Page 123 of Soft Flannel Hank

She tipped her chin up, her lips warm and sweet as she pressed gentle kisses against his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, up to his ear, where she whispered, “I love you.”

He pulled away so that he could look into her eyes, such a bright blue that they still reminded him of a neon sign on a dark night. “I love you too.”

25

The next morning, Hank woke up to Esther sprawled like a starfish, her legs wide, one arm flung over his chest, the other draped over her face. Her mouth was open and he smiled to see how relaxed she was, like all of the tension of the last weeks—months—was gone from her body. She’d never slept that openly, that vulnerably, at Nat’s cabin. It made him happy. She felt safe.

He slipped out of the bed as carefully as he could. She stirred briefly when he stood and the mattress shifted, but didn’t wake up. Hank went to his dresser, easing the drawers open silently so he could pull clothes out, and went to the bathroom to take a shower. He’d scheduled a last-minute therapy session that day and had a lot to do before then.

When Esther woke up an hour or so later, Hank heard her call up to him from the base of the attic ladder. He peeked over the side of the opening.

“What are you doing up there?” she asked with a laugh. “It’s eight thirty in the morning!”

“Something I should have done a long time ago.” Hank answered, feeling the tightness in his chest when he said it. It was true. He should have done it a long time ago. But that didn’t make it any easier to get rid of Marnie’s boxes that she’d left.

For the longest time, he’d told himself that she might ask him to send her something, that she might need something she’d left behind. But that never happened.

“Do you want some help?”

“No, thanks,” he replied quietly.

Esther looked at him in that studying way of hers before nodding. “I’m gonna go to the store, I think. There’s probably not much food in the house. Any requests?”

Hank thought for a minute. He knew what he wanted. He couldtastewhat he wanted. But he didn’t want to be presumptuous. Esther must have seen the conflict written on his face, because she smiled softly and said, “Anything you want, Hank.”

“Could— could you make another one of those apple crumbles?”

Her eyes sparkled, her smile wide. “Of course I can. Anything else?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Alright then. So one apple crumble and whatever I want. I hope you like lobster,” she said, ducking around the ladder. “I’ll be back in a little bit, babe,” she said before trotting down the stairs.

It was the first time she’d called him anything other than his name and he found himself smiling. Suddenly, being surrounded by Marnie’s boxes didn’t feel as oppressive as it had a moment before.

Hank remembered the way he’d felt that first night in the diner when Esther had pulled the Death card, when she’d said it was her favorite.

He could almost taste the bitter diner coffee as he recalled what she’d said to him.“Death is actually one of my favorite cards to pull. Everyone focuses on the ending. But it can mean transition and new beginnings. Leaving an old life behind for a new one.”

Later than day, in his therapy session, Hank said as much to Nadja. She took a long sip out of her coffee mug that said, “Anxiety, Depression, and Panic, Oh My!” with a cartoon picture of the cowardly lion fromThe Wizard of Ozholding a clipboard.

“Do you know what Esther wants? What she wants to do next?”

“She wants me,” Hank said, and he knew it was true. He had none of the glinting, sharp doubts that once rankled him.

“And if she wants to leave World’s End?” Nadja cocked her head to the side as she asked the question.

“I’d go with her.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Hank remembered his first therapy session.I just want you to fix me.He’d begged Nadja.Fix me. He still had nightmares from watching the footage of that police raid gone wrong. He probably always would. There was no fixing that. But Hank had realized over the past few weeks that he didn’t need to befixed.He was a work in progress and that was okay. He liked a project.

He took a sip of his own coffee, feeling the oily bitterness slide across his tongue and down his throat, remembering that first cup of coffee in Nadja’s office. The coffee. The panic attack. The tools to calm himself.

“So now what?” he asked. Would she tell him he was done with therapy now that he was taking care of himself and leaving his house regularly? Because he didn’t want to be done.