Chapter 16 GIDEON
I walked her to work afterward. Her steps were light—almost floating—like the good food had filled her bones with something weightier than calories.
Something closer to hope. She kept glancing at me from the corner of her eye, almost shy, almost glowing, and every time she did, something in my chest tightened until breathing felt like a goddamn luxury.
At the bar's back entrance, she paused. The lunchtime crowds bustled past us, cars rattled over the cobblestones, GIs laughed too loudly, music drifted from an open window. But she didn't look at any of it.
She looked at me.
Right at me.
"I had a wonderful time," she said softly, with that hint of accent I had come to crave. "Yeah," I answered, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. "Me too."
For a second, it felt like the world slowed down just for us, like the ruins stood still, like the war had never happened, like she might let me kiss her right there under that sun-faded awning.
But then she smiled, a small, beautiful, uncertain thing, and slipped inside.
I stood there for another full minute like an idiot, grinning. Warm. Too warm.
And then the memory hit me like a punch.
Darlin', even if it's only half as good, I'll marry you.
What the hell had I been thinking?
Except…
I hadn't been drunk.
I hadn't been joking.
And the worst part?
I liked the thought more than I had any right to.
I walked back through the American sector in a haze, the city's ruins passing by in gray fragments.
But for once, the destruction didn't bury me.
For once, the nightmares weren't crowding behind my eyes.
All I saw was her, her smile, her fingers brushing mine, the way her face softened when she took that first bite of bread like it was salvation.
By the time I reached the billet, my heart was doing a slow, stupid somersault.
The evening routine went by like a dream.
I showered, declined Carter's invitation to go to a new bar someone had discovered in the Tiergarten, and went to bed.
My mind was going in circles. The craziness of what I had said replayed in my head over and over, but the longer I thought about it, the less crazy it sounded.
I would be able to take care of her. Her, her brother, and his friend.
The army would provide housing. She could make that cheesecake.
She could go to the PX and buy things. Pretty things.
You've only known her for a few weeks, my mind cautioned, but my heart and the dragon in me said it was enough. I had never felt about anybody like this before. I was sure she was the one.
Well, we'll never know. Fat chance of me getting my hands on ten eggs, sugar, and a kilo of cream cheese, Inga had laughed my offhanded proposal off. If only she knew that at the PX, ten eggs were nothing. The quark—whatever the hell that was—would be harder to come by.
With those thoughts rolling around inside my head, sleep wasn't coming, and when I looked at my watch, I realized what time it was in Montana.
Ranch time. My father would already be awake.
He was always awake before dawn. Soon, he would be out, feeding the cattle, checking fences, yelling at my little brother to saddle the damn horse properly.
I've been delaying this call for weeks. The war was over, but with the situation in Berlin, I knew my family was still worried sick over me, and I wasn't making it easier by not calling.
I headed to the CQ desk—Charge of Quarters—the little room right off the hallway where a bored sergeant kept watch, logged who came and went, monitored the phones, and tried not to fall asleep.
Sergeant Dwyer was on duty, reading a three-day-old newspaper. He looked up as I approached.
"Need the line, Captain?" he asked, chewing on a toothpick.
"Yeah," I said. "If it's free."
"Private Jenkins is finishing up with his girl in Milwaukee," Dwyer smirked. "He's been whispering sweet nothings for twenty minutes. God help us all."
I leaned against the wall, pretending not to hear the lovesick babbling drifting down the hall. When Jenkins finally hung up, blushing and glowing like he'd been kissed through the damn wires, Dwyer waved me forward.
"All yours, Sir."
I dialed home.
The line crackled. Popped. Hissed.
Then—
"Griffin Ranch," came my father's voice, deep and steady as a mountain.
My chest clenched.
"Dad," I said. "It's me."
A startled pause, then warmth flooded the line. "Gideon! Boy, we thought you'd forgotten you had a family."
Before I could respond, I heard another receiver click on. "Oh heavens, Gideon? Gideon, sweetheart, is that you?" My mother.
Of course she was listening in. I smiled so hard my cheekbones hurt. "Hey, Ma."
There were questions, a dozen of them—
Are you eating?
Are you safe?
Are you sleeping?
Is Berlin as terrible as they say?
Are you taking care of yourself?
Are you warm enough?
Do you need more socks?
I answered them all, as best I could.
And then… I couldn't help myself.
"I met someone," I said softly.
Dead silence on both extensions.
Then my mother gasped. "Oh my Lord—"
And my father let out a low, amused grunt. "Knew it."
"She's German," I added.
My mother squeaked. My father let out a slow whistle.
"Well," Dad said finally, "war's over. A heart goes where it damn well pleases."
"What's she like?" Mom demanded. "Is she kind? Is she pretty? Does she bring out the best in you? Gideon Joseph Griffin, you answer me!"
I rubbed the back of my neck. "She's… incredible. Strong. Smarter than me. Braver than me. Fierce as hell. And funny, when she lets herself be."
"Ah," Dad said knowingly. "One of those."
Mom whispered, "I want to know everything."
I don't know what pushed me to say it. Maybe the ache in my chest. Maybe the sound of Inga's laugh, still echoing in my skull. Maybe the way my father had gone quiet in that knowing, almost amused way he had whenever life cornered me into something important.
But whatever the reason, before we wrapped up the call, I said quietly, "Hey, Dad?"
"Yeah, son?"
"How'd you know?" My voice dropped even lower. "With Mom. How'd you know she was… the one?"
Mom made a delighted, muffled shriek on the other end. Dad cleared his throat, the way he did when he was trying not to get sentimental.
"Well now," he said. "That's a hell of a question."
Another pause, and I gave him time to collect himself, listening to my mom's heavy breathing from her pressing a handkerchief against her lips—I could just see it in my mind's eye—to prevent us from hearing her excited giggles. As if…
Finally, Dad collected his thoughts, "I guess I knew when bein' around her made the worst parts of me a little quieter."
I sank onto the edge of the small wooden bench by the CQ desk.
Dad continued, in a voice warm and steady as a heartbeat.
"Your mother… she didn't make my troubles vanish.
She just made ‘em less loud. Like when you move a skittish horse from a stormy field to a quiet pasture.
Same storm's blowin', but suddenly, you can breathe again. "
I closed my eyes.
He kept going.
"And when she laughed? Son, I swear to God the world made sense for a minute."
This time, Mom couldn't suppress a soft chuckle.
"And when she looked at me, I felt like the man I was supposed to be. Not the fool I was at twenty."
Something in my chest twisted.
"So that's how I knew," Dad finished. "When life felt… easier with her. Brighter. Like she was somethin' I didn't know I'd been missin' until she walked right into me one lucky day."
Mom whispered, "He still looks at me that way, you know."
Dad coughed loudly. "Woman, you're gonna embarrass the boy."
But I wasn't embarrassed. I was struck still. Because every word he said—
each damn one, hit me like a truth I'd been circling without admitting.
I swallowed hard. "Thanks, Dad."
"You treat that girl right," he said. "If she's anything like your mother, she'll keep you on your toes."
I laughed under my breath. "Oh, she does."
"Then good," he said simply. "She's already done you some good, I can hear it."
He wasn't wrong. "Tell us more about her," my mother demanded.
I told them a little, not about the rubble, or the hunger, or the danger, just enough for them to picture her. Enough to let me say her name out loud, like it meant something. "Inga."
It felt like a promise when I said it.
Dad sighed. "Well, son… sounds like you're a goner."
Maybe I was. We talked a little longer, about Montana, about my sister, about the stubborn mare that still hated everyone except Mom.
Then Dad checked the time and said he had to feed the cattle before the sun went up.
"We love you," my mother said fiercely.
"Get some rest," Dad added.
"Write more," Mom insisted.
"Don't get shot down," Dad grumbled.
"I won't," I promised, even though in Berlin no promise like that meant anything.
We hung up.
I walked back to my room with a feeling I hadn't had in years.
Warm.
Content.
Alive.
I stretched out on my cot, listening to the echo of their voices, the memory of Inga's laughter, and the steady, impossible beat of something new unfurling inside me.
For once… sleep came easy.
And when it did, I dreamed of her.