Page 21 of The Rejected Wife

There’s anguish in his voice and a pain that shines through which dissipates the last of the walls I’ve tried to throw up around my heart. Whatever he’s feeling, whatever he went through, it tested him. It changed him. It made him grow up and become the man he is today… The result of which, I’m attracted to, hugely.

And I love the fact that he’s confiding in me. His openness to talk about himself is as intoxicating as his sex-on-a-stick attractiveness.

“How did you get over it?”

“You never really get over it.” He looks into the distance, his gaze contemplative. “You realize that, while you might have started out with altruistic intentions, ultimately, you’re playing a small part in much bigger program you can’t really see. But that you can still make a difference by doing your part well. By being there for your fellow Marines. By doing the right thing by them and most people you come in contact with.”

There’s a wistfulness to his tone which makes me muse, “You miss the Marines.”

That half-smile is back. “I miss the camaraderie. The shared purpose. The going after the bad guys. It’s more black-and-white in the Marines. You have a goal. A purpose. You put your life on the line because of your beliefs. You learn to trust your instincts. To savor the adrenaline of the shared mission. Your focus is on bringing yourself and your teammates back home in one piece. You live and breathe your mission. Your every waking minute is spoken for.” He shakes his head.

“It sounds stressful.”

“It is. That’s what makes it addictive.” He lowers his chin. “And yes, I do miss it.”

“How did you acclimatize back to daily life?”

When he stays silent, I explain, “I’ve heard it’s difficult for soldiers to adjust back to civilian life?”

"I didn’t do a great job of it, I’m afraid.” He shifts in his seat. A sheepish look crosses his features. “In those early days of trying to lead a life outside the forces, I used alcohol as a crutch. I’d often be blind-drunk enough to wake up in a different bed each morning, with a different woman I didn’t recognize. A nameless, faceless person I used to try and get the frustration out of my system. Not that it helped much." He shrugs.

He's already been upfront that he’s dated other women. This time, I’m somewhat unsurprised by the familiar stinging sensation in my chest. I may have known him for very little time, but this connection between us, which has grown stronger with every passing hour, makes me feel like I have a right to feel possessive about him. After all, by his own admission, he hasn’t felt this way about any other woman before me, either.

"By the time I realized how destructive I was being, a few months had passed. It was Brody, my younger brother, who gave me a talking to and told me to pull myself together." He half-smiles. "We got into a fight, which I was too drunk to win. But his thrashing me was the best thing he could have done. I?—"

The doorbell rings.

We look at each other.

"Were you expecting company?"

He shakes his head. "No one was announced, so it must be someone security recognizes." He looks around and swears. "I left my phone by the bed, so I don’t know if any of them called me, either."

The doorbell rings again, then again. The sound is harsh, jarring, almost insistent. A shiver runs up my spine. A frisson of discomfort stabs into my breastbone. Not sure why I feel like it’s an alarm bell, a warning.

I shake my head and attempt a smile. "Whoever that is, is impatient."

"Sorry about this." He rises to his feet and walks out of the kitchen. Unable to sit still, I jump up and follow him through the living room to the front door. He looks through the peephole then steps back.

“There’s no one there.” His tone is impatient.

He throws the door open and looks around. “I’m going to complain to security.” Then he looks down, and his entire body freezes.

Something about how motionless he is—the bunched muscles of his torso, the way his shoulder blades stand out with surgical precision against his shirt—fires another ripple of alarm through my bloodstream. I hurry and close the distance to him. "Who is it?"

I draw abreast, stand next to him, and look down at a carrier with what seems like an oversized diaper bag left next to it.Huh?A carrier? Ababycarrier? What the—? I peer closely at it. Is that the curve of a tiny head with downy hair peeking out? My heart leaps into my throat. My mind recognizes what I’m seeing, but the connection between my brain and my mouth seems to be lost.

It’s Tyler who recovers first. "It’s a baby.”

13

Priscilla

Someone left a baby on his doorstep?What the—? Can this really be happening? Doesn’t this happen only in the movies? This is real life. Things like this don’t happen in the real world. But the evidence to the contrary is in front of my eyes. Maybe they do…

Tension radiates from Tyler’s big body. He looks around the short hallway, his jaw set. His eyebrows drawn down. I look from him to the baby in the portable carrier then back at him. There’s also a diaper bag next to the carrier. Avery expensivedesigner diaper bag too.

I feel discombobulated, like I’m watching the events unfold from far away.

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