to be honest. “Or was it all arrogance? Was I doing it
for me? So I could go home filled with pride because
I’d left a mark, I’d somehow changed the path of history.
How bad can Americans be?” he mocked himself. “That
soldier, he was great with the boys. The boys are the
best, they’re champions, because of him!”
Now she had both his hands. She squeezed until he
met her eyes, his own undoubtedly revealing more of
himself than he’d ever meant to bare.
“Was that it?” she asked. “Or did you need to feel
human? To have something outside the suffering and the
politics and the hate? To offer that to them, too?”
He stared at her. Yeah, that’s what the boys had been
to him. A slice of something remembered, something
enjoyed.Adults sharing their skills, boys challenging each
other for their places in the pecking order, preening for
girls, thrilling to demonstrate their supremacy on a field.
Just like that, he bent his head and wept. Fiona
scooted closer, wrapped her arms around him, and held
him.
“They were…such great kids,” was the only coherent
thing he said.
“You would have done anything to protect them,” she
murmured as she held him. “They knew friendship
when they saw it. Even their parents must have known
it, or they wouldn’t have let them come.”
“Why?” he begged. “Why, God? Why?”
She was silent for a moment, the hand that had
massaged his shoulder pausing. “There aren’t always
answers,” she said at last. “But that doesn’t mean you
have to bear total responsibility, either. That kind of
hatred is…is unknowable, I think. To us, at least.”
Her simple, sad words touched a chord in him.
Was it possible to accept that he never would understand in any way he could get his mind or heart around? That he could live anyway, even find happiness despite guilt and grief that he might never quite lay to rest?
Was she offering him that happiness? Was that what
her kiss had meant? What she’d intended when she said
her offer would remain open, “Even if it took forever”?
John wiped his face roughly with his shirtsleeve,
then asked, “Can I use your bathroom?”
“Second door on the left.”
Washing his face didn’t improve materially how he
looked; his eyes were still too swollen and bloodshot.
But, hell, he couldn’t hide in here, not like he’d done
on her last night at the lodge when he’d awakened to
the hoarse sound of his own yell. Then, he hadn’t been
able to risk sharing his past with her. At least he’d come
that far. Now he needed to find out if she was willing
to consider a future with him—a man who’d taken only
a few baby steps toward recovery.
She was still sitting where he’d left her on the sofa.
Her anxious gaze went immediately to his face. Starting
to stand, she asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m, uh, beginning to get used to this. I’ve
cried more these past two months than I have since I was
five years old.”
She smiled, as he’d intended her to, but her eyes
kept searching his.
Get right to it, he thought. Prolonged suffering was
something he knew too well. A clean, sharp hurt was
better.
He stopped a few feet from her. “I love you, Fiona.
But I’m probably not going to be ready to go back to
any kind of life we can share,” he gestured vaguely to
take in her town house, including in it her job, her
graduate schooling, everything he’d asked her to give
up. “Not for a while, anyway. I get pretty stressed when
I’m back in Portland. But you were right.” He tried out
a smile, probably a poor excuse for one. “I’m not meant
to be an innkeeper, either. I’m thinking…maybe another
year. I could stop by regularly. You could come up on
school breaks. If…” His voice failed him. “If you’re
willing.”
“Oh, John.” Her voice cracked, too, and now her
eyes filled with tears. “Of course I’m willing!”
Somehow he cleared the coffee table to take her in
his arms. They kissed… Not simply thankful to be together. But rather with desperation, as if they’d never expected to have the chance again.