himself that this would be over quickly. The townspeople would get their look at him and then they’d leave him alone.
That’s what this recognition ceremony was all about—they wanted their look to satisfy their curiosity. They’d go home and talk about what a shame it was what happened to Jack McConnell and then they’d leave him in blessed peace.
The mayor continued to drone on and Jack managed to tear his gaze away from Betsy. “And with that, we’d like to present you with this award,” the mayor finished.
Jack stood slowly, his prosthesis working with him and straightening as the rest of his body did. He still couldn’t move too fast or it would throw off his balance.
He was expected to speak, but he had nothing to say.
“It’s an honor, sir,” the mayor said, shaking his hand.
He leaned over the mic and fixed his stare on a point against the far wall. “The honor is mine. Both to have served my country and to be part of this community. Thank you.” Jack accepted the plaque and headed for the exit, trying not to choke on the bile in his throat.
Betsy was suddenly standing in front of him with one of the purple boxes—just like the ones she used to send him. “Hi, Jack.” She thrust the box into his hand and flung herself into his arms.
She clung tightly to him and he couldn’t stop himself from clinging back. The scents of vanilla and sugar washed over him. She smelled so good, so wholesome, and she felt even better with her full breasts against his chest. She fit against him as if she’d been made for this moment—for him. Her hair was so soft against his cheek, like black silk. Jack could have stood there forever simply holding her.
But like all breakable things, he knew every second he touched her was dangerous.
“It’s so good to see you,” she whispered against his ear.
Her breath was warm on his skin, tingling. The sensation caused him to remember what it felt like to want. To need. Jack couldn’t help himself. He tightened his embrace and crushed her solidly against him. “You smell like cookies.” He hadn’t seen her in five years, and the first thing he said was that she smelled like cookies. Stupid.
What else was there to say? Don’t tell me it’s good to see me when you can’t even look at me?
She laughed, the sound musical and light, but she made no move to release him and he found he didn’t have to the courage to pull away from her. Right now it was just a hug. They could be Jack and Betsy. When he released her, she’d have to look somewhere and it wouldn’t be his face. He couldn’t blame her.
Or at least that’s what he told himself.
Instead of letting go, he wanted to touch her more thoroughly. To see if she was really so soft and perfect everywhere. Only being this close to her made his skin feel too tight, itchy. Made him think if he could just scratch deep enough, he could peel off what he’d become, but he knew better. So he pulled back from her, but she stayed in his embrace.
“That’s because I was baking all morning. They’re Nutella cheesecake.”
He looked at her blankly.
“Your favorite.” She had yet to focus on his face.
Jack couldn’t remember what his favorite was, but if she said it was, he’d believe her. He hadn’t been able to taste anything but ash, or remember anything before the char consumed his nose, his mouth and his lungs. She pulled farther away from him slowly, and he let her go.
It occurred to him that she was as beautiful as he was ugly. No, that wasn’t even the right word. She was like the sun, warm and bright, but she would scald him through to the bone if he let himself bask in her rays for too long. He needed to take cover, and in this case, distance and darkness would be his shield.
“Thanks.” He held up the box in his hand. “I guess we should settle up.”
“What do you mean?” She looked at a point past his cheek, not focusing on his face.
“I owe you. For taking care of the house. My parents.” He swallowed hard. “Being there to take the call when I was injured.”
“Oh Jack. You don’t owe me for anything.” She looked down and smoothed her hands on her dress to straighten an imaginary wrinkle. “You came home. That’s all I wanted.”
Before this moment, he hadn’t been able to admit he wanted Betsy to look at him the same way she had done those years ago when he left. She wasn’t that girl anymore and he certainly wasn’t that boy. “My parents left you something in their will. I wouldn’t feel right if you didn’t get it.” That was a damn lie, but it had to be done. After everything she’d done for him, he owed her. Jack was a man who paid his debts.
“Come by tonight after you close the bakery.” It would be dark then and she wouldn’t have to see his face. He didn’t wait for her to respond but abandoned her there by the stage. Jack didn’t want to hear her say no.
Hours later, with a bottle of whiskey in hand, Jack was wishing he’d stayed to hear her refusal. Then he wouldn’t have been sitting there rotten with hope for just one more look at a woman who wasn’t coming.
What the hell had he been thinking anyway? He could have the papers to the account drawn up and have them delivered. Jack didn’t have to be here. He could leave her the house, too. He took a long pull, finding comfort in the fact that oblivion was only a bottle away.
He was almost all the way through the amber bliss when the front bell rang. Jack didn’t jump half out of his skin this time, because he’d reached that plateau where his constant fight-or-flight reaction was a distant discomfort. Jack would’ve just let the bell ring, but there was still the faint hope it could be her.
She smiled at him when he opened the door, another purple box in her hands. “Sorry it’s so late. I’ve got Halloween orders to fill, so I’ve been working late.”
He held the door open to allow her inside. She was wearing a different dress. This one was vintage as well, yellow-checked gingham with pockets in the front and a neckline that had to be illegal.
The sound of an old engine backfiring on the street outside elicited an immediate response: take cover. He hit the floor, dragging Betsy with him and shielding her with his body before he could process that it was just another shitty car in a small American town. He wasn’t in Iraq anymore.
A cool hand on his cheek brought him into the present. “It’s okay. We’re safe,” she whispered to him.
Shame, hot and putrid, washed over him. “I’m sorry.”
“You were protecting me. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
He recoiled from her, pulling himself off her and leaning his back against the wall. “I, uh, what my parents wanted you to have, it’s on the table.”
“Jack,” she began. Her presence was overwhelming, smothering. She seemed to burn up all the oxygen in the room.
“Just take it and go.” He struggled to get up, but he couldn’t get his balance with nothing stationary to which he could anchor himself. The prosthesis bent at an awkward angle and he crashed back to the floor.
