Page 18 of Willow Embers
Dread sits like a stone in my stomach as I replay our moment in my head again, for what feels like the hundredth time.
She was right there with me, wasn’t she? Step for step, stroke for stroke?
I can still see the fire in her eyes. Feel her nails scraping my neck. There was that moment when time seemed to stop, but we didn’t say anything.
Why didn’t I say something? Why didn’t I check in with her in a more tangible way?
It’s not like me to act without asking. And when I did finally open my reckless mouth, the confession that tumbled out made her shut down completely.
The more I think about it, the more I wish I could take it all back.
Is that too much to ask of the universe?
All I want is a mulligan. Just one. To roll time back to the second before I kissed her so I can do it all differently. Gentler. Slower. With words that might make her stay in my arms instead of recoiling like I burned her.
It’s a pointless thought, and I know I’m just torturing myself. Sometimes, you don’t get a second chance.
And sometimes, when you do, you blow it. Spectacularly.
So, I sit in silence, biting my tongue, with an eight-hundred-pound gorilla sitting on my chest, until the cabin goes silent. I don’t notice at first. I’m too wrapped up in tryingnotto hear her. But when that silent weight invades my mental flogging, I finally tear my gaze away from the fire and glance over my shoulder to see Nixie slumped forward on the table.
A jolt of anxiety yanks me to my feet, because what if she passed out? What if those trembling sobs I barely heard were actually her shivering into a state of unconsciousness?
Relief washes over me when I realize she fell asleep.
Correction: she cried herself to sleep.
The delicate skin around her eyes is puffy. Her nose is red and swollen. I feel like an absolute monster, but at least she’s okay.
Physically, anyway.
I reach out, hesitate for a beat, then think better of touching her. “Nixie,” I whisper. “Why don’t you go lay on the couch?” It’s closer to the fire and several degrees warmer, which I suspect she needs more than me.
She grumbles in response but doesn’t open her eyes to glare at me or try to slice me open with words laced with razor wire.
The woman must be exhausted. God knows I am, and I’m trained to handle a hell of a lot worse.
Common sense says I should keep my hands to myself. Respect her space. If what happened between us upset her sodeeply, she sure as hell wouldn’t want me putting my hands on her again.
Too bad common sense went out the window the second she walked back into my life.
Still in nothing but boxers, I let my blanket fall to the floor, and I’m getting ready to lift her from the hard chair when I see my keys peeking out from her right hand. Gently, I tug them from her loose grip. The last thing I need is those hitting the wood floor and waking her up. Then I gather her up in my arms, try like hell not to hold on too tight, and carry her over to the couch.
It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world. A little musty. Kind of lumpy. But the moment her head hits the cushion, she sinks in, oblivious to my presence. Oblivious to everything, as far as I can tell.
I stay crouched beside her for a few seconds. And maybe a few more. It is surreal being in the same room with her again, especially now that sleep has smoothed the worry lines in her forehead and softened her frown. She looks so much like my Nixie that I feel it in my chest, and it takes all my self-control not to brush her soft hair off her cheek.
Curling my hands into fists to keep from reaching for her, I force myself to my feet and head back to find my blanket. My plan is to try to grab at least a couple hours of sleep on the bottom bunk, though I’m pretty sure it’ll be a futile effort. And that’s before I spot my keys again.
Why in the world would she have been holding those?
It hits me when my hand is still inches away from the small jumble of jagged metal.The coin.It’s been on my key ring, clattering and jangling through my daily life for so long that I don’t even realize it’s there most days. But every time I think about taking it off, something stops me.
I run my finger over the cool surface.
I loved that damned coin the moment she pressed it into my palm. And at first, it was something I clung to. After I finally admitted to myself that I’d lost her, it became a reminder of what not to do. And as the years went on, it just kind of became a part of me. Like the scars on my hand from when an IED blew up the front end of the Humvee I was riding in.
Nixie’s smiling face still fills my mind when I see it, but the memory is worn in and weathered. I’ve replayed it in my head so many times that it’s lost its punch.
