Page 36 of Bad Decisions

A memory comes to me of us sitting at a café in Southampton and him telling me why he doesn’t drink coffee. I remember he held my hand, drawing circles with his thumb, and I liked how familiar it felt.

“Would you like something to eat?” Will asks, and I blink a couple of times to erase the old image from my mind, replacing it with the updated one before me.

“No.” I look up, and Jenny is staring at me like I’ve grown another head. “Umm, thank you.”

She nods, then races off, leaving us alone.

“Are you okay?” Will asks, his gaze narrowing. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” I snap back, not wanting to see the concern that’s painted across his features.

I hate that he can read me so easily, especially when I only managed a couple of hours of sleep last night, while he looks like he got the full recommended eight. The urge to ask if his pain is better nearly wins over my desire to keep this personal talk separate from his clinic visits.

“Can we skip the pleasantries and go straight to why you wanted to talk?” I say abruptly. All the manners my father instilled in me clearly forgotten.

“First, I want to say that I’m sorry.” His gaze searches mine for a softening, or capitulation, I’m not sure. But I can’t let him see that. He hurt me, and I won’t let him do that to me again.

A dam of words I’d stored up bursts out. “You keep saying that, but for what? Never returning my calls? Ghosting me? For telling me one day that you had to go away urgently for work instead of visiting that weekend, and then … crickets.” I stop and draw in a full breath, then reload my arsenal of words. “Please tell me exactly which part of that you’re sorry for?” I’m breathing hard after dumping everything on him.

“All of it. Everything you just listed and more.” He exhales slowly, then inhales before continuing in a calmer tone than I used. “I’m sorry for not explaining how unpredictable my work can be. And that sometimes I have to leave with less than a day’s notice, and I won’t know for sure how long I’ll be away. But most of all, I’m sorry for leading you to believe that a long-distance relationship with me would be easy when in reality it never will be.”

The words land between us, each one a brick in a wall that is destined to keep us apart.

“You just disappeared, and I didn’t know why you weren’t replying to my messages?” My voice catches.

“Fuck.” He scrubs a hand across his face. “I really did think I’d only be a week …” He reaches for my hand, but I pull it back and hide it under the table, my fingers locked together in a white-knuckled grip.

“Don’t,” I bark, and he jolts upright as if I’d slapped him. The shock of my rejection is visible in his tight jaw and wide eyes.

He folds his hands on the table in front of him and lowers his gaze. “I should’ve tried harder to contact you when I returned to the States,” he mumbles, and it’s not clear if the recrimination is for my benefit or his.

A look of defeat I never expected him to wear tears through my paper-thin defenses.

“Where did you go?” I ask, my voice more controlled.

“Jewel, a lot of the work I do, I can’t talk about for security reasons. My work is sometimes dangerous, depending on where I am, and even with meticulous planning, things will go sideways. That’s what happened on that trip.”

I’m not naïve enough to think that there was no danger with security work. But not once had Will spoken like this about the level of danger. “Were you in another country?”

“Yes. Over the last six months, I’ve been in several countries.” He hesitates for a moment, then continues, “I was recently in Italy.”

A surprised gasp hinges my jaw open. “Is that where you were stabbed?”

“Yes.” The honest acknowledgment floats between us before settling softly on the table.

Jenny arrives with our drinks and places them in front of us. It’s the interruption I need to gather my thoughts that, in the last few minutes, have been shattered. I sit silently staring down at the tabletop, and when I look up to say thank you, Will’s head is bowed in a similar way.

Alone again, I continue with newly formed questions. “Is your leg the only injury?” I ask, expecting the same honesty he’s given me up until now.

He glances down, then back up. “I was shot in the shoulder on that first trip. But it was only a flesh wound.”

Fear for his safety takes root in my heart, spreading unchecked.

“Is that why you didn’t call?”

“No, but it was more a result of the mission changing. I didn’t return to the States for five weeks, which was why I couldn’t call you sooner. And by then it was too late because you’d already decided to ignore me or block my number.”

Five weeks and no way of communicating? What the hell was he doing? And where? I still have so many questions, but there’s little chance I’ll get any more answers. Instead, my shoulders sag with the knowledge that I hadn’t waited long enough. He told me one week. I waited three, and I thought even that was too long.