Rachel Lee by A January Chill

old self. Finally she even smiled at him and said, "Okay, it was a stupid idea."
    While he would be the first to admit that Joni too often acted on impulse, and that sometimes her reasons weren't the most sensible, he didn't like to hear her put herself down that way. Casting his mind back over the years, he could remember dozens, maybe hundreds, of times when she'd put herself down. It was kind of strange coming from a woman who, as far as he could tell, ought to be spoiled rotten. Witt and Hannah both doted on her to an extreme degree. Maybe that was why she was so impulsive.
    But it didn't explain why she was so quick to call herself stupid. A woman who had a graduate degree in pharmacy shouldn't be thinking of herself that way.
    He shifted in his chair and leaned over the table a little, on an impulse of his own asking her, "Why do you always call yourself stupid?
    You're not stupid at all."
    Her eyes were strangely haunted as they met his. "Maybe not," she said finally. "But I'm not the world's brightest bulb or I wouldn't keep getting into fixes like this. Well, I'll take what's coming to me.
    Maybe it was a stupid idea, but I was trying to make things better. I guess I ought to be smart enough to realize that if twelve years isn't making it better, nothing else is likely to."
    She pushed her roll aside and stared into her coffee cup. When she spoke again, her voice was muffled. "I hate to see people I care about hurting."
    "We all do, Joni. But sometimes we've just got to let them hurt because there's nothing we can do. There's no way to make Witt stop hurting."
    "But what about you?" she asked.
    His heart turned over, and that was exactly what he didn't want to happen. Feeling a pull toward Joni was bad enough given the situation, but feeling any more was suicidal. Rising suddenly, he tossed a few bills on the table to cover their check. He picked up his coffee and looked down at her. "Been nice talking to you, Joni. But let's not make a practice of this. It's not good for anyone. Thanks for trying with Witt."
    Then he turned and walked out, feeling her eyes on him every step of the way.
    Born to hurt, that was what he was, he thought. Born to hurt everyone he knew.
    He didn't make it but half a block before he ran into Sam Canfield.
    They'd gotten friendly after Sam had moved to Whisper Creek a few years back to take a job as a deputy. Sam's wife had died a couple of years ago in a skiing accident, leaving Sam looking haggard and haunted.
    Sam was a tall man, far leaner than he used to be, and since his wife's death, he seemed to have hunched in on himself. His face had taken on deep lines, and his gray eyes had lost their sparkle. Although he was only thirty-five, his dark hair had begun to show streaks of gray.
    "Hey, buddy," Sam said, his voice dragging Hardy's head up from his gloomy study of the slippery sidewalk. "You look like the world's coming to an end."
    "Nan." It was Hardy's usual response. He wasn't comfortable admitting that sometimes he would like to cut his own throat, or find a hole in reality that would allow him to just slip out, like the fire door in a theater. The idea sounded stupid even to him.
    "Right," said Sam, who'd been around the block of life often enough to recognize that for what it was. "Got some time? I'm thinking about stopping at the cafe for lunch, and I don't mind telling you, I'm tired to death of eating alone."
    Hardy was agreeable. He didn't have anything that pressing today, and his mother, who was feeling a little better, had begun to insist she could make her own lunches, thank you very much.
    They sat facing each other in a corner booth. Sam ordered a turkey sandwich and salad. Hardy went for a burger and fries.
    "I try to eat healthy," Sam remarked. "The problem is, it's a lot harder to do when you're living alone."
    Hardy nodded, leaning back to let the waitress put mugs of coffee in front of the two of them. Sam, he thought, was looking better than he had a while back.