Page 32 of The Spinster & the Sock

“I can not, for the life of me, put a single flake of understanding to what just came from your mouth,” she says, cracking a smile.

“You know what,” I sigh, “that’s fair. Okay, but look at this—“ I lean back and gesture to the glass pane. Jo looks out the window, but in order to reach it, she’s leaning over my lap with one hand on my thigh to balance her.

Someday, I’ll make a list of memorable moments where I act without thinking—this is going on the list.

“What am I looking at exactly?”

“The, uh—“ Cold showers. “Bridge, the bridge.” Nope. My Johnson is not deterred. Gerty in a swimsuit—oh, that’s helping.

“See how thick and sturdy it is?” I say, right before I grab her wrist, because I need it off my leg before I embarrass myself. She glances down at our hands and then up to my face and fuck she’s so close. She must be feeling the same way I am, though, because she’s looking at my mouth and now I’m thinking about the bed we broke, and her soft thigh in my hand…

I don’t know which one of us moved—maybe it was both of us—but our noses are a breath apart. She’s breathing heavily, lips parted and, despite my best efforts, I’m hard enough to break diamond. Then the carriage rocks sharply, making our heads knock together before she falls back on her ass in her seat, clutching her forehead.

“Ready to roll on, Mister Hollows?” the cock-blocking—I mean lifesaving—coachman hollers. Clawing at each other is absolutely something we shouldn’t be doing right now.

“Yes,” I huff out, then clear my throat and try again. “Yes, carry on!” The coachman doesn’t respond, but the lurch as the wheels begin moving tells me he heard.

“The future is weak,” Jo whispers.

“Huh?” I twist toward her flushed face, but she avoids my gaze.

“You said the bridge here was strong, and you trusted it. I assume it implies the ones in your time are weak?”

“Something like that,” is all I manage to say. We spend the rest of the trip in awkward silence, with Jo angling her whole body to look out the window while I fight my horny brain to stop replaying the carriage episode from Bridgerton season three in my head and swapping Pen and Colin for myself and Jo.

It’s well past dark when we finally stop at The Broken Wheel, and few words are shared between us as we go straight to bed—her, me, and our trusty pillow barrier.

“…So she touches the rock, and travels back in time, and marries a stranger basically to save her skin. They totally end up falling in love, but then shit blows up—literally—and she leaves Jaime, the hot stranger husband, and goes home by touching the rock again.” I give myself a mental pat on the back for my ten-second summary of Outlander, but take it back when I glance over at Jo, whose eyes are absolutely glazed over. “Jo? You with me?” I ask.

She blinks a few times. “If she loves him, why does she leave him?”

“Like I said, shit blows up and she doesn’t really have a choice. There’s this bad guy who looks exactly like her husband from her time–”

“She was already married?” Jo’s voice hits that octave that people only ever reach when their flabbers have been sufficiently ghasted.

“Well, yeah–but it’s complicated! That’s only the first season. There’s seven seasons out now, and the story is still going.”

“All of that happens in one season? That’s hardly a few months!” Jo shakes her head, and I’m about to laugh when she stops walking and I turn to see why.

We’ve finally reached the towering pillars of Stonehenge.

“Jo,” I say softly. I’ve said goodbye to her so many times, but this one…this feels real. Even though I don’t hear the telltale hum of the stones that Claire does, this is the first time I’ve truly felt it in my bones that this could work. Or I watch too much T.V.

My wife just stands there, a slight breeze whipping strands of her hair across her face as she stares at the megalithic structure. I let her have her moment. It’s been months, what’s another five minutes?

“You have everything?” she finally says, smiling at me the same way Olympians do when their name isn’t called to stand on the podium. I sigh, then pat the bag slung over my shoulder. We’re still not sure if I can actually take anything home with me, but I’m going to try. I have a few woodworking tools, one of the shirts Jo made me—the blue one she likes the best—and my almanac, safely tucked in a zippered pocket of my bibs. I actually haven’t had the heart to check if that’s been sufficient water protection against my weekly pond dives, but I can hope.

“Oh, can’t forget these!” I pull the hem of my trousers up enough for Jo to see my gaudy, gold cock-socks.

Jo snorts. “No one can ever forget your lucky socks, Blaze.” I blink and she’s hugging me. “Let’s skip the depressing farewell, shall we? You had better go; you have lasagna to eat.”

I squeeze her back, lingering a little longer than I should.

“Thank you, Jo.” I tuck the windswept curl behind her ear, allowing my hand to linger on her cheek as I kiss the top of her head, then turn towards the stones before I can change my mind.

It’s silent as I stand toe to rock, like even the birds know this moment is significant. I fill my lungs one last time with the crisp, clean air from a time before we filled the skies with smog, before I close my eyes and reach out a hand to firmly place my palm on its cool surface.

Nothing happens.