Page 17 of Everlasting Vows

“You can’t do anything more, Abbi. So stop feeling bad.” He squeezes me and then lets go.

“I can’t help but feel like a spoiled, middle-aged white woman. I have more than I need and enough space to give them a place to stay until they get on their feet. I … I feel so guilty.”

He frowns at me. “You’re far from spoiled, and you’re not middle-aged either. So cut that shit out. You could be at home with Nix, but you’re here helping in any way you can. Jesus, you even gave them a warm blanket. It’s more than most people do.” He nods to someone behind me. “It’s late, let’s pack up so we can go home.”

7

ABBI

My tiredness abates when I pull into the garage beside Nix’s truck. The Fridays I volunteer are always long and exhausting, but I wouldn’t change a thing. I glance at the clock on my dash—nine-thirty. What’s he doing home? He usually works overnight on Fridays and Saturdays.

I climb out of my car and make my way inside, locking the door and setting the alarm. “Hello,” I call out as I slip off my shoes and pad into the kitchen. Two plates of pasta sit on the table, and by the lack of steam coming from them and their dried-out appearance, I have to assume they’ve been sitting for a while. If he bothered to get home at a decent time, he’d know I volunteer every second Friday night and that I wouldn’t be here.

My shoulders slump as I make my way further inside. If I’d known he was going to be home, I wouldn’t have lingered so long after we packed up. It seems we’re destined to always cross paths but never truly connect. I drag my fingers along the cool surface of the table and go in search of my husband with a heart full of hope that he really is making an effort.

“Nix,” I call again, picking up the pace until I’m standing in the empty living room. Maybe he’s in his office. I walk down the hallway, but the room is dark; however, a lamp has been left on in my craft room. I hurry toward the door, and a gasp bursts across my lips when I reach the open doorway. I skim my eyes around the room, disbelief making it hard to settle on one particular thing.

Stepping slowly into the room, I marvel at the new storage unit set up along the previously bare wall. Clear tubs with lids line the shelves, stocked to the brim with the yarn I’d sorted into bags last night. I run my fingers over the tubs, cataloging everything Nix has done. I pull open the first drawer and find my crochet hooks, sorted by size. I spin around in place, admiring how much bigger the room seems now that I don’t have stuff piled all over the floor and stacked on the craft table.

Nix did this.

He did it for me.

He’s trying. Like he said he would.

Systematically, I check each room of our house until I find him in the home gym he insisted on having. He has one at his office, so I wasn’t sure why we needed one at home when we can both use the gyms at work.

I lean against the doorjamb, watching my husband run on the treadmill. His T-shirt lies discarded over the handrail, and sweat tracks down his back—he’s obviously been at it for a while. The sound of his feet hitting the running deck is loud, and I’m not sure how I didn’t hear the thuds earlier in my search.

I trace my eyes over his form. God, he’s still in such great shape. Butterflies take flight, as they often do when I look at my husband. I know he likes to keep his fitness up for his job, but he’s always been conscious of his health, even when we were teens and other kids only took PE because they had to. He always had a fitness regimen he stuck to religiously. I watch his muscles contract and flex and remember the way they felt beneath my hands when he was on top of me, riding me, sending us both barreling toward our bliss. My blood fizzes and my skin heats at the memory. It’s been so long.

I drop my gaze down his arm, and my mind races backward. The paralyzing fear of losing him when I answered the phone call in the middle of the night. The moment I laid eyes on him for the first time after the blast, when his wounds were raw and dozens of stitches held his flesh together. The pain and fury etched into the very fabric of his being—changing him on a fundamental level.

He was no longer the Nix I married. His focus changed.

I just didn’t understand what that meant for us. But at the time I was grateful he was still alive, and I wasn’t burying my husband. The relief I felt at my husband’s survival made me feel like a selfish bitch when another wife was having to say goodbye to hers. I remember the devastation she carried like a blanket wrapped around her and her young son at Wyatt’s funeral. The intense guilt I felt at my own relief. The sheer torment painting her features as I clutched onto our children, thankful we weren’t in her shoes.

“You gonna stand there and watch me like a creep all night?” I jump at the deep rasp of his voice, and a small smile tips up my lips. I forgot he has eyes in the back of his head—some kind of spidey sense he often jokes about. I can imagine it was necessary in the situations he found himself in. I know that his sense of duty to keep his men safe from harm was the driving force behind honing his skills.

I push away from the jamb and walk toward him as he slows the machine to a stop. “Hey.” I hold my hands out to my sides. “Sorry I missed dinner.”

He dismounts the machine, tugs out his ear buds, and grabs a towel he keeps close by to wipe the sweat away. I follow the pathway as he wipes around his neck, across his pecs, and down his tight abdominal muscles to that incredible V that still has clear definition at his age. “No need to apologize, Abs. Completely my fault that I lost track of the weeks.” So maybe he is aware of my routine.

He steps closer to me, his chest still bare, and my eyes drop to his pecs. Some of his chest hair has turned gray. Why do men age so well? A little gray, and they look sexy—a silver fox. A woman has gray hair, and people immediately think she needs to color it. Why the different societal expectations? His lips press against my cheek, and I almost startle at the contact.

This is the second time he’s kissed me today.

And while both have been chaste, it’s been so long since I’ve had his lips anywhere near me, I’d almost forgotten what they felt like. How much I needed them on my body. How much I adore Nix’s kisses. How much I adore my husband. How much I need him.

The soft, warm pillows of his lips linger, and the tension in my shoulders slips away. He still affects me deeply. And maybe that’s why his lack of attention is so painful. I still need and want him as much as I always have, but he doesn’t seem to have the same needs and wants as I do. His company is more important to him. It’s a stark reminder of the situation we’re in. This awkward limbo where I want out, but he seems to want me to stay. For how long, though?

“Let me shower.” He links our fingers and drags me out of the gym, closing the door behind us. “Come and talk to me about tonight while I wash.”

“Uhh …”

He tugs me forward. “Come on.”

I follow him through the house like a deer caught in headlights, tripping on the hallway rug and stumbling. He turns and catches me easily, reminding me how I’ve always felt safe with him. How I always knew he would look after me. “You okay?”