Page 55 of Walking Wounded

Finn nodded. “Yeah. Hope so.”

They took the train to DC, side-by-side, Finn in the window seat because Will knew he liked it and the blur of colors tended to make him motion sick anyway.

He tipped his head back and shut his eyes, the swaying and faint clacking of the train lulling him. It was warm, almost too warm, but he kept his leg pressed all down the length of Finn’s leg, even when he got sweaty behind his knee inside his uniform pants. He was almost asleep, but he felt the subtle shifting of the seat when Finn leaned back and mirrored his position. Heard the gentle intake of breath before Finn spoke.

“Hey,” he said, just a whisper.

“Hey,” Will said back.

Finn swallowed, an audible gulp. “She’s angry with me.” There was no need to clarify who “she” was. “I dunno…what if she – what if she doesn’t want to stay my fiancée?”

“She will.”

“No. Don’t just tell me what I want to hear. I’m serious. You think she’ll stick around? Or is what I did unforgivable?”

“You joined the Marines, you didn’t step out on her.”

“Sometimes I think she’d prefer that, though.”

“Finn,” Will said, more sharply than he’d intended. He cracked his eyes and saw the couple sitting on the other side of the aisle glancing at them. He lowered his voice, softened it. Finn didn’t express his worries unless they were really weighing on him. “Leena isn’t the kind of woman who makes decisions on a whim. If she accepted your proposal, she means it; she isn’t going to take it back just because she’s angry.”

“Mad as hell,” Finn corrected.

“Just because she’s mad as hell. She’s not.”

Finn leaned into him until their shoulders were pressed together. “I hope you’re right.”

Of course he was right, and that became instantly apparent when they reached their families at the station. Both Will’s parents, and Julia with the girls. And Leena, stunning in a blue dress and overcoat, eyes shiny when she launched herself toward Finn. No, Will thought, there weren’t a lot of women who’d look at a ring Finn Murdoch had given them and regret their decision.

9

Sandy offers to let him stay for lunch, but Luke doesn’t feel like it. He makes his excuses and walks back to the apartment, letting the cold air and the brisk pace clear his head.

That’s the idea, anyway. He’s supposed to be organizing his story in his mind, mapping out an outline so that he can dive right in the moment he’s back in the apartment. Instead, he spends the scenic, frigid trip replaying that morning’s gym scene.

Hal has always been a kind-hearted, supportive friend. Quick with a hug, a smile, a word of genuine encouragement. But in the locker room, when he was carefully taping a Band-Aid to Luke’s eyebrow, he seemed almost maternal. Worried, caring, and hesitant. A foreign combination of traits.

Luke comes to the most obvious, most heartbreaking conclusion: Hal feels guilty about The Incident. Still. And he’s trying to apologize through unnecessary acts of kindness.

The wind kicks up, sharp little teeth against the back of his neck and the tops of his ears, as he reaches Hal’s building. He hunches his shoulders and fumbles for the keys in his pocket with stiff, half-frozen fingers as he jogs up the walk to the door. Absorbed in his own worries, hurrying against this damn unseasonable DC cold spell, he doesn’t notice the woman trying to do the same until he’s bumped into her and sent her orange three-ring binder flying.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” The building door swings shut behind them, thankfully cutting off the cold, and Luke leans down to grab the binder.

“I’m sorry, too,” the woman says. “I should have been paying better attention.”

“You and me both,” he says, not unkindly.

Several lined notecards slip out of the binder as Luke picks it up, fluttering back down to the floor. “Damn.”

“Here, it’s fine,” the woman starts, squatting down. Trying to, anyway. She’s wearing spike heels and a long, fitted skirt, and she ends up wobbling dangerously.

“I got it,” Luke assures, and bends to retrieve the cards. His eyes snag onBraised Spare Ribs with Smashed Cauliflowerbefore he hands them over. “Recipes, huh?” He doesn’t really care, is just trying to sound polite and not like his usual grumpy self.

“Uh, yes.” She flashes him a brief but bright smile, all straight white teeth and wide pink lips. A pretty woman, in her white silk shirt and long black trench, hair done up in a complicated twist. “I’m a chef.”

Something teases along Luke’s memory, like ants crawling. And then that something bites and takes hold. Chef. Hal dated a chef. But…no, surely not. Surely…

But before his brain can catch up with his mouth, he says, “Do you know Hal Rycroft?”

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