Reclaiming His Wife

There are so many things I want to say to him. I have so many questions, so many answers I need to hear. But for now, all I do is hold him, and hug him tight, like he might be taken away from me again at any moment. For now, the questions can wait. Because for now, the only thing I can actually focus on is one thing: Russell is alive.

Very much so. I can feel his muscles ripple under his shirt as he guns the engine, roaring us down the highway out of the city. The insanity of what’s just happened begins to creep into me—that a man I loved, and thought was dead just reappeared after five years to steal me away from my own wedding.

I hug him tighter, pressing my cheek to his back as the wind whips through my hair. We drive further and further out from the city, and I’m not even paying attention where we’re going, I just know it’s away from what almost happened back there. And yet, the longer we drive, the more those questions I’ve pushed to the back of my mind start to build and build, until there’s no holding them back.

I have to know.

Five years ago, he died. I have the folded flag. I have the medal awarded to him posthumously. We had a fucking funeral for God’s sake. I went to support groups with other grieving widows of servicemen.

…And yet, here he is, driving a motorcycle with me holding on to him, as if nothing’s happened. As if it’s still six years ago and we’re off on a lazy evening drive.

No, the questions can’t wait. I can’t wait.

I squeeze his arm, the signal we always had for when I needed to tell him something while we were riding. But he ignores it. Or maybe he’s forgotten it. But either way, he just keeps driving. I squeeze his arm again, harder this time, and saying his name out loud, even if I’m sure he can’t hear me.

“Russell.”

The bike keeps going, and he doesn’t turn as he pulls us off an exit ramp and then onto a smaller road.

Goddamnit, I need answers.

“RUSSELL!!”

I scream his name this time, jabbing his arm over and over with a stiff, pointed finger, until finally, he turns and nods at me. The bike veers, pulling off the smaller road we’ve been on and onto an even smaller one before he yanks us to the side of the road and comes to a stop. The engine has barely rumbled off before I’m jumping off the bike, my head whirling

My breath comes in gasps as I suck in air, storming away from the bike with my poofy white wedding dress billowing around me before I whirl back to him, tears in my eyes.

“I—I—” my voice shakes, my breath hitching as he steps off the bike, concern on his face.

“Jules—”

“I need to know!” I half-scream, my heart pounding in my chest. “Russell, you…” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the tears.

“Juliana—”

“You died, Russ!” I scream, my hands in fists, the tears flowing freely. “You—they said you were dead!”

He growls, moving towards me, his eyes fierce and his jaw tight. Part of me wants to be mad at him. Part of me wants to scream at him for leaving me and making me think he was gone like that. But when those hands slide around me, and when those arms of his pull me tight, all that anger just vanishes like mist as I bury my face in his muscled chest.

“You disappeared,” I whisper, my hands clutching his shirt in white-knuckle grips, like he might vanish again without warning.

“I know, beautiful,” he hisses hoarsely, holding me so tight his hands might bruise me. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

“They said I was dead because they thought I was dead. Hell, I thought I was dead.”

“You were just gone,” I say quietly, breathing him in, letting my body remember the feel of him, and the smell of him as more tears begin to stain his shirt.

“And now I’m back, Jules,” he groans, squeezing me tight and burying his face into the top of my head. “I’m here now, beautiful. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Where…”

“I’ll tell you everything,” he whispers.

And then he does, and my whole world breaks.

He tells me about the attack on the base, and how he survived. But when he gets to the part about Darren, my body shudders, and I want to throw up. I’ve never liked Darren, and always thought he was an asshole. But knowing that I came that close to marrying—arranged or otherwise—the man who left my husband to die has me wanting to scream until I can’t scream anymore.

He tells me about the prison—about the cage they kept him in for literally years, and my heart breaks. I sob into him, holding him so tight he actually groans, kissing me softly as he whispers to let him breath. I choke out a laugh, but I shake my head, squeezing him even tighter, like the world might take him from me again.