Stolen September: A Military Romance

“No party and no cake.” I step in front of the couch, blocking her view of the pink box I shoved underneath it. I still won’t share it unless she’s staying. A man can only take so many blows to his ego.

“I’m sorry I’m not good at this, Tank.”

“Good at what?”

“At being happy. At being used to this and everything that comes with it. I don’t know how to be a wife.”

“You’re being you, Bea. That’s all I ever wanted. I’ll take the good and the bad and we’ll learn the rest together.”

“There’s a lot of things I’m not ready for.” She pulls up her bag and takes out the bears I’d given her right after we got married. A pair of bears dressed up, one in military fatigues and one in a wedding dress. I hadn’t noticed they were gone when she left, but my chest aches knowing she took our bears with her.

“We have time to figure that out.”

“I’m not ready for babies, but I do want to build a family with you.”

We take steps closer to each other. The bears get squished between us and I hold her in my arms, imagining a day when she might be ready and it’s a baby we hold between us. I don’t tell her that because I know it will freak her out, but I do search her face to confirm the possibility. It’s there. I knew it would be, but sometimes you just need to know.

“Is that cake I smell? Sugar and cream in a vaguely familiar pink box?” Her neck strains a she tries to see, and I swing her around, blocking her view.

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess it depends on a few things.”

“Like?”

“If you’re staying or leaving.” My stomach growls, wanting a bite of the cake, but I need my wife more. Cake can always wait when she’s in my arms.

“I never wanted to go in the first place.”

“But you did, and there’s nothing stopping you from leaving again.”

“I had to go so I realized what I was missing all along.”

“I guess I deserve that.”

“Deserve what?”

“A shitty goodbye.”

“Oh, Tank.” She wilts like a flower without water. No tears, just a long, sad sigh.

“Thanks for not making me wait thirteen weeks to figure it out.”

“Hmm…Since I’m staying, can I see the cake?”

“I should warn you.”

“About the cake?”

“Prudy got the order wrong.”

“Then it’ll be just like home.”

“Even Boston cream?”

“Even.”

I pick up the cake and open it on the table. We dig in with our hands, uncaring of silverware or plates. Bea turns to me and dabs a tiny bit of chocolate and cream on my cheek.

“Minx,” I tease her, pulling her in close.