Page 67 of Soft Flannel Hank

She looked up at Hank, who was peeking out the curtains at the empty lot. He wore those soft jeans that barely contained his strength, a flannel plaid shirt that stretched tight over his big shoulders, a Henley underneath. His uniform. He looked put together. But then she saw his boots, the laces undone and trapped under his feet, the boot shafts gaping, as if he had been in too big a hurry to tie them, as if he’d raced to get to her.

Esther smiled weakly at the sight and her heart pounded wildly in her chest. She scooped up the fallen Lovers card and stood, zipping the cards into her backpack and hefting it onto her back.

Hank turned. “Ready?”

No. She wasn’t. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready to be in Hank’s presence and not try to weld herself to him. But she had to try. For him.

“Ready,” she said, and pulled the hood up over her hair, tucking the unruly curls into the deep recesses.

13

With the help of an elaborate scheme involving a laundry cart, Esther found herself curled up tightly in a pile of sheets and towels in the backseat of Hank’s truck. Esther had thought the whole thing a bit overkill. She’d even teased him about watching too many heist movies.

But Hank hadn’t laughed.

“If you were looking for someone new in town, someone who you didn’t think had any connections, where would you be looking? Where do you think they’d stay?” he had said, all business.

Since he’d come to the motel, he’d been Officer Dove again. Longer sentences. A confident set to his shoulders. Now that they were in the truck, he didn’t speak, but she could feel the tension radiating off of him in the silent cab. The only sounds were the forceful breaths he was taking, as if trying to calm himself down.

They drove to the small laundromat in town, and Hank gathered up big armfuls of the linens that covered her, shielding her from view with his body. She tried to make herself as small as possible as she lay there and the temperature in the cab of the truck quickly dropped. Jory had said something about snow.

A gust of frigid air accompanied Hank as he got back into the truck and pulled out of the lot. They were going to drive around for a bit, out of town, Hank had told her. Just to make sure that this scout wasn’t on their tail. Hank had told her they’d be driving out to the reservation to bring a pie to one of his friends. Just to further obscure the trail.

With her ear pressed to the seat, the road noises were more noticeable than usual. Even though he had the heat on and she was covered head to toe in a thick blanket, Esther couldn’t stop trembling. Although whether it was from the letdown of adrenaline or cold, it was hard to tell.

“Can we get some music, maybe?” she asked quietly. Hank didn’t reply but he did turn on the radio.

Slowly, by degrees, Esther felt warmer. She stopped shaking. Her body relaxed. And with the sounds of the road and the truck under her one ear and the harmonies from the speakers in the other, Esther fell asleep.

She didn’t know if it had been minutes or hours when she was awakened by the opening of the door nearest to her head.

“Coast is clear for now, but we’ve got to get you inside.”

Esther nodded numbly and reached for her backpack. He took it from her, along with her duffle bag, and stood aside as she scrambled out of the car and up the steps. He’d already unlocked the door.

“I want you to go upstairs to my room and wait there. It’s the only room in the house besides the hallway that doesn’t have windows with sheer curtains. In case someone’s watching my house, I don’t want them to see you.”

“Can we talk?”

“Not right now,” Hank said, looking at his feet. “I—I’ve got to do a thing.”

“You’re leaving?” she asked, suddenly desperate to not be alone and fully aware of every dripping ounce of irony.

“I’m not leaving. I’ve just… I need to get my head on straight. Then we can talk.”

Esther nodded and turned to the stairs. The hallway was dark, the only light was the weak daylight filtering through the frosted bathroom window and spilling out the door. She sat down on the top step and unlaced her boots, setting them near the top of the steps.

After using the bathroom and splashing her face with cold water, Esther walked down to the end of the hall and pressed the door open. Hank’s room was sparse. He had a wooden, queen-sized bed with a blue and yellow quilt on top. A long dresser. An old wingback chair in the corner. Curious, she opened his closet. Plaid, flannel shirts hung on the top rack. A few button-down dress shirts were further back and, behind them, all the way in the back, she could see the shoulder patch and collar insignia of a police uniform. She closed the closet door.

Thwack. Thwack.

Esther lifted the blackout curtain just enough to peer outside at the backyard, where Hank was chopping wood. It had started to snow and big, lazy flakes floated slowly down around him as he lifted the axe overhead and brought it down with so much force that Esther felt it reverberate in her body.

His face wasn’t clear in the distance, but Esther could see the hard set of his features. She sat on the bed and watched through the crack she had opened behind the heavy fabric.

Hank lost his layers, one at a time. First it was his heavy, canvas winter coat. Then it was the plaid flannel. Eventually, he was down to a white, long-sleeve Henley shirt and his blue jeans. The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms that bulged with muscle beneath the dark hair that covered them.

Esther didn’t just feel the reverberations of his axe swings in her body now. No, she was feeling far less convenient sensations as she took in the sight of his broad chest and the damp shirt that clung to it. The little bun at the top of his head that he’d haphazardly pulled his hair into. The drive of his hips in and out of his axe swings.