You go inside with Margery's arm under your right elbow and your mother's hand on your left, and the three of you make the awkward procession the four yards up the path, across the threshold and into the warm kitchen where the range is going hard against the wet of the evening and the smell of the stew your mother’s planning for dinner hits you in the first second of being inside.

You realise that you want to cry and you’re not sure if it’s because of the hard day’s work or the rain or the fall from your bicycle, or your wrist, or your knee, or the jeep ride home, or Frankie’s pinkie or Frankie’s eyes, or Frankie’s hand.

Frankie…

Whichever event can lay claim to it, you feel the prick of tears at the corners of your eyes.

"Coats off, both of you. I don’t want you dripping all over the floor. And those boots. I’ll deal with them in the morning. Sit by the range and get that knee up. Margery, you get that chair and scoot it to the range. Sit. Edie’s down at your Aunt Rosie’s and she was at me before she left about staying the night, so I’ll ring Rosie and tell her it’s alright. Margery, you can phone your mother once you’ve got the tea in you."

You sit and watch you mother shift into the bustling, competent register of a woman with a wet daughter, a wet daughter's friend, a stew on, a kettle to put on, a hot bath to get going and a lamp in her hand, all simultaneously. You sit as directed by the range with your leg up on a footstool she pulls across for you, and let her ease the wet boots off your feet then sit very still while she goes over the rest of you with the operational eye of a woman who needs to satisfy herself, before she lets the matter rest, that you are, in fact, in possession of all of yourself.

"Show me your wrist."

"It's only…"

"Show me."

You show her the inside of your wrist with the dim beginnings of the bruise already blooming across the pad of your thumb. Your mother takes the wrist between two of her own fingers and her thumb and turns it twenty degrees one way and twenty degrees the other, the action so reminiscent of what happened in the lane that you feel a shiver go through you as Margery pulls a heavy woollen blanket from the couch over your shoulders.

"The bone's all right,” you mother says with a nod. “He was right, that officer. You'll have a bruise, mind. Let me see your knee."

"It's bruised, Mum. He looked at it."

"He didn't look at it; he looked at your wrist. Knee."

You peel the leg of your trousers up to see the dim beginnings of a much more impressive bruise across the cap of your knee, and your mother goes over it with her thumb and her fingers.

"There’s going to be a big bruise there, but it’ll be alright. You'll be stiff tomorrow and worse Sunday, so just sit there for now.”

She straightens up from the footstool, wipes her hands on her apron and looks properly at your face, with the look of a woman whose daughter has come home in a jeep with three American officers after coming off a bicycle in a wet lane. The look holds for perhaps a second, and then she gives you the smallest possible nod which you know means that you’ll talk about it later. Then she turns to the range, lifts the kettle, sets it forward over the hottest plate, and the rest of the evening begins.

After you’ve drunk your tea, you and Margery strip down to your underwear in front of the range and put on spare clothes your mother brings for you. Then she puts two bowls of stew on the table and orders the two of you to it whereupon you eat greedily, not realising how hungry you are.

Afterwards you soak in the bath while she watches you, Margery’s voice on the phone flitting to your ears. Then you re-dress in your nightgown, dressing gown and your father's old grey woollen socks, with Margery in a similar get up, and both of you find yourselves back by the range with a second cup of tea whilst your mother takes your wet clothes to the scullery to wring them out.

Margery waits for an honest minute to ensure you won’t be overheard, then looks at you over the rim of her cup.

“So, what happened?”

You turn your head to look at her and think, for the briefest of moments, about saying nothing. But you can tell by the look on her face that she suspects something and know that your own expression has never been one you can easily mask.

“It…he…he said my name. Twice.”

She leans forward, eyes wide.

“He’s never said my name, Margery. I thought maybe he’d forgotten it, having only been given it once at the dance but he hasn’t. And then…our hands, our…our pinkies…” you lift your hands, cross them over and place them side by side, slowly demonstrating how his pinkie stretched for yours, yours stretched for his and the way they curled together.

“Oh…” Marjory exhales, her eyes darting from your hands to your eyes and back. “Oh…my…”

"Don't."

“Don’t what? I’m only…I’m only registering what you’ve said. I’m only saying...well I haven’t said anything to you come to mention it other than…"

"Alright, shush."

She doesn’t say anything else for a small interval, sips her tea, the picture of unblemished innocence on her face, then glances over her shoulder and back to you.

“He helped you down too.”

“Yes, he…I put my hand in his and he held my elbow and…”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? But…”

“I’ve got a boyfriend, Margery. I’ve got Henry.” You drop your eyes to your cup and feel the sting of tears again for reasons you can’t explain.

“Yes, you do,” she nods sagely. “For now.”

“What do you mean, for now?”

“I mean…that just because you’ve been walking out with a boy since you were fifteen, old girl, doesn’t mean that you have to marry him. Not if another boy comes along who takes your fancy better and I know you and I know…”

“Stop it.”

“I know…that you’ve got feelings for that Frankie Morales even if you’re not prepared to properly admit them to yourself.” She sits back in the chair and takes another sip of tea. “And those feelings deserve to be explored, old girl, I’m telling you that for nothing. There’s a war on and every morning we wake up breathing is a day to be cherished. And every cherished day is not one to be spent with a boy you don’t love.”

You don’t answer at first. You sit with your own cup in your hands and look at the dim red glow of the range through the slot at the front of it, and think – without performing the thinking in any particular order, about the precise, diagnostic grip of his fingers on your wrist through wet leather, and about the low quiet voice giving instructions to your mother on the path, and about the dim shine of water on the back of his right hand on his right thigh, and about the fierce private discipline of his honest, tired face, and about the way he said your name.

“I do love Henry.” Margery raises her eyebrows. “I do!”

“He’s convenient, old girl, and he’s steady and I’ve told you a million times that you want a man, not a…”

“A Suffolk Punch.”

“Yes, exactly! You think you owe Henry the rest of your life because he’s the first boy you’ve ever walked out with, and the truth is – you don’t. This is 1943, old girl, and there are dozens, hundred, thousands of English girls who…”

“Margery…”

“…who are marrying American servicemen,” she finishes with a flourish. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to marry him. For heaven’s sake, I don’t even know him! I’ve never even…” you glance over towards the scullery where your mother’s still out of earshot. “I’ve never even spoken to him. Not properly, not beyond an introduction at the dance and…and in the lane when he was examining my wrist.”

“And in the back of the jeep?”

“He didn’t say anything to me in the back of the jeep except my name.”

"Then we need to fix that,” Margery says with the nod of her head that indicates she’s made her mind up about something. “They’re only two fields away from the Hadleys’, old girl, and you’re not telling me, not for a moment, that there isn’t a good reason for a Land Girl to be near an airbase or an airman to be near a farm when they’re only two fields apart.”

“But…”

“I’m not saying that you do anything obvious,” she continues, raising her hand. “But there must be opportunities for you to come across one another, and we can think about them over the weekend whilst you rest yourself up and then decide what to do. I’m fairly certain that Santi Garcia likes me, so there could be an in that way.”

You pause, relieved for a moment that the focus has shifted ever so slightly, and peer at her. “Do you like him?”

For the first time in your life, you see Margery Cole blush, right down to the roots of her hair, her eyes fixed on her own cup.

“Right,” your mother interrupts, coming back through from the scullery wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s past eight and after the day you pair have had, I want you off to bed. I’ll put a hot bag in your bed, love and one in the spare for you, Margery, and you’re both going to sleep. And when your father gets home, I’m not going to tell him anything that’s going to make him fuss. That bicycle can be fixed and you, my girl, are not going to the farm tomorrow.”

“But Mum, I…”

“No, I won’t hear of it, and neither will Mrs Hadley when I tell her what’s happened. You’ll rest over the weekend and hopefully be fit to go back on Monday. I won’t hear another word about it.”

Resigned, you climb the stairs with Margery on one side, the banister on the other and your bad knee taking each step with the small, high-noted protest that’s now, after the bath and the tea and the stew, slightly less high. Margery sees you to your door, squeezes your shoulder and goes on into the spare room with the lamp. You go into your own room, shutting the door behind you and stand in the doorway with your hand still on the handle breathing in and out, very slowly, for perhaps a count of four.

You look over at the small wooden box on top of the chest of drawers then hobble over to it, lift the lid and take out the folded white square of handkerchief, laying it flat in your palm to look at it.

You set it down on the eiderdown and sit down on the edge of the bed beside it looking at it for perhaps thirty seconds before laying your bruised hand flat on the eiderdown and looking at the dim beginnings of the bruise across the pad of your thumb where his fingers had been.

He’s touched you four times now – the handshake at the dance, retrieving your handkerchief, examining your wrist and now…

You look at your other hand, at your pinkie specifically, remembering the feel of his skin against yours, the curling of the digit, the way your breath had caught, the thought that he might kiss you. And then, your hand in his – the heat of it searing through your skin…

There’s nothing you can do. Despite what Margery says, there’s nothing you can do. You have Henry and Henry loves you and you love Henry and you’re going to marry him one day and go and live on the farm and be a farmer’s wife like Mrs Hadley. And if, God forbid, this war never ends, maybe you’ll have Land Girls assigned to work for you and maybe one of them might meet the eyes of an American airman through the open side of a jeep and have nothing preventing them from…doing something.

Margery has nothing preventing her from doing something. Margery doesn’t have a boyfriend and hasn’t had one since she walked out, very briefly, with Tommy Potter two summers ago and that had ended – in your view – rather badly. And you know she’s been hoping to find someone since and perhaps that someone is Santi Garcia and perhaps you should be putting your energies into helping her get to know him better rather than pining for something – or someone – that you can’t have because you already have a boyfriend.

There is nothing you can do.

But there is, however, you register with the piece of private accuracy that the back compartment of your mind has finally permitted itself, no rule that says that just because you have Henry Whitlock, you have to stop carrying Frankie Morales.

There’s no rule that says you have to take the handkerchief and burn it in the range. There’s no rule that says you have to forget about the glove or the wrist or the pinkie or the hand. The box is yours, the private back compartment of your interior life is yours, and the fierce private discipline you’ve been performing for weeks is the fierce private discipline of a girl who’s quietly conducting, in the narrow space available to her, the only piece of the matter she’s permitted to conduct, which is the inarguable piece of carrying him.

You fold the handkerchief and lay it back in the box then sit for a further interval with the lid open and your hand on the lid before finally setting the box back on top of the chest of drawers and turn out the lamp.

Climbing into bed, you ease your bad knee under the eiderdown and find the hot bag at the bottom with your good foot. Then you settle your bad wrist on the pillow above your head the way Frankie suggested and lie in the dark whilst the rain on the slates above your head goes on coming down in long sheets.

****

The jeep takes the bend at the bottom of Cherry Tree Lane, the slitted headlamps throwing their two thin strips of yellow along the hedge, and Frankie doesn’t look back.

But his hand is still warm.

That’s the small, indefensible fact he’s carrying alongside the operational situation. His pinkie on his right hand is warm in the place where, two minutes ago, the side of your pinkie on your left hand had, in the dark of the back seat, lain along the side of his and allowed his to curl around it.

It wasn’t an accident. Or perhaps it was. Perhaps it was the result of some movement in the jeep that inexplicably pushed your two pinkies together. But what happened after was the two of you choosing to hold that moment until Tom’s voice had come between you.

The offering of his hand to help you down had simply been a courtesy. Not to have done it would have appeared stranger than the doing of it was once, that is, he’d seen the look on your face when he’d offered both hands.

You have a man.

That’s the operational situation. You’re a girl who has a man and an American officer, who’s only known your face for three weeks has no business – no business at all – curling his finger around yours on the back seat of a jeep in the dark.

Tom turns the jeep back up the lane towards the base and back into the brown water that requires him to return to a low gear. He drives in silence, Santi looking out at the dark hedges going past the window with a half-smile. Except that Santi's half-smile, when Frankie catches a fraction of it in the side mirror, is not pointed at the hedge but rather at him.

"Fish,” Santi says casually after a few minutes have passed.

"What?"

"You're quiet."

"I'm always quiet."

"You're a different quiet."

"Leave him, Santi," Tom says.

"I’m only..."

"I said leave him."

Santi huffs a breath through his nose, sits back and doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the drive.

The jeep comes up to the field gate, and the sentry raises the barrier without making them stop. Tom pulls through to the motor pool at the eastern edge of the dispersal pads, parks, and the three of them get out. Tom and Santi head over across the field toward the briefing hut with the paperwork from the run they’ve just been on and Frankie walks across the cinder of the motor pool to Hut Fourteen. Fortunately, it’s empty, Will and Ben no doubt at the mess, and he sits down on the edge of his bunk, puts his cap on his locker, places his hand flat on his thigh, and just…sits.

He runs the moments through in order – the bend by the stile, the bicycle, the verge, your face when you looked up at him, the drive down, your finger, your eyes, your hand – and the box is very full, very quiet and very still.

The door opens and Santi comes in with his cap in his hand and the half-smile back on his face. He crosses the floor to his own bunk, sits down and looks at Frankie in the low light, the half-smile dropping.

"You wanna tell me what happened, Fish?”

"Nothing happened.”

"Come on. Frankie, I’ve known you for years and I know your face. Your face on the drive home was not your face. Your face right now is not your face. Something happened in that jeep and I'm not asking you because I'm a nosy son of a bitch, though…I am. I'm asking you because you look like a man who's been hit by something he didn't see coming, and I'm the closest thing you have on this field to a brother so…spill.”

Frankie looks at him and exhales softly. “She’s got a man, Pope. You know that the same way I do.”

"Yeah, I know that. So, what happened?"

He looks at the floor between his boots for a long second. "On the drive down, her hand was next to mine and I…I said her name and then I moved my hand and my pinkie pressed against hers and then…then curled around it and she didn’t…she say anything or do anything to stop me. She just…held it there.”

Santi doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He doesn’t laugh or smile but rather sits on the edge of the bunk with his hands on his knees looking at his friend.

"That's bad, Fish."

"Yeah."

"That's bad on both sides. That's bad on hers as much as on yours, and it's bad on hers in a way that's not yours to make worse."

"I know."

"She has a man who, for some reason, isn’t away fighting. He’s here and he’s gonna be here every day and she’s probably been going out with him for ages and they’re gonna get married and that’s the shape of her life, Fish. And you don’t get to come into that shape with a pinkie and a jeep on a wet Friday evening and no promise as to whether you’re even gonna be alive in six months’ time."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"Yes!”

Santi looks at him again. "I've told you about Pilar, right?"

"Of course you have.”

"Well, there’s a piece of that story I don't tell, because..."

Frankie looks up to see Santi looking at the floor.

"When I was home on leave in March of '42, Pilar was already promised to Ernesto, right? Her father had said yes at Christmas, the ring was on her finger, and the date was set for June. And on the Sunday afternoon I went to her house and she came out, and sat on the porch swing with me, and we talked and…at the end of it, she put her hand on the side of my face and she said Santi, if you had said. If you had ever said. And I…"

Santi stops and looks up again.

"I almost said it then, Fish. Even though she had the ring on her finger, I almost said it. And I’ve asked myself every day since whether saying it would have made it better or worse, and the answer, every day, is worse. It would’ve been worse – for her. It would’ve been worse. The thing you don't say when the thing’s already been spoken for by somebody else – the thing you don't say is the kindest thing you have."

Frankie blinks.

"I’m not telling you what to do, I’m just telling you what I did.”

"She didn’t stop me, Pope."

"I know."

"She let my finger curl around hers. She knew what I was doing and she didn’t stop me. That means something."

"It means something to you and her, but it doesn’t mean she’s going to leave her man. It means, that your pinkie and hers curled together for, what, ten seconds? It doesn't mean any more than that, Frankie, unless you make it mean more than that. And making it mean more than that is gonna cost her. Not you – her. Because you get to do your six months here and then fly home to Florida, whereas she has to live here."

Frankie sits on the edge of his bunk knowing Santi’s right. “So, what do I do?”

"You leave it alone. You let what happened be what happened. You let her get on with the life she’s been getting on with, and you get on with the job you’ve been getting on with. You carry what happened in the pocket you carry things in, and you don’t take it out. You let it be what it was and not anything more."

Frankie looks at the floor again. "I don't know if I can, Santi."

"I know,” Santi replies gently. “I'm telling you to try."

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Santi stretches and then rises to his feet. “Supper?”

"In a minute.”

"Fine, but don’t be too long. I'll save you some bread if Benny hasn’t hoovered it all up already."

The door closes behind his friend, and Frankie sits on the edge of the bunk for a long minute before getting up, crossing the floor to the basin, and washing cold water on his face. Once he’s finished, he looks up at his reflection in the mirror above. The face in the mirror is that of a helpless man, but a man who has no business using you to help himself.

He dries his face on the towel, turns out the overhead bulb and lies down on the bunk, his hand on his chest over his heart. His hand is still warm and though he tries to make it not be warm, he can’t.

He tries to make himself agree with Santi because he knows Santi’s right. He turns his friend’s words over in the dark – the thing you don't say is the kindest thing you have – and he tries to lay them down in the small, private box, but they won’t lie there.

He understands that the man you’ve chosen, the one who isn’t away fighting, will be here in December and in March and on the day Honey Queen doesn’t come back. A girl is entitled to choose the man who will be here over the man who won’t, and an American officer doesn’t get to ask her to choose otherwise.

He doesn’t get to ask you to choose otherwise.

He says it to himself in the dark. I do not get to ask her to choose otherwise. And he tries to make the saying of it fill and close the box – but it doesn’t close. So, he lies in the dark and thinks that this is not a thing he’s done to you. This is a thing the two of you have done together.

That’s the trouble.

If it was a thing he’d done to you, he could be ashamed of it and put it down. If he had taken a liberty in the back of a jeep with a girl who was already spoken for, he could do what Santi’s telling him to do, which is to leave it alone.

But it wasn’t that.

It was the two of you, in the dark, and he knows – knows – the choice had been yours as much as his.

That’s the thing he’s carrying, the thing Santi can’t advise him about, because the thing is a thing only you can settle. Only by looking in your eyes again will he know for sure.

But he’ll try to leave it alone. He doesn’t know whether he’ll succeed – he suspects that he won’t – but he’ll try.

He closes his eyes briefly, allows himself one final, vivid memory of your eyes and your hand, then stands up and heads for supper.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🇺🇸➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Taglist: @mcthsman @ritchmoor @fatima-marisa @jessthebaker @the-heart-is-an-organ-of-fire @ashleyfilm @vickie5446 @originals23 @izzykinzz678 @hanahleahs @eviispunk

• He is constantly tired. Like genuinely exhausted all the time. One kid wants juice, the other one is crying because their sock “feels weird,” and Javi’s just standing there in the kitchen holding coffee he reheated three times already.

• He learns how to do little girl hairstyles from pure survival. The first ponytails look rough as hell, but he keeps trying because his daughter gets excited every time he manages one that actually stays up.

• He lets the kids sleep in his bed way more often than he probably should. Especially after nightmares or when they ask where mommy is again.

• He still gets that horrible feeling in his chest every time one of them asks why their mom doesn’t live there anymore. Never talks badly about her in front of them, no matter how hurt he is.

• Sometimes has to pause before answering their questions about their mom because he genuinely doesn’t know how to explain adult pain to a three and five year old.

• He falls asleep during cartoons with one kid laying on his chest and the other half on top of his arm. Wakes up with a sore neck and absolutely zero regrets.

• The apartment is always messy in a very lived-in way. Tiny shoes near the door, crayons everywhere, juice boxes on the table, one stuffed animal somehow always ending up in Javi’s bed.

• He keeps emergency snacks everywhere because one of those kids is somehow always hungry. One kid definitely cries because daddy cut the sandwich wrong and Javi just stands there like “it’s literally the same sandwich…”

• He reads bedtime stories while barely keeping his own eyes open. Sometimes starts mixing up words because he’s so tired and the kids think it’s hilarious.

• Lowkey feels guilty all the time. That he’s working too much, too tired, not doing enough, all of it. But the second those kids run to him yelling “DADDY,” none of that matters for a minute.

• His daughter paints his nails once and he just leaves it on for days because she looked so proud of it 😭 Also secretly keeps every ugly little drawing they make him. Desk drawer full of crayon chaos.

• Sometimes sits alone after they fall asleep, just staring into space because this is not how he imagined his life going. Still, if you asked him if he’d change having them… not even for a second. The kids become his whole reason for getting up every morning. Even on the days where everything hurts.

💌 @idknananchimaybe @theeverodriguez @mothmanuwu @pascalispunkbr @reasonablyluminousquill @justmasblack @indiegirlunited @saralovesjoelmiller @picketniffler @canonisoptional @katyispunk @daltoncharm @kirsteng42 @borinquenasoy @cuteanimalmama @negramurguera @senoratess @misstokyo7love @suestormnotcheatingversion @lizette50 @grxnde-dwt @harriedandharassed @somedayheaven @ningaispunk @ladyofmidlo72 @bardot49 @scarlettval2

💌 you wanna be tagged?

Present Day:

The tension in the dining hall was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. The glances and hushed whispers directed to your table was further proof of word spreading fast around Jackson. Everyone knew about your surprise reunion. 

You on the other hand were completely oblivious, sipping coffee and explaining to Max and Charlotte how you ended up in Jackson with Joel.

“We came back for you,” your sister said between bites of her pie. “But Fedra was everywhere.”

“I know. Henry must have ordered a search within a 30 mile radius of DC for weeks until he finally gave up. I’m so glad you both got away,” you said, your eyes shiny with unshed tears.

Max reached across the table and placed his hand on top of yours. “Hey, I promised I would keep her safe for you.”

A shaky breath escaped your lips and you squeezed his hand in return. “Thank you. I’m so happy you’re both here.”

Joel shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. At the sound, you withdrew your hand. Throughout dinner, he had hardly said a word, glowering at your childhood sweetheart the whole evening.

By the time everyone had eaten their fill, Maria declared it too late to get Max and Charlotte set up in a house so it was decided they would stay with you and Joel for the time being. The trek back to your house was as awkward as dinner with Joel silently leading your small group back to the house. 

“Joel’s not much of a talker, is he?” Charlotte whispered to you.

“He’s quiet,” you reassured her. “Trust me underneath that tough exterior, Joel is a total softie.”

Joel opened the front door, allowing you and Charlotte to enter first. It took every ounce of restraint on his part not to slam the door right in Max’s face.

Charlotte looked around the foyer, taking in the cozy atmosphere and cheery fire. “Your house is beautiful, Joel.”

At your sister’s compliment, the barest hint of a smile emerged on Joel’s face. “Thank you. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” As he headed up the steps, Joel called your name. “Why don’t you tend to our other guest. They can sleep on the sofa,” he grumbled.

Charlotte cringed and hugged you goodnight. Her ponytail swished as she followed Joel. It was a sight you never thought you would see again. You and your sister, safe and under the same roof.

With a sigh, you headed to the linen closet to grab an extra pillow and blankets. Upon returning to the living room, you found Max sitting in your comfy recliner with a book in his lap. 

“You have a nice set up here,” he said.

“Thanks. Joel set all that up for me so I could have my own little space to read and relax. He even made the shelves.” Max nodded and dragged his hands across the dark wood where your books were neatly organized.

You began to set up the sofa into a makeshift bed, sensing his eyes on you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice soft, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You swerved and laughed a little. “Sorry, this is all we have now, but I’ve taken many naps on this couch and I can personally vouch for its comfortability."

“I’ve been sleeping on the ground for months. This is paradise.” Max slowly sauntered over to you and gently took hold of your wrist, pulling you closer. Ever so gently, he reached up and brushed his knuckles against your cheek, just like he used to all those years ago. The reflection of the fire in his blue eyes took your breath away. Muscle memory seemed to take over and you couldn’t help but lean into his touch. 

For a brief moment, all of the horrible memories–Henry, losing your sister, surviving in the harsh wilderness for months– all vanished and you were young again in Max’s arms. Everything you had endured, led you to where you are now. It led you to Joel. Joel! A pop from the fire brought reality back and you leapt back from Max’s touch.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.” You shook your head.

Max scoffed and shook his head in disbelief .“So you and Joel are together?” he sneered.

You swallowed hard, unsure why it was so hard to speak at that moment. “Yes, we are. Of course we are. What did you think?”

“That you would have waited for me, like I waited for you.” His voice came out thick, threatening to crack under the heartache. 

You stared at the floor, studying your feet, trying to bury the shame that was overpowering your body. “I don’t want to get into this now. It's late. Why don’t you get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night,” Max mumbled.

When you walked into your bedroom, the lights were off. Joel was already in bed, his back to you.  “Joel?” you whispered. “Joel?” He made no indication that he had heard you. Tentatively, you reached out to touch his arm before thinking better of it.

Emotionally drained, you decided to leave Joel alone and slipped under the covers, curling onto your side. The distance between you had never felt so far.

It was still dark when Joel got up the next morning. He had hardly slept, his mind reeling over the turn of events. It’s not like Joel was unaware of Max. You had told Joel how Max was an integral part of your life. The reason you were running away from the DC QZ in the first place. 

Joel would be lying if he said he hadn’t felt a pang of jealousy over how you had spoken about your old boyfriend with such reverence and admiration. But you had always reassured him that Max was part of the past. Unfortunately, Joel hadn’t planned on your past to show up at your doorstep. 

Doubt began to seep in through the cracks of Joel’s mind. Would you choose to go back to Max? 

From an outsider’s perspective it made sense. Max was younger than Joel. You had a shared history. Perhaps he could give you things that Joel couldn’t. Would you really want to spend your life taking care of an old man? Suddenly the idea of settling down with you seemed like an absolute joke.

Joel knew what some of the folks thought when they saw you as a couple. Several of the older women gave disapproving stares while you walked hand in hand down the street. 

“Hmmmph I guess we were just too mature for him.”

“Jesus, even in the middle of an apocalypse, a man will still go for a hot young piece of ass.”

He was also aware of the sly winks some of the men would give him. 

It made his skin crawl. Although you were in your mid-30s which is hardly considered a sugar baby, there was still a considerable age gap. Every ache in his body seemed to remind him of the years between you. 

But then you would look up at him with an easy smile and those beautiful eyes that bared your soul, and all those thoughts, the people, the world melted away. Then it was only you and him, until yesterday.

With a cup of coffee in his hands, he made his way out to the porch, surprised to discover that Charlotte was already awake and sitting on the front step, with a blanket wrapped around her small frame.

“Hey, there,” Joel softly said.

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Nah, I’m used to getting up early.” Joel sat down next to your sister and took a sip of his coffee. The pair sat in silence while the sky transformed from indigo and violet to the delicate apricot and orange hues of a summer morning. Up close, Joel could see the similarities between you–the same eye color, the same nose, even the way you twirled your hair with your finger when you were lost in thought.

Charlotte broke the silence and held up the picture of herself standing in front of a waterfall, smiling. The picture that had kept you going for years as you clung to life. “I found this. Did you make the frame?”

“I did.” 

“You do good work.” She nodded and thoughtfully ran her fingers across the edges.“I can’t believe she kept this.”

Joel thought back to your first few days in Jackson. You were exhausted, sleeping for 18 hours straight, the picture of your sister, almost always in your hand as if it was a security blanket. The photo had creases from where you had held it tight. “Your sister loves you very much.”

“Did she.. I mean do you know….what happened in DC?” she whispered.

Joel nodded, swallowing down the lump that had formed in his throat. He could still remember your screams from the nightmares you had. Seeing you in such agony nearly broke him. “Yeah, she did.”

Charlotte shivered and focused on a fraying thread on the blanket. “No matter how old I was, she was always looking out for me. When I was little, I was her shadow. Following her everywhere. Crying and throwing a fit when I couldn’t come along. Then life changed. We lost our parents, our grandmother, but through it all she took care of me. Even though she was hurting just as much as me. Maybe more. Henry was a monster. She sacrificed herself and her happiness for me. I never thought I would ever see her again.” She locked eyes with Joel, her face wrought with worry and guilt. “Tell me, how is she?”

“She’s….” Joel dragged his thumb across the rim of his mug, trying to think of how to describe you. How to share the overwhelming emotions that he felt for you. “...wonderful.”

“She is?”

“Yeah. I mean it took a little time to heal, but she just blossomed. Everyone in Jackson loves her. If she’s not cooking or baking for folks, she’s tending to the animals, looking out for the little ones. She can shoot better than anyone I know. Has read God knows how many books. She’s the best thing that ever happened to this place.”

“And to you.” Charlotte nudged him, a smile spread across her lips.

 It took a lot for Joel to get flustered, but he couldn’t help the blush creeping up on his cheeks under the knowing gaze of your little sister.  “Oh, well I…”

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see how much you both care about each other. I know my sister and if she’s with you, then you must be a pretty amazing guy.” With a wink, she stood up and made her way to the door.

Joel turned and called out, “Charlotte.” Your sister stopped in her tracks. “I am happy you’re here. You’re welcome in this house for as long as you need.”

“Thank you, Joel,” she said before closing the door behind her.

It had been a whirlwind of a month since your sister and Max arrived in Jackson. Maria had been able to find a new place for Max, but Charlotte opted to stay with you and Joel.

Even though he wasn’t under your roof, you still did everything humanly possible to make Max feel welcome to Jackson. That brief conversation from his first night still lingered fresh in your mind. 

Word had gotten out that Max was ex-Fedra from DC, making it especially difficult for him. Although he never terrorized the community as other members took such glee in doing so, it was still hard for other DC refugees to accept one of the “enemy.”  With a lot of help from you, Max was starting to find his footing, proving useful in the stables and on the wall as a lookout. 

For Charlotte, it was much easier. Over a cup of tea one evening, she explained how she had found a book on plants in an abandoned house, quickly becoming an expert at foraging the woods to make various salves and ointments. It had saved her and Max’s lives in some instances.

You introduced her to the head of nursing at the health center. With limited staff and supplies, the doctors and nurses were desperate to pass on their knowledge as best they could. Charlotte proved to be an asset, a quick learner with an impeccable bedside manner. She wouldn’t be performing open heart surgery, but could take care of those everyday aches and pains that comes with living without some modern conveniences. 

You were grateful to be busy. Your work helped keep your mind off of Joel who had barely spoken to you. By the time you were up in the morning, he was already out of the house, not returning until late in the night, when you were asleep. 

The first two weeks you had tried to reach out to him–stopping by his office with his favorite meal, switching duties so you could do patrols with him. But in some form or another, he always dismissed you. Either he was busy with his crew or basically ignoring you on patrol. It was evident you were getting the silent treatment. Punished for trying to welcome Max into the community.

By the third week, tired of staring at Joel’s back while he slept, you decided to sleep in the same bed as your sister. Joel never even questioned it, just watched as you grabbed your pillow and walked across the hall.

Sleeping in the same bed as your sister reminded you of when you were younger and things seemed so much simpler. Hidden under the covers, knees pressed together, whispering and giggling.

One evening the conversation turned serious, you were in utter despair over Joel and Max. Your body felt as if it was being torn in two, slowly and painfully.  “Joel has barely uttered a word to me. The man can’t stand to even sit with me.”

“Give him time. Joel strikes me as someone who needs to get used to change.”

“It’s been a month! How much time does the man need?! Max isn’t even in the house anymore.”

Your sister bit her bottom lip, hesitantly asking the inevitable question. “Do you still have feelings for Max?”

“Yes…no.” You sighed and hid your face behind your hands. “I don’t know. It's complicated. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” 

Charlotte gently pulled your hands away and held them in her own. “Let’s try this. Clear your head and forget about hurting anyone’s feelings. Take a deep breath.” She breathed deeply in and out, encouraging you to do the same. “Listen to your intuition. What do you want?  Who is that someone that you can’t live without.”

“Max was my childhood love. He kept you safe for me. I can never repay him for that kindness. But I know that no matter what I feel for Max, it’s nothing compared to how I feel for Joel. I just need time. I need to find the right words to let them both know how I feel.”

“Then tell that to Joel.  Maybe he needs some reassurance?” 

“I would if I could get near him. He’s just walking around being all broody like a character from a gothic romance novel.”

“Well, you did always have a thing for Mr. Rochester,” your sister teased.

 “Mr. Rochester may be a bit too moody for me. I always thought Joel was more like Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility.”

“Well you did watch that Sense and Sensibility movie like a thousand times, but I thought it was cause you had a crush on Alan Rickman.”

“Well that too.” You both giggled and talked deep into the night until your eyelids began to get heavy.

Charlotte brushed your hair back and booped the tip of your nose. “Don’t worry, big sis. Everything will work itself out in the end.”

Later, you snuck out of bed, careful not to wake your sister and crept across the hall. The door to Joel’s bedroom was closed. The irony of you being emotionally and now physically shut out was not lost on you. You leaned your head against the wood frame and closed your eyes. “I love you,” you whispered. “Come back to me, please.”

After the talk with your sister, you wanted to have private conversations with Joel and Max, but you just didn’t have the energy. If you weren’t working, then you were in bed sleeping. You hadn’t felt like yourself for days–stomach roiling, exhausted, and thoroughly stressed.

Seth watched you like a hawk in the kitchen, taking in the bags under your eyes and the pallor of your skin. “If you’re sick and working right now, I’m gonna–”

“For the hundredth time, I’m not sick!” you snapped. “Why would I want to work when I’m sick? Trust me I would rather be in bed right now but I’m here so let’s just get this shift over with.”

Seth raised his brows in shock. You had never gotten upset with him before. In fact you both were quite fond of each other. 

“I’m sorry. I just haven’t had a chance to eat today.”

Seth grabbed a steak sandwich, usually reserved for folks going on patrol, and handed it to you. “Go. Sit. Eat.” He motioned you out to the dining area. “Take a break and come back less hangry.”

“Thanks, Seth. I’m sorry.”

 Seth winked and ruffled your hair. “I’m worried about you, kid.” 

You sat at an empty table, the smell of the steak made you gag, but you tried to force it down. While picking at your sandwich, you heard a familiar deep rough voice followed by a flirty laugh. Glancing up, there was Joel finishing up his lunch with Sophie’s mom. You watched as she hung on to his every word. She threw her head back and laughed again, even though from your perspective it didn’t look like Joel said anything funny.

When she placed her hand on his forearm, you saw red. Smoke was practically coming out of your ears. You abruptly stood up, abandoning your sandwich, and made a beeline towards their table.

You stood right in front of them and cleared your throat, announcing your present. “Joel, may I speak to you,” you said with a tight smile before turning your gaze towards Sophie’s mom. “In private.”

Joel wiped his mouth and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Can it wait till later?  I’m about to head out with Roxie.” He motioned over to Sophie’s mom.

“No.” You arched your brow, staring him down. “It can’t.” 

Roxie’s eyes bounced between you both as if watching a tennis match. Joel finally relented and turned to Roxie. “Five minutes tops. I’ll meet you at the house.”  

You headed out of the dining hall with Joel trudging behind, not stopping until you were at the side of the building where there was some privacy. Joel stood there, hands on his hips, expectantly waiting for you to say something.

“What are you doing?” you finally blurted out.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

You scoffed. “Well right now it looks like you’re in the middle of a date.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “Jesus, it’s not a date. I’m just helping out Roxie. She came up to my table while I was eating.”

You made a face at what was ,in your opinion, the dumbest name you had ever heard. “Roxie? Really?”

“She asked me to work on a project for Sophie.”

“A project… such bull shit,” you muttered while kicking a rock with the toe of your shoe.

“Excuse me?!” Joel barked, a prominent vein in his neck throbbing.

You took a step closer until you were toe to toe with him. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? Is she the reason why you’re coming home late?”

“You’re overreacting,” he snarled.

“What do you expect Joel when you don’t speak to me, won’t come near me. I guess I’m supposed to just let you go off and fuck anyone that bats their lashes at you!” you retorted.

Joel shook his head, his jaw clenched, the expression on his face a grim mixture of disappointment and sadness.“I’m not gonna talk to you when you’re like this. I have things to do.” 

“Fine,” you shouted to his back as he walked away, the tears you had been holding in, finally spilling over. “Don’t let me get in the way with all your projects!” 

You choked out a sob and ran, needing a moment to compose yourself before stepping back into the kitchen. Not wanting to cause a scene in front of everyone, you kept your head down, trying to quell your tears. You were just about to enter the stables, petting the horses always made you feel better, when you abruptly bumped into a large warm muscular body. 

“Hey!” Max smiled. “I was just looking for you.” He stopped upon noticing your bloodshot eyes and quivering lip. “What’s wrong?” Your face crumpled and you collapsed into him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Everything that you had held in over the past several weeks came spilling out with no way to stop.

Your tears wetted the front of Max’s shirt as he led you into the stables. “Shhhh, it’s gonna be ok.” He enveloped you in a hug, rubbing your back in soothing circles.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you wailed, near hysterics, only able to get a few words out between your tears. “Joel…Roxie..Dumb name…Projects…Joel!”

Max held you in his arms until you began to calm down. “Maybe this is for the best,” he murmured in your ear.

A record scratched in your brain and you pulled away from his touch. “What?” you sniffled.

“I know what you said about being with Joel, but maybe this is a sign. A sign that we could…that we should pick up where we left off. I want to be with you.” Max tried to pull you into another embrace but you pulled away.

“Oh Max…I’m sorry…I can’t.” 

“So you’d rather shack up with some old man that doesn’t even appreciate you?!”

“Don’t say that about Joel! It’s not like that. We’re just–”

“Do you love me?”

You were silent. For days you had been planning exactly how you were going to let Max down. Now that the time had come, you were quickly losing the nerve to follow through. Confrontation was never your strong suit.

“Do you love me? Or was everything we went through in DC just a lie.”

 “You’re my dearest friend,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max ran a hand through his dark curly hair, exasperated. “A friend?!”

“Max, please. I love you. You know I do. It’s just–”

“So why can’t we be together!?”

“Because it's different. I’m different. I….” You took a deep breath with finality. “I love Joel.”

Unable to bear the pain in Max’s face, you stepped away, focusing on the horses instead. “It was us.” He stepped closer and gently cupped your face, his eyes pleading for you to understand. “It was always supposed to be us. You and me.”

You blinked back the tears quickly forming behind your eyes. “Max, you’re breaking my heart.”

“No. You’re breaking mine.” His face inched closer and closer to yours until you could feel his warm breath on your skin. Your heart hammered in your chest. Ever so gently, he placed a kiss on the corner of your mouth.

“Max, no,” you whispered.

But he ignored it and kissed your cheek. “No,” you mouthed. Every “no” was followed by a kiss–your nose, your forehead, the spot right below your ear. 

Your body was frozen. Your brain was screaming to get out. To push him away but your feet felt like they were stuck in cement. Max’s soft touch. Joel pushing you away. It all made for a deadly cocktail.

Finally he traced your bottom lip with his thumb. “No, you breathed, but when he kissed you, you kissed back.

It was only 3 seconds…maybe 5, enough time for the damage to be done. The stable door swung open, revealing Joel. You and Max immediately separated. Joel’s face was in utter anguish before he quickly regained his composure. Silent and resigned, he simply turned on his heel and walked away.

“Joel, wait!” You ran outside after him. 

Max called out your name and tried to grab your arm, only this time when you shouted “No” you meant it and he backed away.

Your eyes wildly searched among the crowd of people in the town square until you spied his broad back. “Joel! Please!” Your shouts were futile. You might as well have been screaming at a brick wall. Joel ignored your pleas and walked away.

You would have followed him had it not been for Seth calling out your name. “I told you to take a break, not half the day off. Let’s go. We gotta clean up after the lunch rush,” Seth said.

As soon as your shift ended, you went in search of Joel. You looked everywhere–the construction sites, his office, even Tommy and Maria hadn’t seen him. The last place to search was the house. 

“Hello! Anyone here?” you shouted, going from room to room. “Joel? Charlie?” But you were only greeted with silence. A note on the kitchen counter from Charlotte told you she was working the night shift at the health center and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow morning. And Joel?  He was probably seeking comfort in the arms of Roxie. Who could blame him after what he had witnessed.

You were left alone with your thoughts. Thoughts that ate away at you piece by piece. Your hypocrisy. Your selfishness. Why did you even do it? It was a moment of weakness. A moment when you needed to cling to something or someone familiar. Something that would ground you. But that comfort was a facade. It tricked you and sent you tumbling to the ground.

Now more than ever you knew it was Joel. It was always Joel. Max was your past and you would always have a deep and true love for him but it paled in comparison to how you felt about Joel. 

Joel had pulled you out of the ashes, loved you in a way that you had never experienced before. Your heart, every fiber of your being was tied to him. Max saw you as the girl you once were, but Joel saw you as the woman you are now. 

Now it was time to own up to your mistake. You were determined to speak to Joel that night. You camped out on the porch for hours, the full moon high in the sky, rocking back and forth in the rocking chair. Sipping on a cup of coffee in the hopes that it would keep you awake. If it took all night until Joel came home then so be it.

Finally, the familiar footsteps came up the driveway. Joel had his head down, his shoulders hunched as if the whole world was being balanced on top of him. As he came up the steps, you noticed how weary he looked. Were those dried tear tracks on his cheeks? You abruptly stood up and blocked the door, effectively halting him in his tracks.

“Please, we need to talk.”

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

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