Chapter 15
T hey woke in the morning in a huddled mass, curled together under the blanket like yin and yang. Celeste came to first, groggy and disoriented, unable to remember how she wound up in her current position. There was pie. Good pie, but was it enough to make her cast aside all her normal reserve and curl up on the couch with a stranger? Apparently.
After they finished the pie in the kitchen, the sun began to emit a hazy gray mist. They decided to watch it rise from the comfort of the couch. As the sun stole over the horizon, giving everything a rosy glow, they studied the landscape, pristine with fresh snow. Everything had felt so…cozy. The house was freezing, the warmth of the kitchen long forgotten and out of reach. But the body heat they generated under the shared blanket pulled them toward sleep, and that was how it happened. Without thought or purpose, they’d ended up…snuggling. Only for warmth, Celeste protested, but she wasn’t certain she believed it. She was drawn to Sam for more than physical warmth, and that scared her. A lot.
“Well, this is awkward,” Sam whispered, but he sounded more amused than sheepish.
“Yes,” she agreed, tone stilted.
“For the record, I did not consciously spoon you,” he said.
“I don’t spoon,” Celeste protested.
“Whatever you say, little spoon.” His index finger rimmed her ear and it felt so good she immediately hopped off the couch, landing a few feet away in a jump worthy of the gymnast she had once secretly aspired to be.
“I’m going to shower.”
Sam blinked up at her, brown eyes brimming with amusement. “The power’s out.”
“I’ll improvise,” she called, already heading toward the stairs. There was no need to improvise, however. Halfway up the power flicked on. The water would be freezing. She was tempted to jump in but knew she would immediately regret the rash action. While she waited for the water heater to do its magic, she performed a mini workout, jumping jacks, burpees, sit ups, push ups, squats and lunges. Her protesting muscles unkindly reminded her how infrequent her workouts had become since she retired. I need to stay in shape. I need to keep myself in order. In every way.
By the time she finished jumping around, she was warm and so was the water. She stepped beneath the spray, hoping it would wash away her confusing mix of thoughts and feelings. Celeste felt like she was standing on some sort of ledge. Across from her was the next part of her life, the person she wanted to be. Between that person and the ledge was a fathomless cavern she had no idea how to cross. Worse, she had no idea what the other side looked like, only that she needed to get there as soon as possible. But one thing she knew for certain, down to her marrow, was that the way did not lie with some man as her salvation, and especially not Sam who was temporary with a past as sketchy as hers. Since she was a child, she had only relied on herself because she was the only person she could trust to keep her safe. She hadn’t changed that in fifteen years in the army and she certainly wouldn’t change it now.
Resolved once more, she threw on warm, clean clothes and brushed her teeth, running a comb through her hair. She could dress up and look good when she wanted, could be stunning and possibly even mesmerizing. It was a skill that had served her well as an assassin, using her looks to distract targets. Everyone responded to beauty, especially egotistical men. But now, in this new life, she was content to remain as natural as possible. Though she couldn’t articulate why, it felt good in that deep secret place she kept hidden to be as authentic as possible. Simplicity, she thought with a nod, vowing to write it down. Whenever she stumbled on a word she liked, one that pinged on her internal radar as important, she tried to write it down. She hoped journaling might heal all the things that had gone wrong with her before life. In the same way, she hoped capturing the new words and feelings might help her articulate the things she wanted for her future. So far the list consisted of integrity, kindness, authenticity, and now simplicity.
Maybe I’ll become a shaker, she thought, inspecting her walls to see if she could affix pegs to them. Once on a school field trip she toured a Shaker Village. Their simple, homespun life made a deep impression on a little girl whose world was pure chaos. The shakers had died off because of their unbending embrace of celibacy. Won’t be a problem for me, Celeste thought wryly, purposely ignoring the boyishly cute man now dominating her living room.
When she jogged down the steps, Sam sat on the couch, staring at her. The amusement on his face was the same as before she left. He might not have moved at all, except his hair was wet, as if he’d tried to clean himself up in the downstairs bathroom, which he probably had.
“I have towels and soap,” she announced.
“I hope you used them,” he returned.
She rolled her eyes. “I meant for you. I’m not the hostest with the mostest, so I sort of forget all the things I should probably be doing.”
“You’re doing fine,” he said in that warm and reassuring way that made little prickles of what felt a lot like pain jab against her chest. Her heart was bundled, safe and protected in the solid cage she’d erected. Kindness, gentleness, all the good things she’d longed for as a child now butted against that cage, wounding her with their failed attempts to gain entry. She would not, could not open the cage and let anyone in. She’d learned that lesson on repeat in the hardest ways possible. Others could not be trusted, especially men.
“Just tell me if you need something, or feel free to get it yourself. I’m not territorial about things like about.”
“About things like that,” he repeated slowly, studying her as if compiling some sort of list about her.
Ignoring him, she went to the kitchen, turned off the kerosene heater, and poured two bowls of cereal, setting one in front of him on the table.
“Thank you,” he murmured, staring at it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said and picked up his spoon.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, pointing her spoon accusingly at him.
“That’s your prerogative,” he said, tossing her a smile before he took a bite.
“You’re irksome,” she said, and he covered his mouth to keep from spewing cereal while he chewed and laughed. “What?”
“Nothing. You’re cute.”
“Yesterday it was adorable.”
“It downgraded when you left me freezing on the couch,” he said.
“Then I guess you should prepare yourself. By the time you leave here, my inaccessibility will downgrade me to troll.”
“Not possible. Also what’s wrong with a little harmless flirting? I’m single. We both know this is a blip.” He froze and stared at her. “Unless you’re not single. You’re not secretly married to someone who is going to now kill me are you?”
“No, I prefer to handle things like that myself,” she said, draining her milk. “I’m single, by choice and for all eternity.”
“Why?” he asked.
She glanced at her blank wrist. “Look at that. I have to be literally anywhere other than this conversation. Rain check. Also, I don’t take rain checks.”
“You’re prickly. I like that.”
She laughed. “You’re odd.”
His brows rose hopefully. “And do you like that?”
“No,” she said, but she was lying. Despite his past, despite the fact that he’d confessed to being a one-and-done-with-love type person, despite everything, he had kind eyes and a sincere smile, two things she didn’t realize were important until it was too late to look for them, until she’d given up.
“All I’m saying is you should think about it. How many times do you meet someone and share—hopefully mutual—attraction with the guarantee that nothing will come of it? We could fling and walk away, hearts intact.”
“What a temptingly shallow offer. My heart is warm all over with the thought of being trampled and thrown away by you.”
“So you’re, like, a forever kind of girl,” he mused.
“I’m a never kind of girl. You know those crows from that book they make kids read in high school English? Nevermore, that’s me.”
“Not to get too technically nerdy on you, but those were ravens. You can tell because the poem is literally called, ‘The Raven.’ And it’s by Poe.”
She pointed to her face. “This is me, not caring. Also, English is your second language. You should not know things about our literature. It’s obnoxious.”
Far from being offended, he grinned. “I know a lot about American history, too. It’s a particular interest of mine. Quiz me, I’ll impress you.” He crossed his hands, awaiting her questions.
“That’s becoming more doubtful by the moment,” she muttered, tossing the dishes into the sink with a clatter.
“Fine, then tell me something about you,” he commanded.
She remained mute, her back to him as she filled the sink with soapy water.
“What did you do for The Colonel?” he asked.
“Classified.”
“Secretary? Attaché?” he guessed, hoping to provoke her.
“Both. I was secretary to the attaché,” she returned, unperturbed. Better men than him had tried to poke at her, incorrectly guessing sexism would be her sore spot.
“Okay, you’re once again upgraded to adorable for being an adorable liar,” he said.
She was glad her back was to him so he couldn’t see her smile.
“You’re too short to be his personal pilot. Was it some kind of jester situation? Like you popped out whenever he needed a chuckle at your cuteness.”
“Yes. I’m ever so glad not to live in that cake anymore. Quite the mouse and roach problem, not to mention the ongoing diabetes.”
“You’re not easily provoked. Wait, were you…” he pressed his palms on the table and leaned forward. “Or perhaps are you The Colonel’s therapist? Does he pop in for a visit when he’s about to go postal and you talk him down?”
She wanted to find a clever reply, but it was so funny she couldn’t tamp down her giggles as she tried to picture The Colonel asking anyone for mental help or advice. And if he ever decided to “go postal,” no one would ever find out because there would be no survivors.
“If you’re going to add giggling into the mix, I’m going to have to come up with a new term to describe you. There must be a sweet spot somewhere between adorable and super fluffball kitten.”
“How about ‘tiny annoyed psychopath,’” she suggested.
“Ding! There we go, although it’s kind of wordy. Let’s shorten it to Tap, it’s a timesaver.”
She faced him, soapy hand on hip. “Are you actually trying to make me believe that other terrorists found you intimidating?”
“I’m a grown human male,” he returned, causing her to sputter a laugh again as she faced forward.
“You’re a weirdo,” she said.
“I can be both things. Also, it feels good to let go of the bad persona, finally forever. I can get back to being the person I was before, if I can correctly remember who that was.”
He sounded sad, and it echoed the sadness in her. “You’ll figure it out,” she assured him.
“How, though?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
That was the problem. She had no answers for him because she had no answers for herself. “Time or something, something.”
“Ah, I finally figured out what you do. You’re in charge of all those inspirational posters hanging in The Colonel’s office.”
She snickered again. “He doesn’t have inspirational pictures in his office.”
She didn’t look, but she could tell he sat up. “Wait, have you for real been in The Colonel’s office? No one goes in the inner sanctum.”
She couldn’t help but turn then, as she bestowed a smug raised eyebrow on him. “Some people do.”
Far from being impressed, he shrank back. “You’re not, like, you know, like, a secret mistress or something, are you?”
She gagged. “No! He’s twelve million years old. And he’s The Colonel. It would be weird and gross and, gah. Shut up.” She pressed her soapy hands to her ears, but she wasn’t trying to block him out; she was trying to block out all the memories she’d rather forget, especially the one where she hit on The Colonel during their first meeting. That sad girl existed a lifetime ago, but somehow she always lingered, ready to haunt Celeste at the merest suggestion of who she had been.
“Hey.” She didn’t realize Sam was standing beside her until he spoke softly, touching a finger gently to her forearm. What did her expression look like right now? Whatever it was, it must have been horrifying because he looked slightly terrified. “Hey,” he repeated again. His tone was soothing and it worked to soothe her. “It’s okay. I was joking. I know it’s not like that. Five minutes of knowing the man and I know he would never…And you would never. I mean, I presume you would never, not only because it would be gross, but because…”
She dropped her hands from her ears. “Oh, sweet merciful cornflakes, stop talking.”
His lashes fluttered and his lips twitched. “Sweet merciful cornflakes? Is that who you pray to?”
She took a breath and scrubbed her hand between her eyes a few times, clearing away the last vestiges of bad memories. “I made a bet with someone I used to work with, that I could stop swearing. I started using nonsense words instead and the habit sort of stuck. What?” He was full on beaming at her now.
“I think we’ve surpassed fluffy kitten and are well into the danger zone of cuteness. You could legitimately kill someone with lovability right now.”
“If only that were true,” she muttered, but halfheartedly. The conversation had left her drained, and they had only scratched the surface of the well of trauma inside her. Her eyes darted toward her journals, but it was too early to unburden herself. Once she opened that gate, she could only sleep afterword. She couldn’t sleep all day with Sam in the house, even if they’d shared an abruptly shortened night.
“Hey,” he said, bending his head to try and catch her eye. “I’m going to hug you now.”
“Why?” she asked, immediately tense and suspicious.
“For one thing, I’m a hugger, but I’ve been surrounded by terrorists for most of the last decade. I could use a hug. But also, maybe so could you, it seems. It’s a thing normal people do.”
“Is it?” she said, having no idea if it was true. Did people hug? She knew families probably hugged, but did casual acquaintances do it, too?
“Yes, so don’t read anything into it. I’m only hitting on you a little, like ten percent,” he said. He put his good arm around her and drew her to him. She stood listless and uncomfortable in his embrace. “You’re supposed to hug me back,” he prompted.
She did so, but added, “I’m hitting on you zero percent.”
“That’s okay, I’ve upped mine to fifteen to make up for your deficit.”
She snorted a laugh, accidentally inhaling his scent when she pressed her face to his chest to subdue it.
“Twenty percent and growing. You should know when we reach sixty, it’s the critical phase and can’t be undone.”
“And what will happen then?” she asked, peeling back slightly to see his face.
He tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Then we fall in love and live happily ever after.”
“Now I’m terrified,” she said.
“You should be. I snore.”
“You’re so weird,” she murmured, but she returned to the hug because, as it turned out, hugging was nice. Even if it was a temporary stranger whose presence in her life made no rational sense. Maybe especially then because she didn’t have to think about forever. She only had to think about each moment. Maybe, maybe she should take him up on his suggestion to throw caution to the wind and have a fling. What would be the harm if they both went into it fully prepared?
You know exactly the harm, she reminded herself.
Before she could allow herself to dwell, her phone rang, pulling her reluctantly out of Sam’s embrace.
“No, don’t, we were nearing fifty percent,” Sam said, arms held beseechingly toward her. She waved a hand, warding him away, because there was only one person who called her, and he never did so unless it was important. And it turned out now was no different.
“We have a problem,” The Colonel began.