They really were over.
She'd spent three months trying to get through to him, to make him talk about something more meaningful than painting a car, if not for a reconciliation, at least to assure herself he was okay. Now, life had left her no choice but to move ahead and make plans for her children.
No question, they would have to talk soon, when Chris wasn't due home and her eyes weren't threatening to overflow. And when the time came for that talk, she would be stronger than the teenage version of herself.
Head held high, she sprinted down the steps on legs more wobbly than her purple high heels.
Punching numbers on the cordless phone, J.T. watched his wife through the lace curtains covering the living-room window. Wind whipped at her white blouse and long purple patchwork skirt, plastering fabric to her gentle curves. Rena's wild dark curls sailed behind her as she unlocked the driver's-side door.
She couldn't get away from him fast enough.
Yeah, that bit. More than it should. He wanted to bury his face in her hair, his body even deeper in hers. And she was running like hell.
He pressed the phone to his ear. It rang once, twice. Ended.
"Flight scheduling. Lieutenant Rokowsky."
Bo? J.T.'s brain stuttered for a second until he remembered the lieutenant had just started working in scheduling to mark time until he recovered from his injuries sustained in Rubistan.
J.T.'s hand gravitated up to his ribs, rubbed over bruises long faded. Bruises bathed by his wife's tears when he'd come home. So much damn emotion, too much to process then or now. He'd only known that no way in hell did he want to put his wife through that again. Since they'd already split, leaving seemed the obvious answer.
"Hi, Bo. Tag here," he said while watching Rena slide behind the wheel of Chris's twodoor Cavalier. "I didn't get a chance to check the schedule since we landed late and I needed to pick up my son. What's on the boards for me next week?"
"You're on a training flight. Monday. Showtime 0600."
"Uh, okay. Got it. Thanks." J.T. peered through the sheer lace and still the car didn't leave. He moved closer until he could discern … Rena slumped over the steering wheel. Her forehead rested on her hands.
He forced himself to stay inside when every muscle inside of him screamed for action. "How long's the flight?"
"You're scheduled for five hours local area, instructing Airman Brad Gilmore."
J.T. winced. "Good God, not Gabby. That guy talks more than a four-year-old overdosing on Mountain Dew and Pixie Stix."
Bo's chuckles turned downright wicked. "What'll you give me not to stop by the flight kitchen and sweet-talk someone there into adding extra caffeine and cookies to his lunch?"
"Listen up, ladies' man." J.T. settled a hip against the window ledge, batting aside a flowering something-or-other hanging from the ceiling. Waiting for Rena to go. Hoping it would be soon before he ended up outside. "You go anywhere near that flight kitchen and I'll tell the nurses over at the hospital what your call sign really stands for. We've been letting you get away with that 'Bo stands for Beau, want me to be yours' crap long enough. Hmm, just think if I tell them you're really—"
"Okay!" The squadron Casanova rushed to interrupt. "No need to say it out loud and risk somebody overhearing. These are government lines, dude, with people listening."
J.T. let a much-needed laugh roll free. "All right, then. You're safe for now. But I'll be double-checking that flight lunch of his for contraband Pixie Stix."
Why wasn't Rena leaving? His boots started twitching on the hardwood floor. Maybe he would just—
She sat up, started the car. J.T. exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The car backed to the edge of the driveway while a steady stream of after-work traffic flowed past.
"No Pixie Stix," Bo promised. "Wish I was going with you Monday. I'd shut Gabby up."
Hell yeah, they all wished Bo was flying, instead of indefinitely grounded until docs determined if his left hand would be worth a crap in the airplane once it healed. Flying. They all needed it, actively doing something to discover who had sold out their flight plan that day in Rubistan.
Although having Bo sit his butt in scheduling wasn't a half-bad plan for keeping an ear to the ground. God, the thought of one of their own turning traitor… J.T.'s fist numbed around the phone.
Not gonna think about that day. Keep it level before the weekend with Chris. "Looking forward to flying with you again soon."
"Yeah, me, too."
Quiet echoed again, the lines occasionally smattered with the background sounds of another phone ringing, conversations off to the corner. But J.T. was hooked in that experience—linked with Bo and the young officer's fears over never flying again.
J.T. scratched along the neck of his flight suit. Even after twenty-four years in the Air Force, he couldn't imagine hanging up his helmet. Flying also offered an escape and release since his personal life had landed in the crapper. He'd be screwed right now if he couldn't fly out his frustration.