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Remember Me. Y’all know me and my sappy sickly sweet MO by now I think, haha!
The winter morning sunlight is the color of champagne as it filters in through the sliding back door of the main room, and Sansa is hypnotized, mesmerized, swept away by the dazzle and sparkle of light that winks against the crystal beading of her wedding shoes.
They are prettier than she remembered, having bought them two weeks ago only to immediately shove them under the bed to keep them hidden from Sandor.
It has been a whirlwind since coming home from Spokane, snow on their heels and in their hair as they came back to this sweeping land of sun and sky.
Lady is a trot and circle around him, clever face turned up for a scratch behind her ears before she sniffs his feet and returns to her bed by the sofa.
Sansa sets her chin and lifts it. Is it a big old pile of money? He stills immediately, looks down at her foot before sliding his hand under the cuff of her jeans, lightly wrapping his wind chilled fingers around her ankle, making her gasp.
His hand moves up to her calf, burrowing in the bend of her knee as he steps into her, pulling her leg around the trunk of his body, hips a press to hers.
The sliding glass door is to her left and his right and the guileless sun illuminates them like treasure the color of a blush, a shimmer of peach fuzz hardened to gemstones and glitter.
The winter air rushes in like wild horses, chills her skin and cools her hot blood.
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Margie shakes her head with a grin. Sandor sighs, drawing up and away from her somewhat, as if it could lessen the scandalous position they are putting on display, and he kisses her before resting his forehead against hers.
Bronn is in a squat by a torn open white trash bag, unpacking a bare root fruit tree from the wet straw and hay it came shipped in, is quick to position the five foot tall thing over a 15 gallon pot, and Sandor takes no time to grab the bag of soil by his side, lowering to his knees and pouring out the warm, moist earth over the trimmed down roots.
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Instead he lets it sift back to the freshly potted Asian pear. They are silent a few moments as Sandor squats down to tear into another garbage bag of wet straw and trimmed roots, as Bronn uses the toe of his boot to scrape off a swipe of mud on the baseboard of the old kitchen cabinet they keep their cash register on.
Unable to resist the temptation, Sandor finally looks up and over his shoulder at his friend, who is staring intently down at the gravel beneath their feet.
They work in amused, companionable silence a while, unpacking and replanting pear and pecan trees, the image of him and Sansa a warm sear on his thoughts.
Sansa has been on the pill since before they even came together, and he is all happy ignorance of this world. Your folks had a shit marriage that led to your mom bailing on the two of you.
It makes sense. To his relief his friend thinks on it a moment before nodding, and they finish out the day replanting. He shrugs.
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She is a hum and whir, thinks this must be what a beehive feels like, full of sticky sweet and fit to burst with buzzing warmth, all because of the wedding dress she can call her own now.
It flits like an angel on the periphery of her thoughts, a billow and waft of soft skirts and gauzy swathes of fabric, the kiss of silk, the cinching on her waist.
She is a tiptoe instead of steady stride around the house that afternoon when she comes home, her fingertips a drift on surfaces, the countertop, the back of a chair, the edge of the table.
He is by the door, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it before he makes his slow approach.
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She is in a mood sent from heaven and so she is more than happy to tease and to toy. Would you like to see those? She models them for Genna, lets her touch the beading and sequins, the crystals and shimmer, and upon her insistence wears them the rest of the evening as Sandor grills rosemary Dijon chicken outside in the blustery cold, and he finally gets a good, close look when she props her feet in his lap after dinner, legs crossed at the ankle, and he too ghosts his finger down the heel, across the peep toe and the cherry red of her toenail polish.
It is the faintest of touches but it makes her shiver all the same, and he grins when she jumps slightly at the contact of skin.
Sansa laughs, as hushed as the lighting here in the soft world of goose down comforter and cotton sheets.
She runs her hand up his forearm, lacing her fingers between his, two hands pressed to her heart, and she tips her head back, turns to find him, to kiss him.
Sandor pushes into her from behind with a slow groan and she reaches back for him, nails to flesh as she urges him forward. They are slow, long, shuddering thrusts as he holds her against his chest, and he takes his time filling her up, pausing to keep himself buried inside her until she squirms and whimpers, draws her hips from him so that he is forced to follow.
He answers her pleas by moving their hands over her hip down between her legs, just above where they are joined, where he is that devastating slow slide inside her.
He has never done this before, and it sends a jolt thudding beneath her fingers when he moves his hand on top of hers, pushes her forefinger into the sudden explosion of tingling hypersensitivity.
Sandor moves his hand up to grab her breast, leaving her to her own devices, and he lifts his head to speak into her ear. His words make her smile.
It is an altogether different heat that swells up inside her to hear him say that, and she tugs on the arm he has draped over her, pulls his hand to her mouth to kiss his callouses, to press his palm to her heart in hopes he can feel how hard he makes it pound.
Once their bedroom was a lonely place he used to call his, and it was a world comprised of clean lines and minimalism, of blank walls and stillness.
Now it is a world of color and sensation. And then there are the photographs. There are pictures of them on every wall, some posed and some candid, all of them in rich color, all of them everyday reminders of the life he has somehow stumbled into.
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He is able to focus solely on his own now that he and Bronn finally hired out an accountant for the nursery and landscaping company.
After a stretch of the shoulders and an arching of the spine he gets himself another glass of water, and he drinks it in the kitchen, looking through the window over the sink down at the greenhouse.
Sandor is not a desk jockey and never will be, but after some minutes he wills himself to set the glass down and return to the bedroom.
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His daughter sometimes gets her way if she asks sweetly enough, And so do I. Sandor mutters as he settles back to his paperwork, ferrets out which trips to Home Depot and Mesquite Valley Nursery were personal or business related, sets in piles receipts for gas mileage, pulls out one of three ledgers to double check his math.
It first shows up in the month of March and lasts only a few months, but there it is:.
One year since he met her, and then he realizes what that means, and he grins, sliding his phone off the desk like a deck of cards, dialing her number from memory.
He snorts at the nickname, can hear the gaggle of female voices like a flock of birds in the background, the underlying din of a public place.
You all having a good time up there? He wishes he had that tree to trace right now.
Sandor laughs. Paint the town red, indeed. How did- wait a minute, did Margie put the screws to you again?
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He can practically see her press a hand to her heart, the flash of a pearl on her left ring finger. He tells her how she came here in March — Believe me, I remember, she says — and how the realization and memory snapped him from his concentration to be reminded of it, of her, and suddenly the background noise fades and she must have gone ahead and excused herself so she can hear him better.
It is a vacation of laughter far beyond it being a holiday of wedding talk and opening of gifts, few as they were upon her adamant insistence.
She and Margie came in Tuesday afternoon; two women of dry earth and endless sky stepping into the world of cloud choked horizons and spongy lawns.
And I thought I had a big family, she said with a grin when Robb, a Seattleite now that Talisa put her foot down after another accident at sea that nearly cost him his neck, took her suitcase for her.
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Arya was a thousand and one questions, Rickon a grin and shrug when Sansa realized he was in short sleeves, Bran a hug to the both of them when they got back to the car where he waited in the backseat.
Wednesday morning, the day of her shower, saw the disappearance of men, to work or to school or back to Seattle where Robb and Talisa now live with Jon and Ygritte, only to be replaced by the women.
They came dressed to the nines in yoga pants and slippers, tank tops and pony tails, everything Sansa wanted for a pajama party style shower that would wind up lasting well into the evening.
It was champagne and strawberries, croissants and jam, lemon merengue and quiche, until it was bloody marys and bagels and lox, a salacious game of Cards Against Humanity before her mother started dragging out the gifts in a silent plea to stop Arya from shrieking Flying sex snakes every five minutes.
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That afternoon they wheezed from prolonged giggles in a limp-limbed heap on the living room floor, everyone thick as thieves, surrounded by wrappings and bows and Crate and Barrel boxes, mired in a crinkle-rustle sea of Target-logo tissue paper after Shireen told a hilarious story about Rickon and a man in drag.
In no time Arya made it worse with a series of sex jokes so bawdy even Ygritte turned red and hid behind her bloody mary.
Luckily, Cat was in the kitchen putting more mini quiches in the oven. Last night the entire group of them were half drunk and slumped against the bathroom counter of some downtown Seattle bar when Margie stumbled into Meera and made her smear her lipstick halfway down her chin.
Meera left it there in defiant, self-deprecating humor, ordering drinks with straight face and perfect poise while Sansa had to trot off on her stilettos with a hand over her mouth.
Even when uncle Benjen picked them up, Jon being on call, Meera sat in front as regal as she pleased, cracking jokes until Ben choked on laughter so hard he had to linger at a green light as Meera pounded his back.
They idled and they joked, pinching each other and texting photos to one another and playing songs on their phones.
Sansa laughed, vision a slight shimmer as music bumped the SUV, as voices rose and fell all around her, as giddy love and spangled excitement filled her up like sunlight in a greenhouse.
She went to sleep full of giggles and buzz, a sway of smiles in her old bed, so much smaller than the one she and Sandor share.
Theirs is an ocean of sheets they swim in, cling and a pull, dip and a dive against each other, kiss and swallow, lick and nip. Hers, a scrapbook of memory and loneliness and bitter feelings there in the end; a little boat, a party of one, and the only thing that kept her from missing him to the point of pain was that she was there because of him, back in her old bed because of the ring on her finger and the unspoken vows coiled up in her belly, and suddenly the little boat was not so sad, anymore.
Shireen spins on her heel and grins at them with a shrug, a skyward roll of her eyes as she walks toward the gaggle of woman that come spilling into her studio.
The tattoo studio is just as Sansa remembers it when she came in for her tree; the same gleaming white walls and glossy polished wood floors, the art everywhere and the bee buzz hum of tattoo machines coming from the back room.
She snaps a photo, gazes at it in the preview screen and smiles. She looks up at Sansa.
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But then she grins, because there is one more place to find him, even in Spokane, because she wears him on her skin now and not just in the soft, woolly confines of her heart.
She stands with a shrug, proud and modest and brazen and humble, turns towards the window to offer her right side to the room, and she lifts the hem of her shirt to the underwire of her bra.
Sansa raises her eyebrows as she looks at Arya, who simply shrugs and grins as if to say The grapevineI guess before Shireen leads her back to her station where Rickon exclaims Jesus, another sister, huh.
Ygritte hums with interest and curiosity as she straightens and nods, sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch. He um, okay, so I sometimes think of him as a young tree, a bendy, tender sapling, right?
Every time she runs her fingers or palm down the tattoo on his side or every time he does the same to hers. Sansa explains that Sandor had the tree first, that she got her own tattoo done to stand alone but also stand with him, a grove of two twisty, aching souls reaching out to find each other, and when Ygritte mentions tattoos being either foolish mistakes or the ultimate of grand gestures, Margie speaks up.
23.02.2020 – Archived from the original on 21 February Alexis Fawx. Brooke Paige. She lets the curtain fall back to place, goes and sits at the kitchen table with her phone, smiling as the house fills with the sounds of some indescribable game Bronn and Genna are playing in her office.
I was wondering, is your uncle Benjen seeing anyone? They are two middle aged men gossiping about romance like two high school girls. He shakes his head as they close down the nursery.
Poor bastard, but better him than me, he thinks, still not over the trauma of waking up from a nap on the sofa yesterday to find his hair knotted to hell from Genna trying to braid his hair the way Sansa braids hers.
He wanted to pick her up but Margie drove them to the airport earlier that week, all pronouncement of Girls Week and No Boys Allowedand they were a squeal of tires and laughter as she peeled down the highway.
So he has nothing to do but wait around, to pick things up and set them down listlessly, to drink a beer and pace the floor like a captive animal.
Loras grins. She is the smell of her shampoo and the taste of her chapstick, she is a familiar weight in his arms, so often does she find her way here where she fits better than a puzzle piece.
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