Page 21 of No Turning Back
“I did.” I swallow. “I do. That’s the problem.”
There’s a silence thick enough to choke on.
Then Markus says, almost hesitant, “Maybe it’s time we have one of our own.”
Before I can even form a thought around that, there’s a knock at the door.
“I don’t want to fight, Markus.” I say, already heading down the stairs, slower than I need to.
“I don’t either,” Markus says. “But when I get home, let’s do it. Let’s try.”
I’ve been here long enough to stop hoping. “You’ll change your mind by the time you get home.”
“I won’t,” he says.
I don’t answer. I just swing open the door.
“Bye,” I murmur into the phone, pulling it away and slipping it into my pocket.
Then, to the man standing in front of me, I say, “Hi.”
“Hi,” he echoes, before sweeping me into his arms without warning.
I laugh as he twirls me right there in the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” I smile, unable to hide the joy in my voice, even I can hear it.
“Deployment ended early,” he says.
I slide down the length of him, feet finding the floor again. “Really?”
He cups my cheek with one hand, the other settling at my back. My arms stay looped around his neck.
“God, I missed you,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip. “I don’t ever want to be away from you again.”
My smile falters, I’m happy he’s back. But the truth is, I’m not over the fight. Not completely. It was easier to pretend while he was gone, but I can’t just let him slip back into my bed like nothing happened.
Markus leans in to kiss me, but I pull away.
“I’m gonna make you some dinner,” I say. “Why don’t you wash up?”
With that, I retreat to the kitchen.
I can tell he’s confused, but I don’t care right now. What did he expect? That he could slip out in the middle of the night, miss my dad’s funeral, though he had a reason for that and I’d just… be the same?
I didn’t help with the calls, I’ll admit. But you can love someone and still be mad at them.
And I amhellamad.
A few moments later, the pan hisses as the chicken sizzles in oil, its skin crisping to a golden brown. Garlic and rosemary perfume the air, steam curling up from the pot of mashed potatoes on the back burner. The green beans on the side are nearly done, bright and glossy from the butter glaze.
I’m no master chef, I just keep pre-prepped food in the freezer.
Markus’s footsteps are soft but deliberate as he makes his way into the kitchen. His hair is damp, beads of water clinging to his temples. He hovers for a moment like he’s deciding whether to speak, then slips into the seat at the island.
“Did my mom call you?” he asks.
I glance over my shoulder, frowning. “No. Not since you left.”
