She just nodded. Sunlight through the wall of windows glinted on her unblinking eyes.
While Gardner strode away, Jack waited for the I-told-you-so about being there for Sydney. But it didn't come. Monica picked up her spoon again and started eating the crappy goat stew.
Likely exhaustion stemmed her smart comeback. But a part of him insisted it was something a helluva lot more daunting.
That maybe she didn't even care enough about him anymore to fight.
Shoveling food into her mouth even though grief killed her taste buds, Monica wished she didn't care so much. About her sister. About Jack. Even about Blake Gardner walking away with pain radiating from him in waves her doctor spirit couldn't miss.
God, but exhaustion made a person maudlin. That had to be the reason for the sense of impending doom when she should be rejoicing over how soon she would be seeing her sister.
From the sleeve of his flight suit, Jack whipped out a pack of Kool-Aid. "Are you okay?"
"Better than Sydney."
"You know, Mon..." He paused, reaching for her water bottle and tipping her favorite flavor inside. Green bloomed within the bottle. "This isn't a 'whose pain is worse' game."
He passed her the drink, waited until she sipped before releasing her gaze.
Why did he have to be so nice right now with the Kool-Aid, like those foot-rubbing moments? "I know. Sorry for snapping. I do better when I don't think about it."
"That, I can understand." He propped his beard-peppered cheek on one fist. "Hashing through what-ifs is fine if it brings about a decisive plan of action. But talking just for the negligible benefits of an emotional catharsis? Hell, what good is that?"
The words bubbled in spite of her. "I just get so damned mad." She stopped short. "Ah, hell. There goes your theory about staying quiet. Guess I can't help but discuss it. Woman thing." She tipped back her water bottle.
Lime exploded along senses she'd thought numb seconds before. Kind of like a dose of Jack did.
"At least you're speaking to me. Hell, Mon, I'll discuss those damned doilies my grandma loves to spread all over the house if it will keep you talking. And you have every right to want to tear Ammar al-Khayr apart yourself."
"I don't mean him." Her fingers fiddled with the fork, flipped it, bent a twisted tine back into shape. "Although I wouldn't turn down the chance to plant a land mine under his feet."
The fork clattered to the table. Monica's shaking hands fell to her lap. "Her. I get angry at my sister, which is the dumbest damned thing. But she shouldn't have been here at all, Jack. Blake warned her what could happen and she just insisted it was her job, risks and all." Her fingers twisted, twined, tore the napkin into bits she wadded in her fist. "You're probably laughing right now thinking how you gave me the same warning."
"I would never laugh at you."
"But you're thinking it."
"I'm not so entrenched in the Dark Ages I can't see the difference." A half smile kicked up. "Don't get me wrong. I still don't want you here, but I understand that you're trained to protect yourself."
"I'm not reckless, Jack." She pitched her shredded napkin on her tray.
"Hearing you say that doesn't stop me from worrying."
Intensity hummed under his lazy demeanor, threatening to swallow her whole in a luscious lime haze of thoughtfulness mixed with dogged determination to get his way.
Her eyes fell to the straightened fork, shifted to the torn napkin. Well, hell. She'd cleaned up one mess, only to make another. The story of her life. "How could she not understand how precious her life is?"
He rested his hand beside hers: Not over it. Not touching. But there. Close. She didn't move, except for a twitch of her pointer finger, an involuntary movement toward him as her instincts overrode her intellect.
Finally he had time with her and he wasn't pressing his case as she would have expected. She told herself it had more to do with exhaustion than the fact he felt sorry for her—the woman who'd punted him out of her life.
Then his hands slid away with the moment. "Sleep deprivation has a way of making us all turn morbid without solving a thing."
He rose, waiting for her to join him, and she didn't argue. She'd accepted his presence just as he would have to accept they would be parting at her door in a few minutes.
Her hand fell on his arm. "Thank you, Jack."
He stopped, suddenly didn't look at all tired, that slumberous bedroom gaze of his having nothing to do with sleep.