Page 44 of Sparks Still Fly

I know we need to talk. We need to figure this out before this visit with the social workers. Though I’m not officially on the paperwork for the baby’s guardianship, I am his wife, so I’ll need to be a part of this process too and I don’t want to mess it up for him with the awkwardness between us.

I send off a quick text to see if he’s at home.

MAEVE:

Can I come over now for a talk?

His response is immediate.

OWEN:

Of course.

I have the decency to swap his sweatshirt for one of my own, brush my teeth and wash my face. I pile my hair on top of my head and make my way toward the main house. The door is ajar, so I take that as my invitation to walk right in.

The moment I do so, the smell of tea permeates the air. Owen is at the kitchen island setting down a plate topped with a dozen donuts with all kinds of sprinkles on them. Three things happen when I see this. My stomach twists at the thought that he remembers, then it turns at the same thought, then it rumbles again because I’m absolutely starving.

“Hello.” If my face is puffy from oversleeping, Owen’s is gaunt from the exact opposite. But I’m not thinking about whether or not he’s been getting enough sleep. I don’t care.

Okay, I do care, but I’m trying really hard not to.

“What’s all this?” I ask, waving at the donuts, coffee, eggs, bacon, and pastries covering every surface of the countertop.

“I thought you might be hungry, but if you’re not, we can just leave this stuff, and I’ll toss it later.” He shrugs, and I lunge for the plate of croissants he had started to lift.

“No!” I take a quick breath in and settle myself. “I mean, no, that’s okay. I could eat.” He places the plate of food on the counter and gestures for me to take a seat on one of the stools. His normally vibrant green eyes are dull, almost lackluster. I perch myself on the edge of a stool as he turns away.

Once we’re both seated, I reach for a sprinkle donut, sitting it on my plate. “Do you remember the first time we ate these together? Well, I suppose that was the only time, really.” I look up and find him looking down at me, the look on his face softer than before as he surely plays the same distorted memories over in his mind.

After a beat of silence, I chance looking at his eyes. “I remember everything, Maevey,” he whispers.

My body is at war with itself. The instinct to fight and flight is simultaneously strong. How do I escape this hell of reliving memories with a man I thought I loved? How do I find the strength to stay and face these truths I know I’m not prepared to hear head on? It’s an impossible situation, so I settle for taking a bite of my donut.

“I need to know now, Owen.” I look down at my donut, half expecting him to have changed his mind. Half hoping for it. “Even if you might not be ready. I need to.”

“Yeah.” I look up at him again, and it’s as if somehow the circles under his eyes are darker, his skin ashier.

He begins, hardly taking a breath before speaking. “I left a few days after my dad’s funeral. It was just me and three other guys on a special mission we were going to be briefed on once we arrived, but we never made it to base.” He looks down at his hands, which are in tight fists on the countertop. The urge to take his hand in mine is strong, but I hold back.

“The four of us were taken hostage.” My mouth gapes open, and I inhale sharply as my mind races to process what he’s said. My head spins, either from the shock of his words or the quick burst of oxygen I just took in.

“We were in a cell for weeks. We couldn’t see the outside, so I didn’t even realize how much time had passed until we...Until I was out. They couldn’t tell my mom, and when I got back, I wrote her a fucking email saying I was on a secret mission and had just got back. I couldn’t face her. Not in the state I was in.” His fists somehow tighten, and this time I don’t hesitate. I take one of his hands in mine and the other relaxes as I intertwine our fingers.

“Lainey didn’t even know about the abduction until last year when we started talking again.” His breath comes out choppy before he continues, “Four of us went in. I was the only one that made it out. And a couple of the guys on the rescue mission didn’t make it either.” He shakes his head. “I can’t give you any more details than that, Maeve. Please don’t ask me to. I can’t.”

Four in. One out. People died to save him. He’s carried the weight of this for years. Years. Alone.

I hold my breath to keep the sob trying to break through inside.

I turn so that my body is facing him, but he doesn’t move. “I won’t,” I whisper. He licks his lips and takes a deep breath.

“I was so fucked up after that. I had to go to so much counseling, so many doctors. It was months before I even started to talk about it. Before I talked at all. I was angry.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. “No, I was... I was gone. I had nothing left but hideous memories and guilt to eat away at me. If I didn’t have my psychiatrist and Raf, I don’t know where I would be right now.”

“Owen, I’m?—”

“I don’t want your pity, Maeve. I don’t need you to feel bad for me or treat me like I’m made of glass. I’m good. I’m okay. For a long time, I didn’t think I’d be able to say that, but I am.” He moves to look at me, unshed tears sitting in his eyes that make my own threaten to spill over.

“I believe you.” It’s impossible not to. Since he came back into my life last year, he’s shown no signs of PTSD, though I’ve purposely kept my distance, so what would I know anyway.

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