“So it’s out of guilt then,” Sebastian counters.

  “No, it’s out of love.”

  He spits the word out like it’s hot to the touch.

  Love.

  I force myself to breathe because there’s a very visceral reaction to Henry’s words going on inside of me. Words I wasn’t supposed to hear, but now that I have, it changes things.

  He’s here out of love?

  There’s another long pause. Then Sebastian speaks up. “By the way, do you realize you called Quinn your wife?”

  Henry clears his throat and his chair scrapes along the floor. Except I can’t picture what he’s doing or what he looks like.

  To reiterate, the word “love” was thrown in there. And I, like Sebastian, caught that he called me his wife.

  But by love, does he only mean love for our daughter? Or maybe there’s some far-off affection for me, as the mother of his child or as someone from his past?

  Or maybe it’s different from that? More than that?

  “Have you said your piece?” Henry spits out. “Do you want to talk about the wedding at all or …?”

  I hear some more scuffling and it sounds like they’re standing from their chairs. And my face is beet red, I can feel it, which means I need to get up and out of here. If they see me, they’ll know I could hear them.

  Not that I meant to, okay?

  Like a chicken, I scuttle to the bathroom, where I probably should have gone right when I realized I could hear them. I can admit it.

  I lock the bathroom door and stare at myself in the mirror, only catching the timbre of two deep voices, not their actual words. My face stings. Man, did I turn red, that was some hardcore reaction there.

  I do that thing I’ve always seen in the movies, where they splash water on their face.

  The fresh, Colorado mountain water is refreshing.

  I might have to do this more often.

  But it’s done little to curb the redness, so when I leave the bathroom, Henry asks me if I’m okay.

  Oh, you know. I just heard some stuff. Some big, hairy stuff that I don’t know what to do with.

  “I’m great. Uh, I should probably start getting ready for bed.”

  His face falls, the tiniest amount, and a part of me feels it to my core. The thing is, there was no animosity towards me in his words to Sebastian, no blaming. His words felt honest. And I felt his desire to make amends, whatever that looks like.

  I cannot let myself love him again. But maybe things between us don’t have to be this bad? Because they haven’t been bad, as we’ve been together.

  I haven’t been filled with hurt, like I thought I would be. Like I was just a month ago.

  “Or maybe, before I get ready …” I stall, and I realize I’m doing some weird pointy actions, like I’m a crossing guard. “Maybe we could watch a movie or something?”

  His face brightens, his eyes widen. His slow, small smile starts to crawl across his expression.

  “Dune or Tron?”

  Chapter 20

  Henry

  Just because you’re no longer married to someone doesn’t mean you can magically forget what their favorite movies are. Or the way they still smell like vanilla body wash long after they’ve showered. Or the way they laugh while watching said favorite movies.

  And just because you’re no longer married to someone doesn’t mean you don’t love them more than ever before.

  I get it. Sebastian is probably right. There’s little chance this is going to end well. It’s a dangerous game.

  But I have to try. I’ve weighed the alternative, various versions of giving up entirely, of hiring someone I know in the security industry to come fill in for me while I go back to D.C. and prep for Bern. Of carrying on, status quo, but never making it known that, even though I don’t deserve a second chance, I’d be grateful for the opportunity to try.

  But see? Every time I think that, I have to stop myself and breathe reality into this. I do not want to hurt Quinn or Navie. Which begs the question: which is more noble? Let them go gracefully with as minimal damage as possible? Or fight for them the way I should have fought for them in the first place?

  I don’t know the right answer. Which is why, sitting here watching Tron with Quinn, in her reddish-purple shirt and those white jeans I can’t get out of my mind, has me overthinking everything. I’m distracted by the way she fiddles with her simple gold chain around her neck, drawing her legs up and tucking them to the side, her knees almost touching my thigh. I’m distracted by the way she smiles during her favorite scenes.

  “Admit it. You’ve always wanted to jump into a video game,” she says, flicking a glance at me.

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “Gimme the Light Cycle.”

  When it’s over, she reaches her arms up to stretch. “Let’s save Dune for another night.”

  She tries to hide a yawn behind her hand and now I’m yawning.

  “We’ve become our parents!” she says. “Old, tired parents who can’t stay up late to watch two movies in a row. I’d fall asleep out here if we tried, for sure. Except, if that were the case, I wouldn’t have Navie kicking me all night.”

  I would not mind if she fell asleep here.

  Except, it's a good thing she gets up to get ready for bed when she does, or I might have pulled her close and begged her to stay.

  It’s okay, I tell myself. I can’t get out my wood carving kit and work on my secret project if she’s out here with me, and I need to finish before we go our separate ways.

  I took up whittling when I was in the Army, but working with a block of olivewood to try to create what I’ve envisioned in my mind has been a lot harder than I thought, thus the carving kit. Since I don’t sleep well, I’m used to trying to channel my thoughts into creating something.

  But these pieces for Quinn and Navie? They have to be just right.

  When I hit a spot in it that isn’t working the way I want it to, I set it aside to work on the other, smaller project for Navie, a carved German Shepherd. Navie loves dogs, and I chose to carve my favorite breed. We couldn’t have a dog. With me being gone so much, Quinn always said she couldn’t navigate being a dog mom on her own.

  Instead, she had to figure out how to be a single mother.

  I shake my head, trying and failing to quell the ache at that thought.

  “Thanks for the Tron night, Henry.” She’s got her hair up in one of those clips that makes it fall out and down everywhere. And she’s smiling a real, genuine, breathtaking smile.

  “Anytime.” I say, like a wordsmith genius.

  “You, uh, sleeping okay out here? Because you seem pretty tired, like, all the time.”

  If this had been before, when we were married, that question from her about me seeming tired would have probably been accompanied by a slow walk toward me, where she’d slide her hands around my middle and pull me to her. Or she’d put her hand on my forehead, her eyes concerned.

  I imagine it, and it hurts.

  Gotta stop imagining. Gotta stop remembering.

  “Yeah. You know me. I don’t ever sleep enough,” I say.

  She slides her hands down the front of her jeans, like she’s trying to shake the tired off. “Yes, I do know you. It’s funny. I don’t know why. But I still feel like I know you better than anyone in your life. Ever.” She screws her face up, like that doesn’t make sense.

  “You do,” I say to her. “No one’s ever known me on the level you do.”

  “But there’s still so much of you I don’t know.” Her gaze skitters to the floor, her teeth trapping her lip.

  “I think I need to start figuring out how to be more known.” I grunt a laugh. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Oh yes, it does.” She shakes her head. “You’ve been in the Army. Even now, you defend people’s lives on a daily basis. You’re brave, Henry. And I think letting someone know you … everything about you, even—” she stops herself and starts again. “—especially the parts of you that you hate, or that you want to hide from everyone. If you show someone that side of you, that’s brave, too.”

  “You’re right.” I swallow hard.

  Her head drops back, and she looks at the ceiling, shooting out a breath. “I wish I could hug you, but I can’t.”

  “I wish we could hug … but it’s best if we don’t.”

  I would not want to stop at just hugging.

  Her gaze searches my eyes before she looks down to study her nails.

  Before I can respond, she nods, whispering, “Good night, Henry,” before disappearing into the bathroom.

  “Want to wade in the water?” Quinn asks the next morning as we’re jogging on the beach.

  This isn’t a clean, sandy beach, by the way.

  Sticks litter the ground. Large rocks dot it, homes for crawdads I’m not sure Quinn would appreciate seeing. There are stalks of rushes everywhere, not to mention driftwood, rounded pebbles, and the occasional crushed, weathered, old can.

  “Uh, no.”

  “But you used to love this lake.”

  “Just because I loved it as a kid, doesn’t mean I want to wade in it now.”

  “What’s wrong, Henry?”

  I clear my throat. “Nothing. I don’t feel like getting wet, that’s all.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says, walking to the water’s edge as she pulls her shoes and socks off—one pink, the other with cats. Her mismatched socks are strewn exactly where she peels them off. They’re like a neon “Quinn was here” sign. I’m having flashbacks of being married to her.

  Enjoyable flashbacks.

  She pauses at the edge.

  “Wait. You’re getting in now?”

  “My feet are hot.” She winces in an exaggerated way. “You do not want to get near my feet.”

  She curls them up and hobbles along the roughened surface of the beach, making a face. I’d thought she’d at least test the water first. Her expression changes once again as she sloshes in. “It’s like ice!”

  I can’t keep up with her changing expressions. I’m completely lost … and I like it.

  “The lake is created by melting snow caps at an elevation of ten thousand feet and it’s still Spring. Of course it’s cold.”

  She splashes a few more steps in and then bends over to splash the water on her tanned, bare legs. “Better than an ice bath.” She finishes with a few punches to her thighs and calves to wake up her muscles, a move I remember from when we started running together in the early days.

  The woman’s a beast.

  I shake my head as she wades in further, the water to her knees, gasping at the frigid temperature. She lifts her arms over her head and breathes in slowly, crisscrossing her hands up high and then lowering her arms to her sides.

  For sheer survival, I’d tried to forget that everything she does is mesmerizing. Now that she’s up close and personal, there is no more forgetting.

  “You really should join me,” she says without turning around. “It’s amazing.”

  I scan the horizon, squinting in the rising sun.

  She faces me and comprehension dawns on her face. “Oh. I get it. You don’t want to get in because you’re ‘on duty,’ protecting me from the bad guys.” Her smirk goads me on.

  I cross my arms. “Something like that.”

  She lifts a foot and splashes water in my direction, but it’s too feeble of an attempt for the water to reach me.

  I continue to scan the area, the remote outdoor protocols registering in my brain.

  If I can remind myself that I’m treating this like a job, we’ll be good. I won’t get invested in this. And I won’t be tempted to join her in the water.

  I’ve never once joined any members of the Ostlins in water of any kind. That would have been against the rules and would have been grounds for termination—if Carla were in a bad mood. Even when I had to dress in swim trunks at a celebrity pool party one of the Ostlin teens attended, I didn’t even get close to the water.

  Besides, this isn’t an inviting, tropical waterway. It is a mountainous lake that’s cold, mossy in places, and smells of fish. There are jagged rocks out there that have caused me blood loss on multiple occasions. Yeah, I had fun in it as a kid. I spent as much time as I could in, on, or near this water. But right now, I can’t compromise my ability to keep Quinn safe by wading in.

  No matter how tempting she looks in those pink shorts.

  It would be so fun to dunk her. To hear her laugh and scream in my ear and pretend-fight me back.

  But I won’t.

  There are about a hundred things that could go wrong in that scenario.

  I move along the beach, walking back and forth, watching and listening to Quinn talk to herself. Well, she’s talking to whatever creatures she finds in the lake, in the same voice she uses when she’s excited to show Navie something.

  I should have brought my binoculars. I consider everything a possible threat, that’s part of my DNA now, so I walk along the shoreline, tracking everything I can.

  Quinn’s yelp, followed by a slick splash, has me wheeling back around.

  She’s gone.

  I whip my head around, cursing. I lock in my sights a disturbance in the water in the general area where she was, and I head there.

  I’m three steps in when she emerges, soaking wet and laughing.

  Laughing?

  Or coughing?

  How about both.

  She’s laughing, sputtering, and coughing. Wiping a mass of hair out of her face, she wades back towards me, her skin pink.

  When the water recedes to her calves, she stops, resting one hand on her knee, doubled over, laughing.

  Finally, she says. “I think I’m hurt.”

  Chapter 21

  Quinn

  One minute I’m in the water, gravel clogging my shirt sleeve, my feet completely off to one side, and the next I’m walking towards Henry, hysterical with laughter at the embarrassment of slipping in front of my ex and because my arm now hurts and the look on his face?

  Anger. Annoyance. Shock. All in equal measure.

  “Quinn.” It’s a bark. A warning. He splashes towards me in the water.

  I’d highly recommend being around Henry Tate when he runs in water.

  It’s indescribable—sorry to all ya’ll who won’t ever see it. You should just trust me on this.

  I tell him I’m hurt and he’s there, lifting me in his arms and cradling me.

  You know the set of his jaw when he’s frustrated? Well, that’s gone now. And it’s replaced by the set of his jaw when he’s worried.

  It’s not until we reach the shore that I realize he’s still wearing his running shoes.

  “Your shoes!” I exclaim, but it’s watery. My voice is watery, like I’m still under water. Which is odd, because I’m not, I’m in my ex-husband’s very amply muscular arms and he’s kept me safe.

  He promised he would, and he did.

  Fluttery heart things start happening in my middle, but I can’t find it within myself to care so much because, dang, my shoulder feels skinned alive.

  He doesn’t address the problem of his soaked shoes, so I attempt to ask him about mine.

  “My shoes, Henry? What about my shoes?”

  He groans and turns back around. “Can you stand for a second while I grab them?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think I should put them on because look.” He’s eased me down and I stand, but I raise my foot to show him there’s blood, a rainbow shaped gash near my instep.

  “I wasn’t going to make you put them on.” He keeps one hand on my arm and bends down to reach my shoe with his other hand. “Come on,” he says as he takes a couple of steps towards one of my socks, all stretched out and stuck on a tufted plant. He grasps my hand now so that he can move further away from the lake to grab my other errant sock and shoe.

  “Reminds me of home,” he mutters as he reaches for my things.

  “What? The shoes and socks?”

  “Yep.” He lets go of my hand so he can tie the shoelaces together. He shoves a sock deep inside each shoe and hangs them on the crook of his arm before returning to me and lifting me in his arms again.

  “Let me at least piggyback. That’s got to be easier on you.”

  He glances at me and then his mouth forms a stiff line. “No. Not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  He hefts me so I’m more secure in his arms. “Trust me, it’s just not.”

  “Well then put me down and I can walk.”

  He gives me a look like, please.

  “Henry, if we go slow, I can do this on my own.”

  “We can’t go slow!” he shoots back.

  “Why not? What’s so important for you to get back for? Elianna said she can watch Navie until lunchtime if we need her to.”

  “Quinn, you’re bleeding.”

  I glance down at my foot, moving it into view. “It’s not terrible.” I mean, it may or may not be very slowly dripping blood. I can’t be sure. But it’s not hurting too bad. It’s my arm that stings.

  “I’m not talking about that wound,” he gripes through gritted teeth.

  “Where else am I bleeding?” I kick my other leg and it looks ridiculous, like I’m pretending we’re on a luxurious beach somewhere, a happy couple, shooting the breeze, like I should be dressed in a cute swimsuit cover and straw hat.

  This is not that scene.

  My arm and shoulder are still aching, so maybe it’s that. I glance over at my arm, the one not pinned under Henry’s.

  “Don’t,” he says.

  But it’s too late.

  I see what he was trying to prevent me from seeing and now I can’t unsee it. How did that happen? How is my shoulder shredded like that?

  And by shredded, I do not mean ripped, swole, or otherwise muscular.

  I mean shredded like I ran into a razor a few times. And it’s speckled with various stones, mostly tiny ones, but a few larger, jaggedy ones, too. And I can tell this because my Dri-fit shirt has a big gash in it, as well.

  And come to think of it, it’s surprising I can even see the state of my shirt or my skin at all considering the blooms of blood on it.

 

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