The Problem with Peace (Greenstone Security 3)

Though January in Antarctica had nothing on Heath’s demeanor toward me. “You headin’ home now?”

I shook my head. “My friend Rain needs me to help her move. And then I’ve got to run lines with Bobby, he’s got a big audition tomorrow and he’s worried he doesn’t know how to play a straight man.”

He stared at me for a long time. “You’re serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’ve been at a hospital all day, feeding children joy, feeding overworked nurses coffee and donuts, doing all sorts of shit that I’m guessin’ goes above and beyond the job of volunteering. You’ve barely sat down, and I know for a fact you’ve only sipped tea and not eaten a fuckin’ thing for eight hours. Now you think it’s appropriate to go and help someone move after all of that? And then go and practice lines with someone else? And you didn’t sleep last night.”

I blinked at him. “How did you know that? And I swear, if you say anything about it being your job, I’ll scream right here.”

He seemed to gage my words. My utter truth. Because I had been feeling like screaming. And there was only so long I could keep it in for. Only so long before I exploded.

“Know it, ‘cause I know you,” he said. “And know that you’ve had trouble sleepin’ since you were a kid. You’re good at hiding the signs, your body doesn’t even show any hint of it now, it’s so used to it. But I notice because I know what to look for. More importantly, I know what’s missin’. That spark, that extra light. So, no, it’s not my job to know, I just do.”

It took me by surprise. The words that should’ve been spoken softly, because the meaning behind them was soft. But they were delivered in Heath’s same cold and emotionless tone.

It was the first time he’d referenced our time before since I’d gotten back from Europe.

I didn’t know what to say.

But he didn’t want me to say anything.

“You’re runnin’ on empty, and despite the fact you’re used to it, empty’s empty. It’s gonna hit you sometime,” he continued. There was a pause. “You let too many people in,” he accused. “It’s giving the world more chances to hurt you.”

Something lay beyond that accusation. Something I couldn’t let myself hope was concern. I’d promised myself no hope when it came to Heath. It was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

So I straightened my back and forced myself to meet his eyes.

“I give people the ability to hurt me, yes,” I agreed. ”To break my heart, to ruin me. But I don’t think that’s a fault. Because that means I’m willing to let people in. I invite heartbreak and pain, yes, but I also give myself the possibility for joy. And I think that’s worth that, don’t you?”

His façade flickered for the longest and shortest moment. “I think it’s not worth you even attempting to do any of this shit that I’m not gonna be able to talk you out of unless you eat,” he said. “So you’re eating.”

“I had planned on eating,” I said defensively. “I’m not an idiot. I do know to feed and water myself. I’ll stop and get a salad on the way.”

“No,” he decided.

“No?” I repeated. “You just told me I needed to eat and now I said I’m eating and you’re saying no.

“A salad doesn’t qualify as eating,” he all but barked. “We’ll go somewhere. I’m fuckin’ starving. And I know a salad won’t satisfy me. Since you’re my job, you’re comin’ with me.”

I blinked. “We’ll go somewhere?” I picked the most important and most dangerous part of that out of the sentence.

Heath nodded.

“Is that a good idea?” I asked.

“No fucking way,” he said, voice still harsh. “But we’re going anyway.”

* * *

I was shocked when we pulled up.

In separate cars, of course. Just because we were going to dinner together did not mean anything had changed. Did not mean that we would be able to fit all of our baggage in my small and cluttered Toyota. Or even in his large and most definitely not cluttered SUV.

Nothing had changed inside Heath’s eyes when I got out of my car either.

He was waiting for me.

But he didn’t open my door for me.

Because that would be sending the wrong message.

Then again, the place we were eating sent all kinds of messages.

“You remembered?” I asked, whispering as I stared up at the small, fading script above a crumbling set of double doors.

Heath didn’t answer.

Because obviously he had remembered.

Because we were here.

The place I’d told him about in amongst all the other things I’d told him in those two nights. One of the most mundane things I’d told him. About my favorite restaurant that no one knew about. No one knew about it because they banned phones. Even back then, before Instagram was at its peak, the owners seemed to recognize how such things could bastardize places like this.