Page 57 of The Games We Play
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns around and disappears into the bedroom. I don’t follow him because this isn’t a game of fetch. If he needs space, I’ll willingly let him have it, but it hurts that he wants to shut me out. When he returns, he’s dressed, keys in hand. “I’ll be back. Don’t leave.”
He slams the door shut so hard that the glassware on the shelf rattles.
I take in a deep breath as the roar of the bike fades into the distance.
It would be easier to do what Cillian asked if Spark were an asshole. But he’s not. And he’s carrying something really heavy.
I want to hear from him what it is, but I feel like his body gave me some clues. I take out my phone, do a search online with the date and one of the names I read on his back. And there it is. In two seconds.
War is one of those things I know about intellectually, but like most Americans, I’ve got zero firsthand experience with it. It’s never happened on American soil in my lifetime beyond the whole occasional terror attack, like the Twin Towers going down in New York. I’ve seen news reels, always edited to give the maximum shock impact. But even this image of the aftermath of the suicide bombing in Kabul, seeing Tyler’s name in the article as someone who was injured and ultimately discharged with a medal, makes it hit home hard. I almost lost him.
Then I shake myself.
He’s not really mine.
And he’ll hate me once he finds out what Cillian is asking me to do.
Which reminds me ...
I see Spark’s phone on the counter, and I pick it up. It weighs heavy in my hand, almost as heavy as the guilt squeezing my chest. My finger hovers over the button to turn it on, to see if it’s password protected. It is.
I wander to the old dresser in the hall and look through the drawers. But there’s nothing much in there. Some fishing flies. Cable ties. Cold weather gear like hats and mitts.
The bedroom reveals little more. The top drawer has a flashlight, a lighter, and the box of condoms he brought with him. The second drawer has a couple of pillowcases. I pull it out too fast, and the drawer falls off its slider. In the space below the bottom drawer, there’s a gun on top of what looks like a passport. I go to move the gun but panic. What if my fingerprints end up on it? What if it’s used for something ... ? I can’t even finish the question, let alone answer it.
Quickly, I slide the drawer back onto its slider.
Looking through his belongings feels like such a betrayal of a man who has done more for this country than Cillian ever has.
But it’s Michael at risk if I don’t.
Guilt eats at me as surely as if it were a corrosive substance in my stomach.
I leave spying behind, too churned up to focus, and try to make us dinner. I decide to roast the potatoes so they are easy to reheat. Then I make a marinade for the steaks and throw it all together in a container I found in the cupboard. I shuck the corn outside, watching up and down the trail for any sign of him coming home.
Every step I have to navigate around my wrist brace. I’m already sick of it.
Once everything is prepared, I set about trying to make the rest of the place look nice. I stoke the fire, wipe down the table, and cobble together place settings for the two of us. I saw some wildflowers on the edge of the property, so I take a cup out with me and cut some.
As I walk back into the cottage, I wonder if he’s coming back soon. He said to stay. And strangely I feel safe enough here. I’ll be okay for the night. I have fuel and food, but if he’s not back in the morning, I’ll have to put the bus network to the test or call Kasey to see if she’ll come get me if I pay for her gas.
It’s not lost on me that if Cillian had brought me to a cottage, then told me to stay while he drove off, I wouldn’t feel quite so comfortable.
When I’ve remade the bed and done all the other little jobs I can think of, I pour a glass of white wine and go out to sit on the small deck off the living room. The spot is rustic, a gravel lane down to the lake. I can see trees, the air is fresh, and I can breathe.
As I sip, I hear a bike in the distance, the rumble of the engine getting louder until it’s a roar just outside the house. When the engine cuts out, I know he’s home.
The old curtain blows out of the doorway, then flutters back into place, my sign he’s in the cottage again. Booted footsteps thud across the wooden floor, then the deck creaks as he steps outside.
Spark falls into the second chair, beer in hand.
He doesn’t say a word. But he bridges the gap between us and takes hold of my hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb.
I fold my fingers around his, and we sit like that, sipping our drinks and listening to the birds, the odd peal of laughter from down by the water, and the chirp and buzz of insects.
When the buzzer on my phone goes off, we both jump. “Shit, potatoes,” I gasp as I place my wine on the table and hurry inside. Using the checkered cloth, I pull the pan out of the oven. Thankfully, they’re cooked to perfection.
Spark follows me in. “Smells good in here,” he says. “Want me to grill the steaks?”
