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“It’s worse.” Bear sighs and walks forward to place his hands on my shoulders. “You wrap it, you tap it, and you get the hell on out. It was fine when we were nineteen or twenty, but you’re too old for that shit now. You were too old ten years ago. You’ve always wanted to settle down, and for a while, Raychel was it for you.” Bear’s hands tighten when I try to pull away at the sound of my ex’s name. “You gotta move on, man. Not every woman you meet is going to be a Raychel. This one happens to be a Taya, and the woman is tough. She reminds me of Marge. Look, I know you’re not cool with being single for the rest of your life. We both know what dying lonely looks like, and I don’t want that for you. So, find your balls and get your shit together before the year is up and you lose her for good.”

As far as conversations about love and women go, it’s the best I’ve heard since my old man and ‘the talk,’ a conversation consisting of him tossing aPlayboymagazine and roll of thin toilet paper through a crack in my bedroom door and whispering, ‘good luck.’ When Dad wasn’t berating my mother or drinking himself under a table, he was giving me twisted advice on what it meant to be a man. Women are naturally liars. They can’t help it. Their weakness is what eventually defiled the Garden. For a man who often indulged in rage, gluttony, and a host of other sins, Dad had been painfully religious.

Bear and Marge are the ones who taught me what it means to treat another person with dignity and respect. Hell, word count alone means Bear has officially given me the best relationship advice I’ve ever had. I guess that’s what best friends are for.

“We’re both rooting for you, Jim,” Marge says, grabbing a bottle of Clorox and a set of dish rags. “Now, I’m going to need the two of you to clean my kitchen before the rest of the guests come in.”

“You left her unsupervised. You do it.”

Marge’s smile has a bit of bite to it, and against my better judgment, I take the rag when she offers it to me. “Can’t,” she says cheerily, likely because Bear has already started wiping down counters. “What’s a party without its hostess? Let me know when you’re done.”

I nod and, all peaches-and-cream now, Marge saunters back outside.

“Marge ever think about signing up? I bet she’d give Redding a run for his money.”

I shudder at the thought of Marge backed by the power and influence of the United States Navy. Bear grunts, but doesn’t disagree, which speaks volumes all on its own.

Chapter Eighteen

Taya

Tonight was hell.Someone messed up reservations and it was as if everyone in Virginia Beach decided to come to Shaken & Stirred. Then Jim wasn’t answering his phone and after waiting for forty-five minutes for him to pick me up I decided to order an Uber. An uneasy sensation prickles along the back of my neck. It’s not like Jim to forget to come pick me up. I blow out a breath and shake my head. Listen to me, sounding exactly like a fretting wife. I’m being silly. He must have gotten stuck at work. Yeah, I’m a little disappointed, because I enjoy our conversations on the ride home. We almost always get into a good-natured argument over comic books or video games, basically because I have superior taste. At least I got some burgers and fries to bring home for dinner.

The road passes by in a blur, the streetlights winking from the corner of my eye. My heart drops at the thought of spending hours in bed, staring at the ceiling thanks to the anxiety that eats at me as I eagerly await the arrival of the DVD. Inara suggested dosing up on melatonin, but there hasn’t been time to go to the pharmacy with Jim insisting on driving me everywhere. I don’t want to admit to my sleepless nights to him because he’ll want me to tell him why.

I sag back into the seat. More than anything, I wish I could share my past with him. But I can’t risk putting him in that position. Jim is unflinchingly honest. If I tell him about my family’s involvement with Santoro, he’ll feel compelled to report it to his C.O., which would put our entire marriage at risk. Plus, I know Jim better now. I know he’d want to protect me, and I won’t be the reason he gets hurt. Not after I’m the reason Santoro found out about my father in the first place. I didn’t know Marco was working with Santoro, and obviously my father didn’t either, or else he would’ve warned me. But the more my father worked the case, the more I got concerned and I would share those concerns with Marco. What a fool I was.

My chin dips to my chest. I close my eyes, while my lungs fill with lead. I’d been so naïve. So open. So trusting. All of the things that had led to my dad getting killed.

When I open my eyes, a new resolve burns inside me. Until I have all the information, I’m keeping my lips sealed. Whatever it takes to help Jim get what he needs.

Even if what he needs is to ditch me when our year is up.

The Uber driver takes the final turn onto our street and I shift the brown bag in my lap. A tight fist constricts around my heart when the cobalt-blue house comes into view with Jim’s truck parked in the driveway. My fingers grip the brown paper bag. Why hadn’t he picked up the phone when I called?

Oh my God, what if the DVD came in? What if he opened it?

When the driver pulls up to the curb, I jump out of the car and race into the house. None of the lights are on and I make my way into the kitchen where a dark shape leans against the far end of the island. I scream, stumbling back against the half-wall. My elbow strikes the corner, and I open my mouth in a gasp with no sound.

Jim straightens to his full height, a luminance from the window at his back. Light reflects off the bottle of bourbon he’s clutching. A knot forms in my gut, and I lick dry lips with a suddenly dry tongue. Something’s wrong.

“Jim, are you okay?” I place the burgers and fries on the counter and walk over to the edge of the island where he’s standing in his boxers, and place the palm of my good hand on the center of his shirtless back.

He slams the bottle down on the corner of the granite countertop and points at me. “You gonna tell me what really happened to your arm?”

My breath seizes. Is he drunk? That’s not like Jim. Also, how stupid could I be for thinking he would buy such a weak excuse? But it was the best I could think of and after years of my stepmother torturing me over search and rescue, I just really haven’t wanted to listen to what he has to say, especially since I broke my arm. “I told you already.”

“Not good enough, Taya.” He snorts, bitterness radiating from him like heat, then takes a step backward to move away from me and stumbles. His hand grabs on to the back of a barstool to steady himself.

Something isn’t right. “Jim, come on, let’s go to bed.” I step closer and lay my hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t need your help. Stop treating me like I’m fucking broken.” He turns, grabs the bourbon bottle, and throws it. The glass bottle crashes against the backsplash above the sink, exploding into dozens of shards that rain down onto dirty dishes. Dirty dishes piled in the sink. Not once since I’ve been here have there ever been dishes in the sink.

I jump back, my nerves firing like lightning bolts and Pop Rocks. Jim’s eyes are like daggers in the darkness of the kitchen, dangerous and glinting. Or—are they wet? He shifts his head just enough for the light to illuminate tears sitting above his lower lids, threatening to overflow.

I reach for his face and stroke gently along his jaw. Nothing more than the softest of caresses, and his anger dissipates, a mass exodus, leaving him deflated and rounding the mountain of his shoulders.

My heart stalls.

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