Page 29 of A Moment Never Forgotten
Lizzie ran to him, practically shoving Micah out of the way, as she blotted his hands with a dishtowel.
His Lizzie was there.
The nightmare had changed.
Or had it?
Was this real? Or was he still stuck in the nightmare?
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her as though he hadn’t seen her in years. Almost eleven if he were counting.
“You’re okay,” she whispered reassuringly in his ear. “It was just a flashback.” She rubbed her hand up and down his spine. “It’s over now. We’re here in Washington DC.” She moved both hands cupping his face. “I’m right here in front of you. I’m your wife. I love you.”
When she pressed her lips to his it was as though he was coming home. Lizzie was in his arms, in his life. As he held her to him, their son kicked. Wyatt was real.
This was real.
He looked down into those silvery blue eyes that he had loved for years. “I’m so glad you love me.” He brushed his lips across hers one last time before releasing her.
She immediately began mopping the alcohol from his shirt. “Why don’t you go change? I’ll set supper on the table.”
Matthew nodded, then his gaze met Micah’s.
“Happens to all of us,” his friend reassured. “For me, the nightmares are the worst. I see a counselor back in Virginia Beach.” He let out a heavy sigh. “And finding a new shrink to my list. I fucking hate moving.”
Matthew looked around his new home and saw the Honey Do List he and Lizzie had made when they moved in a few months ago. “I’m right there with you, brother.”
At the term of endearment, Micah’s eyes flashed. Fuck. Mason used to call Micahbrother. Well, another piece of confirmation that his memory was coming back.
“I’ll be back in just a minute. I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but you already do. And by the way, thanks for that.”
“Elizabeth, get your ass in that chair and get your feet up,” Micah ordered. “I’ve got this.” He headed into the dining room and began emptying the bags.
Leaning against the bathroom counter, Matthew dropped his chin to his chest. Closing his eyes, he could see his bloodied hands as clearly as though he were looking at them ten years ago. Lifting his head, he looked at himself in the mirror. The man he saw looked nothing like Mason Sinclair. Because he wasn’t that man anymore. Nor could he be, until they found the murderer, who was most likely also a traitor.
Part of him wanted to tell all their friends who he was, and hopefully, they could help him remember what happened back in Syria. But he couldn’t. If anyone found out his memory was returning, it would endanger Lizzie and all three of his children.
Matthew stripped out of the wet shirt and dampened the washcloth. He washed the stickiness from his chest, then scrubbed his hands and arms. He wondered if it would’ve been easier to simply jump in the shower, but it was too late. He donned a long sleeve polo shirt and headed back to help with supper.
When he entered the living room, Micah and Lizzie were deep in a conversation that immediately halted as soon as they saw him.
“No more alcohol abuse.” Lizzie waggled her finger at him in an attempt to lighten the situation. “How dare you spill twenty-five-year-old scotch? I don’t care that you were having a flashback. That whiskey Micah brings costs more than gold.”
A picture of gold bars sitting in the dirt under old boards raced through Matthew’s mind followed by Gabriel’s conversation as he held Elizabeth at gunpoint…moments before Matthew shot him. Gabe had mentioned gold.
Matthew shot her a glance. It was impossible for him to say anything to her now, but their pillow talk would definitely involve memories…and gold bars.
Micah handed him a refilled glass. “Try not to spill this one.”
“Fucking flashbacks,” Matthew complained as he took a long swig. He then swept his glance around his home. His children were nowhere to be seen. Good. They hadn’t heard him swear. He’d been earnestly trying to clean up his language around the kids.
After they’d eaten, Matt sent Lizzie back to bed and the kids to get their pajamas on. He slumped onto the couch, a bottle of water in his hand.
“So, how is everything going over at Special Activities Division?” Micah asked.
“Not great.” He shook his head and didn’t hide the scowl. “In my position is Deputy Director of SAD, I didn’t have to deal with Noah Hennel very much. Now that he’s my boss, he’s micromanaging the hell out of me and my department.”
“That sucks,” Micah agreed.
