Chapter 9

9

Deep relief washes over me as we finally park next to the cabin.

This isn’t home. Obviously. But it feels more like home than anything has to me for a long time.

It’s a strange realization to come to on a November evening, but it only gets stronger as we unload our provisions, head inside, and put up the food we got at the market. Since it’s already dinnertime and we haven’t eaten much in the past two days, I start preparing a stew with some rabbit meat Mack pulled out of the freezer yesterday morning and a bunch of random vegetable remnants from the refrigerator.

“Gettin’ cold out there,” Mack says as he comes back inside with an armful of chopped wood.

“I know. I hope it doesn’t get down below freezing anytime soon. ”

We’ve had a couple of terrible winters since Impact with far more ice and subzero temperatures than were normal in the southern US in the old world. But the climate has been stabilizing in the past couple of years, so I’m hoping we’ll start having more region-appropriate winters.

I’ve finished browning the rabbit when Mack gets a fire started in the woodstove and returns to the kitchen. He checks out the big pot and the food I’ve collected on a chopping board. Then he grabs the best knife and cuts up the carrots and the half a potato I scrounged.

We work together easily, softening the vegetables in the pan, adding flour and then some beef broth and what remains of a jar of stewed tomatoes before adding the cooked rabbit back in and seasoning it with salt and pepper.

Mack is quiet. Slightly subdued. But he’s not bristling or grumpy. And I enjoy the peaceful domesticity of cooking our meal together and then cleaning up the kitchen as the stew simmers.

I have a sudden vision of what life might look like if I was able to share it with this man. Day after day of partnership, companionship, intimacy, pleasure, mutual support and mutual need.

And I want it. There’s no longer any doubt or questions or agonizing fears and uncertainties inside me.

I want it. So badly it feels like my heart is literally reaching out in a desperate attempt to pull Mack back to me.

But it’s too late. We’re both different people now, and I’m no longer the woman who can allow Mack to be the man he wants to be.

He as good as said so last night.

It hurts too much to process, and not for anything would I upset Mack further by bringing up the subject now. He’s got too much to deal with as it is. He doesn’t need the burden of my aching heart dumped on him as well.

I had my chance with him, and I wasn’t ready for it back then. Maybe I made a mistake and should have trusted that I would grow with him to the point I am now. Or maybe I made the right decision for who I was at that stage of my life, and the universe is simply against us.

It no longer matters why it happened or how much I wish things were different. Mack needs me right now—me and not my broken heart—and I’m going to be there for him the way he’s always been there for me.

“Everything all right?” he murmurs after a long stretch of silence. He’s leaning against the counter while I’m stirring the stew.

“Yes.” I smile at him. “Tired but glad to be back.”

He gives a slow nod, and I’m not sure if he believes me. “Me too.”

“Are you okay? ”

He meets my eyes for several seconds. Then gives a little shrug. “I… don’t know.”

I put down the wooden spoon and step over so I can hug him gently. He returns the embrace, and we stand there hugging in the kitchen until the stew in the pot begins popping as it simmers. I have to hurry back to the stove to stir it and turn down the heat.

Mack makes us some toast to go with the stew, and we sit at the kitchen table to eat.

Our meal is as quiet as its preparation. Mack empties his bowl and finishes his toast and drinks two glasses of water. But then he appears to be drained of all energy. He slumps forward, propping his arms on the table and resting his head on his hands.

I make a helpless sound as I look at him, frantically searching my mind for something to do to help. I pick up our dirty dishes and wash them quickly, leaving them on the rack to dry because Mack doesn’t like leaving messes around. Then I move behind him and put my hands on his shoulders, rubbing them silently.

“I’m okay,” he mumbles.

“Okay.”

He lets out a soft moan as I knead his tight muscles more firmly. “I’m just tired.”

“Okay.” I lean over for better leverage, pushing hard into the knots I find in his shoulders and neck.

“I don’t need coddling.”

“Okay. Do you want to just go to bed? ”

He hesitates. Then, “You can keep doing that for a few more minutes. Feels good.”

I let out a breathy laugh and lean over to kiss the back of his smooth head. “Why don’t you go lie down in bed, and I can give you a better back rub there?”

Once again, he pauses, and I’m not sure whether he’s going to agree or not. But he finally mutters, “You sure?”

“Yes. I want to.”

It looks like he swallows hard. “Thank you.”

I lean over to kiss his jaw near his ear. “Go lie down, and I’ll lock up real quick?”

“I can?—”

“I said I’ll do it.”

“Fine.” He stands up with a low grunt, like moving takes effort. “Gettin’ kinda bossy, aren’t you?”

That makes me giggle since it sounds like the old Mack. While he heads to the bathroom and then the bedroom, I go around the house, bolting the window shutters and locking and barring both doors. I check the fire in the woodstove. It should burn for at least a couple more hours, and then we’ll probably be fine until the morning if it doesn’t get much colder outside.

I turn off the lights and go to use the bathroom. Then I wash up, brush my teeth, and change into a nightgown. I grab a big bottle of body lotion and bring it with me.

Mack is in his own bedroom even though we always spend nights together in mine. I don’t know why the change would be significant, but it feels that way .

He’s lying on the bed on his stomach, covered with just a sheet. He left the bedside lamp on. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I as I climb onto the bed and sit on folded legs so I can easily reach his body. I squirt lotion on my hands.

As soon as I start massaging his shoulders again, he lets out another long, low groan.

“I’m sorry,” I say after a minute.

“For what?” He’s been visibly trying to relax as I work on him, and the words come out as almost a grunt.

“For just assuming you would want to… to go after Elizabeth. I shouldn’t have pressured you into a violent, dangerous situation. I should have asked first.”

“No. You were right. It would have been wrong to do nothing.”

“We could have done something different. I was simply acting by instinct, but I should have… Since I’ve been here, you’ve been forced into one situation after another that you were trying to avoid. It must have been really hard for you, and I’m sorry for it.”

“It was okay.”

I apply more lotion and rub hard against the line of tight knots around his shoulder blades. They must be sore because he groans again at the pressure. “Does this hurt?”

He shifts slightly beneath my hands. “No. I like it. I… Oh fuck… I need it.”

“Okay.” I spend a couple more minutes working on his shoulder blades before I return to our previous conversation. “It’s not okay if I set back your healing.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t?”

“N-no.” He’s obviously trying to restrain his moans so he can form words. His head is turned to one side, and his eyes are tightly closed. “It wasn’t good. What I was doing before. It wasn’t good. I don’t think I have PTSD. Violence doesn’t throw me back into the day I threw that grenade. It doesn’t retraumatize me or anything. I think I’ve mostly been… been hiding. From the truth. It’s been hard—to get back into things. To deal with life and to… to use weapons again and to protect y—protect people from danger. But not for the reasons you think.”

I slide my hands up to the back of his neck. I use my fingers to find and squeeze the tense muscles there. “What are the reasons then?”

“Because…” He trails off as I find a particularly tender spot just at the base of his skull. I push hard into it and hold the pressure for a long time until he stops groaning and I feel it soften. I’m rubbing it more gently when Mack finally continues in a hoarse mumble, “Because it keeps making it clear that I’m not the man I was before.”

I lick my lips, my heart and my stomach both twisting with pain for him and with bone-deep sympathy. “No one is the person they used to be. This world changes us. Even before Impact, this world will always change us.”

“Maybe. But it’s different for me. Other people… other pe ople changed but still got better. Grant got more open. Cal got softer. Faith got more trusting. You… you got stronger.” His voice isn’t as mumbly now. It’s louder and raspy. “I didn’t get better.”

“Mack, y?—”

“Don’t lie to me, Anna. Don’t lie just to make me feel better. This world might suck most of the time, but other people didn’t let it break them. Not the way it broke me.”

“Stop it!” I’m still massaging his back with firm, relieving strokes, but my voice is almost angry, and tears are streaming down my cheeks. “Stop it! Stop saying that about yourself. Stop thinking it. All the people you just listed—including me—had major stuff to work on in themselves. You began as brave and strong and loving and generous. You’ve been that way for as long as I’ve known you. There’s no way for you to get any better than you already are!”

He’s making some harsh, breathless sounds, and his body has started to shudder slightly. Since neither one of us can speak for a minute, I swipe away my tears and apply more lotion so I can rub down to his lower back, kneading the brown skin and tight muscles there.

“Th-thank you for saying that,” Mack says at last. “For believing it. But the truth is I haven’t even stayed the same. I’ve gotten worse.”

“You—”

“You don’t understand, Anna. You’re thinking about me the way I used to be, but I’m not that anymore. I’m supposed to be… strong. People are supposed to be able to rely on me. I’m supposed to face the things that threaten us so other people don’t have to. That’s who I… that’s who I’ve always believed myself to be.”

“It is who you?—”

I can’t finish a sentence because he keeps interrupting me. “No, it’s not. I keep… I keep freezing. When it matters. I keep freezing . Instead of acting. A few weeks ago when Maria’s crew was under attack, I froze. When we saw Elizabeth yesterday on the motorcycle, I froze. Even this morning, when we found that asshole with his pants down, I froze yet again. I knew he was a kidnapper and that he was a danger to Elizabeth and to you. But instead of acting when I should have, I froze. You had to kill him instead. That never— never —would have happened last year.”

I want to burst out with another denial, but I make myself think about his words, what he’s expressing. I have to process it so I can give his naked confession the response he deserves.

Still massaging his lower back, I finally say slowly, “I understand what you’re saying, and I understand why you think it means something is wrong with you. But I honestly don’t believe the reaction time of your trigger finger defines whether you’re a good or bad man. There’s so much more to you than being a protector, Mack.”

He’s shaking again, more urgently this time. His eyes are still squeezed shut. “What else is there? ”

“What else? Are you serious? You’ve got the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known. You encourage people. Make them laugh. Make them happy. Make them want to be brave, want to do the right thing. You’ve been like… like a beacon fire, lighting the way for us. And keeping all of us warm. You’ve always taken care of people in so many ways that have nothing to do with handling weapons. Even if you never get back to the reaction time you used to have, you can do so much good in the world. And you can have a really good life. You don’t have to be the same man you were to be good or be happy. You don’t . And maybe you should offer the same grace to yourself that you’ve always offered everyone else.”

Maybe it’s what I say or maybe it’s simply too much rising emotion inside him, but he’s frozen for a moment, and then he completely falls apart.

He shakes and gasps and chokes on suppressed sobs. I’ve never once seen Mack so broken.

With helpless whimpers, I slide my hands higher up his body so I’m stroking his head. I bend over far enough to nuzzle the crook of his neck. Press a few kisses on his cheek.

He falls quiet as quickly as he fell apart. He’s still breathing loud and thick, but his body relaxes.

I kiss the side of his head, letting my lips linger on the smooth curve for longer than I should. “Whether you ever get back to the fighter you used to be, you’re still the same man at heart, and that’s the man that all of us know and love.”

He doesn’t respond in words, but he seems to have heard me. His eyes are still closed but not as tightly now. I gently wipe away the trail of a tear from his cheek and ask, “Can I keep going with the massage?”

“Yes,” he breathes out in almost a hiss. “Please.”

I feel better as I smooth more lotion over the middle of his back and start working on his muscles again. There’s not as much angst shuddering inside him now, and although he’s still full of knots, his body is more relaxed.

I take my time, going back over his shoulders and down to his waist again. Then I ease the sheet off his lower body, working on his trim ass briefly before moving lower to massage his legs.

When I’m down to his feet, I think Mack is actually asleep because he’s relaxed so fully. I give his toes a final squeeze and start getting up.

“I’m awake,” he says.

I giggle because he surprises me so much. “Oh, I thought you’d fallen asleep.”

“No. Just feeling good.” He pauses and adds gruffly, “Better.”

The last word evokes shivers of pleasure and affection, but I keep my response light intentionally. “Good. If you want to turn over, I can do your front too.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. ”

He finds the energy to lift up and turn over onto his back, sighing as he stretches out his arms and legs. He watches me silently for a minute as I start rubbing his feet again.

When I smile at him, oddly tender, he gives me a small, tired smile in return before he closes his eyes again.

I take my time as I move back up his legs. By the time I reach his upper thighs, he’s fully erect. He’s not wearing any clothes, so it’s clearly evident.

I glance at his face, but his eyes are still closed and his expression soft and exhausted.

Wrapping one hand around his shaft, I squeeze and pull in a way I know he likes as I massage one of his thighs with my other hand.

He groans and arches his back slightly. “Yes. Just like that. I need it just like that.”

Thrilled and emotional both, I shift my other hand to his sac and gently massage it as I work his cock.

He doesn’t have much control tonight. He comes in less than a minute, releasing loud, wordless moans as he works up toward climax and then gasping out how good I am and how much he needs me as I squeeze him through the last of his spasms.

He’s still making lingering, satisfied sounds as I release him and move my hands up to his abdomen. I rub his belly and then his chest, delighted by how fully his body has softened under my hands. Then I finally crawl higher onto the bed so I can massage his head .

“Thank you, Anna,” he rasps, sounding like he’s about to drift off.

“You’re welcome.”

“Never…” His neck arches slightly in response to the trigger point in his scalp I found, so I soften my pressure. He sighs again. “Never thought I could feel this good again.”

He’s fallen asleep before I can think of any sort of reply. I keep stroking his head, petting him now more than massaging, for a long time until I’m sure he’s sound asleep.

Then I climb off the bed and take the lotion back to the bathroom. I pee again and wash my hands and then my face. I wipe off his ejaculate that got on my gown. As I blot my skin dry with a towel, I stare at myself in the mirror and once again have the surreal disorientation of looking at someone else.

Someone prettier and sexier and deeper and more burdened than me.

The weight of Mack’s need is an intense responsibility, but it doesn’t scare me like it might have in the past. Not that he ever let me carry it before, but even if he had, I never would have believed I was strong enough to bear it.

But I want it now. I wish things were different so I could help him carry it for the rest of our lives.

I’ll take what I can get, however. We’ve got three more weeks together, and I’m going to give him what he needs while I’m allowed .

When I return to his bedroom, I arrange the covers over Mack’s big body and then crawl under them beside him. He’s still sleeping deeply, and that fact fills me with the richest, fullest kind of pride.

I settle beside him, but no matter how tired I am, it’s a while before I can fall asleep myself.

The next morning, we both sleep later than normal. The sun is well up before I even think about stirring, and Mack doesn’t wake up until I get out of bed so I can go to the bathroom.

He starts a fire in the woodstove while I make us a big breakfast since we’re both starving—ham and egg scramble with goat cheese toast.

Mack seems better. Still quieter than he used to be but more relaxed than he’s been since I found him in the cabin. Maybe last night was some sort of turning point for him, or maybe he’s simply been able to push his internal conflict aside. But he’s in a good mood—wanting to chat casually and spend time with me and not pulling back inside himself—as we eat and then decide to tackle the big chore of cleaning out the garage.

It’s packed full of boxes and containers, and in some of them might be items that are useful to us or other people. It’s a good idea to sort them out and take stock of what’s all there .

So we start working after breakfast, and it takes us seven hours before we’ve gotten far enough through the mess to call it quits for the day. We didn’t stop for lunch, but we ate so much for breakfast we didn’t need it.

Despite the hard work, I have a great day. Mack is good company—the way he always used to be—and eventually he starts laughing and teasing me.

When we’re done, we take showers and make quick and easy grilled sandwiches for dinner. I find a box of dehydrated brownies—just add water—so I make those too. They’re not the real thing, but they’re dense and sweet and taste like a decadent treat.

After we clean up, Mack gets interested in a different sort of activity, and I have no objection. So we fuck on the couch with my legs wrapped high around his back until I come twice, and then after he pulls out, I finish him in my mouth.

It’s after that. After a good day and a good meal and good sex with a good man who feels like mine.

It’s then. I’m hit with a deep wave of grief.

Because he’s not mine. Not for real. I might want him now in a way I never have before, but he doesn’t want me anymore.

Not for more than the next three weeks.

The reality hurts so intensely I have to leave Mack in a sated sprawl on the couch with the excuse that I need to go to the bathroom. There, I sit on the toilet and cry into my hands, fighting to will myself back into composure .

Mack can’t know.

He can’t know how much this hurts, how bad I feel. He’s got such a soft heart and such a strong sense of responsibility, he might try to give me what I want even now, even if it’s not the best thing for him.

And I can’t let him do that. He needs to be perfectly free in a way he’s never been before. Free to decide on the life he wants. And telling him the truth about these new feelings and desires would make him less free.

I won’t do it.

“Anna?” Mack is knocking on the bathroom door. “You okay in there?”

“Yes!” I’m relieved I sound just slightly strained. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. Just picking up vibes. You upset about something?”

“No, of course not! Sorry. Just have some… digestion issues. I’ll be out in a minute.”

My spontaneous excuse is evidently effective because Mack leaves me alone until I’ve pulled myself together, washed my hands and face, and come out.

He makes me take some stomach pills from the medicine cabinet, and I can’t refuse because then I’d have to tell him the truth. It’s my heart that’s hurting, not my stomach.

While I was in the bathroom, Mack hauled out an old box television from the storage closet and hooked it up to a DVD player. We found a case of DVDs in the garage, and he suggests we watch something this evening since I’m not feeling good.

I’m not feeling good—but not for the reasons he believes. But I’m happy for an easy evening on the couch with Mack, watching a procedural crime and justice series from the nineties.

Eventually I recline against him. He wraps his arms around me.

And I feel safe and protected and comforted.

And also strong and needed.

I never understood those things were possible at the same time, but they are.

Because I’m experiencing them now. With Mack.

And I know—if only he wanted it too—we might be together just like this for the rest of our lives.