THIRTY-SEVEN

Charlie had bypassed the low-end chain motel on the Thirty’s eastern edge for the old-fashioned motor court on the west end of town, hard by the river. Its rooms, each with a postage-stamp concrete patio and two plastic chairs, faced the water. Flowers bobbed in boxes below the windows, their colors muted in the light that shone above each room’s entrance.

Charlie opened the door before Lola could knock. “Heard somebody coming,” he said. “Figured it was you.”

Lola started to enter the room, but he shook his head and put his finger to his lips. “She’s asleep.” He pushed one of the chairs toward her. Lola sat. The plastic was cold through her clothing. She was glad she’d donned a sweatshirt before heading into town. She tucked her hands into its pouch. Charlie lowered himself into the chair beside her and tipped it back against the wall. The river slid past, whispering over rocks, eddying among the grasses in the shallows. It glinted like liquid metal in the moonlight. A damn shame, Lola thought, that Charlie had chosen such a pretty spot to end things. She’d have preferred the chilly anonymity of the chain motel.

Charlie waited. That old trick. Thinking she’d crack and speak first. He could just think again. Lola closed her eyes and let her breathing slow. She had a few tricks of her own, one of them an ability to catnap when stressed. She feigned sleep and then it arrived, fast and fitful, a shallow dip below the surface, just deep enough to return her to the kitchen and the moment when her hands opened, launching the pot. Crunching, splashing sounds. A scream. Glass breaking. Thud of body to floor.

“Lola.” A hand on her arm. “Wake up.”

Lola surfaced with a gasp. Skiff vanished. Charlie’s face hovered over hers, concern softening his features. “God,” Lola breathed. “Thank you.” She wanted to pull him closer, to soak in the strength that, much as she refused to admit it, had sustained her these last years. He withdrew to his own chair, his face once again set in lines of implacable anger.

“You want to tell me what happened out here? Start at the beginning. Don’t even think about leaving anything out.”

Lola left some things out anyway; mainly, the dalliance with Dave. She could only handle so much self-destruction. She wasn’t suicidal.

“Honestly, we thought we were safe,” she said at the end, her voice hoarse with the effort of prolonged whispering. “The story was going online. You were on your way. We had no way of knowing his friend was hanging out with that girl from the rez.”

“But he’d chased you. Nearly ran you off the road. And you didn’t even call the cops when you realized it was him.” Each word dropped distinct and heavy onto a scale already lopsided with her failings.

Because when she’d told Pal about how Skiff had chased her, Pal finally decided to talk. To have called the sheriff at that moment might have given Pal time to change her mind. Lola knew better than to say those things aloud. It didn’t matter.

“You and your stories. They’ll always come first.”

“It was a hell of a story.” The word slipped unbidden from her lips, words that could only make him angrier. But it was the truth. “A hell of a story,” she repeated. “Even without what it turned out to be. Those deaths, those arrests, those kids who left Wyoming whole and came back dead or broken inside. It’s happening all over the country and nobody has to think too much about it because our fabulous all-volunteer military is filled with people from rural areas or inner cities, and nobody gives a rat’s ass about what happens to people in those places.”

Charlie started to say something but Lola bulled right over it. “And then Pal. Do you know how many thousands, how many tens of thousands, of women and some men, too, are assaulted in the military? And in this case, we’re not just talking assault, but murder. Those assholes were going to get away with everything. But she stood up to them. And I helped her do it. That’s what I do, Charlie. Sometimes it’s dangerous—not nearly as dangerous as what Pal did, but still. It’s dangerous the way your work is sometimes dangerous, too, but you don’t see me going all whiney and crybaby about how you should stop. How many times have you gotten up from the dinner table when a call came in? What about Margaret’s birthday last year? You left her party because of—what? A goddamn truck wreck?”

Charlie’s protest turned defensive. “A truck that spilled steers all over the road. And I didn’t have a choice. I’m the only law in the county outside the rez. But you have a choice. There’s other reporters out there.”

Lola had already pounced. Now she dug in her claws. “But it was my story. I don’t give away my stories, Charlie. Just like you don’t give away your cases. This is who I am. Just like the Becker Babes are who they are.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. If you hadn’t figured all of that out after six years, then you had no business asking me to marry you.”

Lola rose from her chair. She stood over him, no longer bothering to whisper. “And you have no business implying I’m a bad mother, either. I’m a good reporter and I’m a good mother. The two aren’t mutually exclusive, just like being a good sheriff who’s on call around the clock doesn’t mean you’re a bad father.”

Charlie tried to interject something. Lola held up her hand to stop him. “No. This whole proposal thing has been your show from the start. Maybe I’ll marry you someday.” Lola thought about the marshmallow dress. The sticky makeup. “Maybe not. But for sure, it’s not going to be because you bullied me into it. And if this means ending things between us, so be it.”

The words hung there, as much of a surprise to Lola as they no doubt were for Charlie. Beyond them, an immense blackness, populated by specters of separate homes, shared-custody arrangements, awkward social situations involving extended family and Charlie with a new girlfriend hanging on his arm. Lola wanted to shove past Charlie into the room, take Margaret and flee with her into the night. Life without Charlie, she could handle. Maybe. Life without Margaret, even part of the time? Incomprehensible. But they’d arrived at this point, and there was no turning back.

Charlie pushed himself slowly from the chair, only inches away from her when he stood, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body. She leaned in. He held her so close that the buttons on his shirt mashed into her cheek.

“Maybe you’re bluffing, Lola. I know how you like to do that. It’s how you get half your stories. Well, I’m calling your bluff. The proposal goes. Forget I mentioned it. But I hope you stay.”