn’t matter how much I tried to be someone else, this manwhore label is welded onto me. Melinda knew it without any information about my past. My business partner wouldn’t even bring his girlfriend around me. It’s just what they saw in me.”

Fox realized he was breathing fast and took a moment to slow down.

“I dropped out after that. Didn’t see a point in trying to convince people to believe I’m something I’m not. I’ve been working on the Della Ray ever since.”

They stayed very still, very quiet for several moments.

Panic ensued when Hannah started to scoot closer, her expression somber.

“I’m a good time. I’m easy. I’m fine with that.”

“No.”

“Hannah.”

When she reached his side of the bed to stroke his face, he pushed their foreheads together, teased her lips with a brush of his own. Hannah couldn’t disguise her reaction. Or the soft shudder that worked through her limbs and belly. Slowly, he dragged her tight to his body, locking their mouths together. It was fight-or-flight. Go on the offensive or risk further exposure, no matter that he was fighting the exact thing giving him comfort.

Distract. Distract.

“Come on, babe,” he breathed against her lips, groaning at the rapid swell between his legs, his fingers gathering the hem of her dress higher, higher. “I’ll make it so good for you. I want to.”

“No.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him, her smaller chest heaving against his larger one. “We’re okay just like this.” She nudged his jaw with her nose and settled closer, as if letting him know she wasn’t afraid. “Just like this.”

Even after what he’d just told her?

Wasn’t she paying attention?

She could resist him all she wanted, hold his hand and be his friend, but nothing would change him. His identity was set in stone. What did she want from him?

This, apparently. Just this.

Wanted whatever he was, a blend of faults and ugly truths, wanted him just to lie there with her.

It took him some time to wade through the disbelief, but he finally managed to slide one arm beneath Hannah, cradling the back of her head in one hand. Carefully, he drew her into his neck, his eyes closing over the balm she spread inside him. Not quite healing his wounds, but definitely dulling the pain for a while.

Just for a while. He’d just hold her . . . for a while.

Seconds later, Fox fell asleep in Hannah’s arms.