9. Hunter
Chapter nine
Hunter
The second week of Ellie’s stay with me, I decide to bring up the topic I’ve been holding back.
“I really wish you didn’t have to drive all the way to Cypress City every day,” I tell her over dinner.
It’s usually a thirty-minute drive each way, but some days it takes much longer because of construction traffic where they’re replacing a bridge.
And Ellie’s so wiped out every time she gets home, I know that can’t be good for the baby.
She’s also been helping out some Saturday mornings at her mom’s store. It’s too much.
“I applied for every job in Starlight Valley that offered benefits, but there weren’t many options,” she says, running a forkful of green beans through her mashed potatoes.
“And you weren’t selling enough clothes to cover insurance?” I ask.
“I’m not selling any clothes,” Ellie confesses.
I’d figured as much—I haven’t seen her doing any clothes-making—but hearing her say it aloud forces the air from my lungs.
For as long as I can remember, Ellie has been making clothes—first for her dolls, then for herself, then for her friends, and finally for the world.
I’m obviously not the target market for the children’s clothing she makes, but even I can tell she does a bang-up job.
If ever a job fit a person, it was Ellie making clothes.
The girl who used to stay up all night sewing homecoming dresses for her friends now looks like she’s forgotten what it feels like to create.
Whatever—or whoever—made Ellie stop creating is a monster.
Sparks burn within me, because I know exactly who it was.
Dylan.
“He didn’t like it, or what?” I ask, my voice low and—hopefully—not too menacing.
She shrugs, not looking me in the eye when she says, “He didn’t think it was a very serious job.”
I snort. “Well, I think he’s a serious jack—” I cut myself off, knowing Ellie doesn’t need me to bash Dylan. At least not right now. “Would you want to get back to it? Making clothes?”
“He broke my machine.” She whispers it so quietly, I barely hear her.
I freeze as anger pulses through my veins. “How?”
“He wanted me to stop sewing and kept saying it was silly. Pointless.” She moves her green beans around on her plate, her eyes fixed on what she’s doing.
But I can hear the tears in her voice. “One day he came home and I was working. He went into a rage—pushed everything off the table I was using. The machine hit the floor and knocked the timing out. The repair shop wanted over two hundred dollars to fix it. I didn’t have that kind of money, not without Dylan. ”
I hold very still as Ellie tells me her story. It’s just a small glimpse into the nightmare that was her marriage to Dylan. I know instinctively that there’s more. My mind returns to the night I first saw Ellie hiding at her parents’ house, the chain on the door, flinching at my every movement.
My eyes roam over Ellie’s face, drawn and tight, as if the life has been sucked right from her. She swipes at her cheek, catching a stray tear.
I want to rescue Ellie so much it hurts. To resuscitate her—bring the life back to her eyes. But I don’t know how.
The craziest thought pops into my head: marry me.
I know Ellie doesn’t love me the way I’ve always loved her. But I could support her, be her biggest fan, provide for her, protect her, and give her really good insurance coverage during the last months of her pregnancy and delivery before I leave the Marines.
I know that’s absolutely nuts. The Marines would dishonorably discharge me if they knew how insane my thoughts were. So I do the only thing I can think of: I put a hand gently over hers and say, “I’m so sorry, Ellie.”
The next morning, I find her sewing machine in her parents’ garage and take it to the repair shop.
A few days later, long after Ellie had gone to bed, I find myself sitting in front of my laptop like a man about to commit a crime.
Google blinks back at me: What happens to your military insurance if you get married?
I stare at the screen for a long moment before muttering, “This is purely informational.”
Two clicks later, I’m knee-deep in TRICARE articles, reading phrases like dependent spouse coverage and prenatal benefits. Every couple of minutes, I check over my shoulder in case Ellie wanders in.
“This is not a proposal,” I tell the empty room. “This is just … gathering data.”
Of course, it doesn’t help that the article lists all the benefits in bullet points like it’s trying to sell me on the idea. Dental, maternity, housing allowance—honestly, it’s like the government wants me to make bad decisions at 11 p.m.
I close the laptop with a sigh and lean back in my chair.
Marrying Ellie James to give her insurance would be insane.
Totally, completely, absolutely insane.
I open the laptop again just to check one more thing.