In Love and War

by Tara Mills

  Her shoulders slumped when she looked at Jean. “You never woke me.” The heartbreaking implications of that fact devastated her.

  “I’m sorry. There was no reason. I swear I’ve been checking your email every ten minutes.” Jean looked as unhappy as Ariela felt. “And the only call you got was your grandmother,” she added softly.

  Ariela’s hand flew to her chest, as if to protect herself from the pain. But who was she kidding? There was nothing there to protect. Dylan had taken her heart with him. She felt like an empty shell without it—without him. Being alone used to be her comfortable default position. Now, it was excruciating.

  Ron bounded out of his chair without warning and came to her, wrapping her in his long arms. Stunned at first, Ariela hugged him back. Then she cried—a good, hard, cleansing cry. The support of her friends helped her let it all out. Ron was a sweetheart, and a surprisingly good hugger—just not the right hugger. Her sobs gradually eased and she fell quiet. The steady beat of his heart under her left ear, combined with the ticking second hand on the wall clock behind them helped calm her.

  “Thanks, Ron. I needed that.” She gave him a squeeze then stepped back, flopping down on a kitchen chair. Meeting her roommate’s eyes, Ariela confessed, “I feel lost and empty.” The two women reached for each other, gripping hands across the tabletop.

  Jean’s eyes glittered with sympathetic tears. “There’s a pot of coffee.”

  Ariela dabbed at the corner of her eye and sniffled. “I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  Turning to Ron, Jean gave him a sassy smile. “Since you’re up, I’ll take one too. Milk and sugar in both, please.”

  Ariela found she could laugh through her tears. “You guys are great.”

  “And you look better,” Jean told her. “The dark circles under your eyes are gone.”

  “Replaced by watery, bloodshot eyes, and snot—big improvement.”

  Chuckling, Ron came back and dropped a handful of napkins on the table. Ariela grabbed one and quietly blew her nose while he set down the coffees. Ah, she could smell it now. It was nice to be able to breathe again. Relieved, Ariela pulled the mug close to her body and wrapped her hands around it, soaking up the comforting warmth.

  “Thanks, Ron. Hey, you know, I haven’t seen you since the big news. Congratulations.”

  He flashed a guilty grin at Jean. “Yeah, she finally broke down and asked me. I guess I was dragging my feet. I always assumed we’d get married. I just didn’t realize she was getting antsy waiting for me to bring it up.”

  He took Jean’s hand and kissed it. Ariela had never seen her friend melt before. It was sweet. Looking on with affection and envy, it struck her they’d never have to face the situation she was in. Then they turned to her with guilty expressions and pulled apart. Did they think she was too fragile to handle open displays of affection? She hoped not.

  Jean picked up her mug and asked Ariela, “Are you hungry?”

  She gave a listless shrug. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “Ron’s going to run for subs. You’re going to have one too.”

  Ariela knew better than to argue when Jean decided to play mother hen.

  “Maybe I should ride along. I need to feed Max and let him out.”

  ***

  Dylan woke up in an infirmary. He squinted at the sunlight streaming into the room and looked around. Someone was sitting in a chair in front of the window, their back to the glass. He struggled to make out who it was.

  “Paul?”

  Captain Paul Barnes set his magazine aside. Coming to his feet, he approached the bed. “Bond, it’s good to see you up.”

  The horror of what he’d been through came rushing back. “Jim’s gone. Ali’s dead.”

  Paul nodded. “I know. We found the car two days ago. Pretty easy to see what happened, from the looks of things. There was a second bomb, under the passenger seat. It failed to go off. You’re lucky to be here. Whatever there was of Ali was gone. We think his family must have collected what they could of him for burial. He’ll be just another death that goes unreported.”

  “And Jim?”

  Barnes looked away, obviously weighing his words carefully. “He was the reason we stopped. He’d been dragged from the car and mutilated on the street.”

  “Damn it, no!” The thought of what was done to his friend sickened him.

  “You said he was dead when you left him?”

  “Yes.” Weariness strained Dylan’s voice.

  “Well, that’s something anyway. At least he didn’t suffer through it, unlike some poor bastards.”

  “How can people do shit like that? It’s barbaric.” Dylan rubbed a hand across his face, wishing he could erase the images behind his eyes.

  Paul shrugged a shoulder. “Righteousness. Convince the devout their cause is justified and there’s no telling what you’ll unleash.”

  “These are the men who’ll control the fates of the women and children in this country when we leave. They’ll be at their mercy.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. They already are.”

  Dylan looked away, feeling defeated, disgusted, and so disappointed he could hardly breathe.

  Paul’s tone shifted from grave to angry. “What the hell were you doing out there?”

  Dylan bristled. “My job.”

  Barnes looked like he was struggling not to say something. He started to speak, stopped himself, took a deep breath, and tried again. “This isn’t like the other conflicts you’ve covered, Bond. You can’t move freely here. You’re a target, a potential hostage. If captured, you could be valuable leverage.” He pointed to the window. “There are bastards out there right now who’d execute you, on camera, just to make a fucking point. I don’t want to find your body next.”

  In no mood to argue, Dylan let it go. “What day is it?”

  “It’s Sunday—closing in on five p.m.”

  Damn it.

  Seeing it was useless to badger his friend, Paul shifted gears. “They took the bullet out of you late yesterday and filled you with antibiotics to fight off the infection. In a day or two, when you’ve recovered some of your strength, we’ll be able to shuttle you out of here by air, but only as far as our base in Germany. From there, you’ll have to go commercial.”

  Dylan nodded and looked around. “Have you seen my bag?”

  Paul went to the cabinet and opened it. “Which one?”

  “Mine’s the dark blue.”

  He brought it over and set it on the bed so Dylan could go through it. Pulling his computer free, Dylan checked for damage.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said, stunned. “Other than a few scuffs on the case, it looks fine.” He handed the end of the power cord to Paul. “Would you mind?”

  Paul snorted and plugged it into the outlet next to the bed.

  The screen burned on and Dylan looked up. “So, when do you finally get out of this place?”

  “Not really my call. I have another two years on my enlistment.”

  “So much has happened since we met.”

  Paul thought about it and nodded. “I was pretty pissed to be saddled with you in the beginning. The last thing I needed to worry about was keeping tabs on a nosy writer on top of everything else. I thought, Who the hell came up with this brilliant idea? Embed journalists on our march into Baghdad, without knowing what we’ll encounter? Give me a fucking break. I half expected you to get a few of us killed. If you had, I would have set you down in the desert and left you there, without a backward glance.”

  “Nice,” said Dylan dryly, understanding the comment was pure bullshit.

  Paul chuckled. “Why don’t I scrounge you up some grub?”

  “See, you care. I knew it all along.”

  “I’ll deny it.” Paul smiled and left to inform a staffer their patient was awake and hungry.

  Only now did Dylan notice his lean wrists. He took an exploratory survey of the rest of his body, feeling his way up his arms, down his legs, markin
g how pronounced his ribs were in just a matter of days. He ran his hands over his hard hip bones. It was a shock. He’d lost more than water weight. No wonder he was weak.

  What was Ariela going to say about all of this? She had every right to be angry with him. This whole trip had been a disaster. Hanna was beyond his help and her story would remain unwritten. Jim was gone. He held himself responsible for that. And Ali Hadad, another bright kid forced to adapt in a difficult and dangerous environment, had been robbed of his promising future. The risks, the sacrifices he’d taken to get this story, all of it had been pointless.

  Dylan brought up Ariela’s picture and his eyes softened on her face. He traced the outline of her cheek and jaw with his fingertip and wished he was touching the real thing. Soon. He was going to make it up to her, somehow, if she’d still have him. Checking flights first, he opened his email.

  TO: arielap@

  SUBJECT: Did you forget about me?

  MESSAGE: Man I’ve missed you. I hear you’ve been pestering my editor. I’m sorry you were so worried. I wish I could have spared you the anxiety. There’s a lot I have to explain when I see you, but not now. I only want to talk about it once. You’ll be relieved to know I’m in one piece.

  I’ll be flying out of Munich the day after tomorrow. I hope you’re still willing to pick me up. My flight is scheduled to land at nine-fifty p.m. your time, on Wednesday. Let me know if I need to catch a taxi. I can’t wait to see your pretty face and just hold you—hold you until my arms cramp. Dylan

  Chapter 17

  TO: dylanbond@

  SUBJECT: It’s about time!

  MESSAGE: I’ve never been more frantic. Now I know what a rollercoaster of emotions feels like. I want to get off before I puke. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I’ve been a basket case. I thought I was losing my mind. I could try to explain how much I’ve missed you, but if you can wait to share things with me, I’d rather demonstrate how I feel instead. I recommend you sleep on the plane because I have plans for us. Of course I’m picking you up and I’m going to wrap myself around you and knock you to the floor on sight. Be prepared. Ariela

  Dylan smiled and closed out of his e-mail. He looked affectionately at Ariela’s face on his desktop, drawing his finger down the delicate sweep of her nose to her lips. After sending her one final, telepathic message of unexpressed love, he shut down and closed the screen.

  Now the hard part.

  He picked up Jim’s wallet and opened it, extracting his friend’s battered wedding band and a worn picture of Cara. Dylan slipped the ring over his pinky and twirled it around, wondering idly how many times Jim had done the same thing. He never talked about his divorce, but he’d kept his ring—close. Clearly it had still torn him up.

  It was the job that had killed the marriage. Cara needed a partner, a father for their son, someone to stick around. Her second marriage provided what Jim couldn’t. Their son was still two, according to the back of the photo tucked behind Cara’s. What was his true age, anyway? He had to be close to ten now.

  Dylan recalled Jim’s skepticism about his own decision to quit foreign assignments. Jim hadn’t thought he could do it, but his friend was wrong. Jim had loved getting out in the world, even when he’d griped about it. Obviously he’d had regrets but, having known Jim, if a family was something he’d truly wanted, he would have fought for them. Dylan tucked the photos and the ring back into the wallet and zipped them away in the duffel.

  Paul peeked in the door. “You ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Dylan handed Jim’s bag to Paul then pulled his own off the bed and slipped his arm through the strap, tugging it up to his shoulder. As they walked down the corridor together, his gaze strayed back to Jim’s duffle gently swinging between them.

  “You’ll get that to the states, then?” he asked.

  Paul clapped him on the shoulder and nodded. “All taken care of.”

  ***

  Ariela got to the airport an hour early. She couldn’t wait at home, couldn’t stop pacing. At least here she could people watch, work her excess energy out, and keep an eye on the arrivals.

  Waves of travelers moved through, dragging their luggage behind them. So much activity. Was this becoming her normal—always waiting for Dylan at the airport, or dropping him off? Would that eventually bother her? She preferred to have him here, with her, but if the alternative was not having him at all, then yes, she would have to adjust to his job.

  Unable to help herself, she pulled her phone out for the fourth time to make sure it was turned on and set to ring. Talk about tense. She was losing it. Nevertheless, now she chose to tuck it into her pocket rather than risk having to search through her handbag, should he call.

  Walking over to the television screens, Ariela found Dylan’s flight number. His plane was on time. She exhaled a grateful sigh and edged toward his gate, as close as she was allowed, and waited some more.

  She watched the flow of people with detachment. Like her, they seemed perfectly content to be overlooked in their haste to get wherever they were heading. Only one face mattered to her. She couldn’t believe how anxious she felt at seeing him again—so excited, so eager, so timid, and yes, a little afraid.

  For fifteen minutes, she paced before finally walking over to an empty bench to take a seat. When she lost patience with herself, she tried to focus on the general activity around her and was finally distracted by the boisterous and emotional reunion of a couple across the concourse. She smiled faintly with the other observers, touched by the sight.

  ***

  Dylan spied Ariela first and a rush of heady emotions—tenderness, affection, and desperate love—swept through him.

  The corner of his mouth twitched when Ariela turned, and they made eye contact. He saw the very same emotions surging through him suddenly transform her lovely face. Her radiance staggered him. Blinking rapidly, she shot to her feet, but her dazzling smile collapsed when she got a better look at him. He’d expected this, but it still hurt. He tried hard to hide his slight limp, but he knew the instant she noticed it. They closed the distance and her gaze lingered on his face, noting the changes.

  “My god, what happened to you? You’re so thin.” Ariela's hand went to his cheek, her thumb riding along the sharp bone. Then she began to blink, rapidly, and her glittering eyes welled with tears.

  “Hey, shh.” Dylan pulled her in with one arm and embraced her. “Long story, but I’m okay. My leg is just a little stiff.”

  Her uneasy smile flickered back on and, brushing her eyes, she returned his hug. He buried his face in her hair, her neck, grateful to have her in his arms again. He’d missed this woman—the sight, the smell, and the feel of her.

  He suspected she thought his leg had simply gone to sleep on the plane. This was not the time to correct the assumption. Turning her in his arm, Dylan kept Ariela fused to his side as they walked out, his good leg brushing hers as they matched strides.

  “You could have eaten while you were away,” she told him.

  Dylan shot her a smile. “I thought you were going to knock me down?”

  She laughed. “That was the plan, but you ruined everything by coming home lame.”

  “I’ll try to avoid that next time,” he teased.

  “You’d better.”

  “And how’s Max?”

  “He’s a dog. You know something? I think he finally likes me.”

  Dylan chuckled softly. “He liked you on sight—just like his old man.” He pulled her close so he could kiss her head just before they passed through the glass doors and out into the exhaust-choked night.

  The stars were obscured by a thick blanket of clouds, flashing and rumbling with portentous indigestion. There was weight, density to the air, and a suggestion of turbulence ahead. They both looked up uneasily as the first ponderous splashes of rain hit the pavement.

  ***

  Ariela’s surreptitious gaze kept returning to Dylan’s shadowed profile while she drove. He was awf
ully quiet. The steady sweep of the wiper blades made her more uneasy with every mile. Taillights blurred and headlights blinded her. She needed to pay attention to the road, but his silence was a physical thing between them. She wanted to chip away at it, batter it down with a sledgehammer, if that’s what it took.

  “Are you going to talk about it?” she finally asked.

  The strong yet gentle hand that had been lazily stroking the top of her thigh stilled. Dylan shook his head slightly and gave her a ghost of a smile.

  “Not yet. Is there any liquor at the house?”

  Oh god. “Sorry. I finished it.”

  “Let’s stop.”

  Ariela’s eyes flew back to him, but he stared straight ahead. She swallowed, feeling all her old worries and fears mingle with new ones as alarm rose inside of her again. She tamped it back down, for a moment, but it was a tenacious thing. It returned, bringing stiffness to her neck and shoulders as well.

  “That sounds ominous,” she said quietly.

  Dylan changed the subject. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  The abrupt shift in topic didn’t soothe.

  ***

  Dylan unlocked the side door and turned his body so Max didn’t hurt him when he burst out of the house. Still, the dog was so excited to see him it took them both to get the golden under control. That accomplished, Dylan carried the paper bag to the counter and drew out the bottle of whiskey.

  Without a word, he reached inside an upper cabinet and took down two shot glasses. He brought them to the table and uncapped the bottle.

  “Join me. Please?” He gestured at her usual chair then poured the deep amber liquor into both shot glasses.

  She sat down and he slid a glass in front of her before sinking onto the opposite chair. “Are we drinking to something?” She heard the stress and anxiety in her voice, but there was no way to control it. The invisible cloud they’d brought inside was even more oppressive than the one actually flooding the curbs and flattening the peonies outside.