Bad-body-language alert. And her temper was sparking, ripe and ready for anything to fuel it to life. Two weeks of holding her tongue, walking on eggshells, terrified to hope and terrified not to, all sliced at her paper-thin control. "I won? Good God, do you hear yourself? It's not about winning. It's about both of us being happy."
"I'm happy if you're not pitching plates."
"You deserve more than that and so do I. I want us to go to marriage counseling."
His arms unfolded and he gripped the top of the door frame, the hall sealed from sight. "Oh, I see how it is. I agree to what you ask by talking—like how I'm finally agreeing to the vacation you wanted so damn bad last year. So you up the request until I say no. Then it's my fault things fell apart."
Was there truth in that? Maybe. But if so, then it only solidified her surety that they needed help. "How could you think I would wish for this hell? Don't you realize how much our split hurt me? More so the second time, even, coming so close on the heels of what happened overseas. Do you have any clue what it was like thinking you'd died? Imagining what was happening to you if you hadn't?"
His hands fisted against the frame.
"We were both a mess when you came home. And as much as I want to hope nothing bad ever happens to us again, that's unrealistic." The fear of a repeat swamped her until she used the excuse of her sore ankle to sit on the edge of their bed. "We need to be rock solid to face the future. We need to be open with each other, not just winning and losing. Do you realize you still haven't even told me what happened over there yet?"
"We already covered that in the truck."
"Do you actually believe that constitutes a real conversation on the subject?"
"You already said imagining it hurt you. Why would I want to make that worse?"
She flattened her hands to the giving softness of the quilt as if pressing the wedding ring patch pattern could somehow imprint the premise and promise into her. Talk about a Freudian slip in buying the thing in the first place. "Because being married means sharing burdens. And if you won't share yours with me, then I can't share mine with you. I need someone to lean on, too."
"More upping the ante to make me walk?" Hands falling from the door frame, he reentered their room, one step, two. "You want to hear all about it? Fine. We were in Rubistan on a mission that looks like one thing but really is about something else. We were stressed. Ready to get the hell out and back to our families."
He paced the room, back to the ultrasound photo. "We figured we were almost home free once we crossed out over the water. Instead, we took a missile hit that would have sent us into the gulf if anyone other than Scorch had been flying the plane."
The reality slammed into her as if she'd been hit, too, but she forced herself not to sway, an outward sign that would make him stop.
God, she still couldn't quite believe he was actually talking after all this time. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or more scared than ever.
"But we made it, landed. Got picked up by some tribal warlords who beat the crap out of us, broke Bo's hands." He glanced sideways at her. "Bo's great act of resistance? Looking up."
She blinked down the tears clogging her eyes and throat, air heavy. Heart heavier for the young pilot not much older than her own children. For her husband.
"Lucky for us, the Rubistanians arrived within a couple of hours and shot the hell out of our caravan so we could have the marginally better option of being interrogated by them instead."
She flinched, couldn't hold it in anymore, but stayed silent, her hands digging deeper into the quilt.
"You want more from me?" He stalked, toward her, toe to toe. "A pound of flesh like in that Shakespearean play? Well, I'll just cut myself wide open for you, babe."
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he spun away on his boot heel, stalked, glanced back over his shoulder. "Scared? Hell yeah, we were scared. Scared of dying." His feet took him clear across the room to the window shrouded with lace curtains. "But most of all, I was scared of what you and the kids would go through when you got that front-door visit."
His fist met the wall.
Tears burned acid paths from her eyes and down her face. As a counselor, she knew this outpouring was the right thing for him, pain concealed being far more lethal than pain released. But as a wife, God, she hurt for him.
Familiar features assumed a stranger's cast with harsh angles. "Is this sharing deal working for you? Are we closer now? Do you feel better about us? I hope someone's happier, because I sure as hell am not feeling at all better."
A thousand words jumbled through her head, a thousand different ways to try and make this better for him, except what if she chose wrong and hurt him worse? Objectivity wasn't even an option at the moment, but the pain in his eyes was killing her. She had to do something.
Rising, she reached to hold him.
His hands shot up. Backing, he shook his head. "You want me to make this easy for you? No problem. I can do that just like I did a few months ago."
Pivoting away, he walked out the door.
Her eyes flooded, and she wanted to run after him and hold him. Not that he would let her.
Which frustrated her all the more and left her itching to throw something. No dishes though. She'd grown beyond that. Her hand settled on the pillow sham made to match her spread and she allowed herself the outlet of a hefty pitch.