7. On the Airport Sound System “Jingle Bells”—the Michael Bublé Version

CHAPTER 7

ON THE AIRPORT SOUND SYSTEM: “JINGLE BELLS”—THE MICHAEL BUBLé VERSION

“Wow.” Cam looks down the escalator with a grin on his handsome face. “You weren’t joking. That’s the whole airport?”

“That’s the whole thing,” Nicolette confirms as they descend slowly toward the luggage carousels. “One terminal.”

Her husband has been to the family compound in Vermont before, but this is the first time they flew in rather than driving from their apartment in Boston. They’ve been away on a pre-Christmas getaway together, which had the benefit of shortening the time they’d have to spend with Nicolette’s family.

It got her out of the stupid caroling party, which is still going strong even though the twins have graduated from college.

Like Cam, Nicolette is scrutinizing the arrivals area, but her reasons are different. She can’t help it, but every time she arrives at this airport, she thinks of Damien. Even if it’s been years since she’s seen him.

When they step off the escalator, the luggage carousel is already turning. A guy in a Patagonia jacket passes them with a ski bag over his shoulder, and Cam makes a wistful face. “I wish I had my skis and boots.”

“We didn’t want to carry our skis around Miami,” she points out. Cam is a fun time, but he’s not a very practical person. It was a challenge packing for the both of them for this trip—resort wear for Florida and cold-weather clothing for their stay in Vermont. “You can rent at Killington.”

“Rentals suck,” he says flatly. But he reaches for her hand and gives it a squeeze.

She fixes her eyes on the rotating carousel and tries not to wonder where Damien is right now. In a desert somewhere, maybe. It still smarts that she never heard back from him after she sent him that gift box. It was an unsolicited gift, and he doesn’t owe her anything, but God, it would have been nice to hear from him. Just to let her know he’s alive.

Obviously, Damien didn’t ever feel the same way about her that she felt about him. He must have rolled his eyes when he got the note. And the lucky marble—like a nine-year-old would carry. Every time she’s reminded of it, she feels like crawling out of her skin.

“There we go,” Cam says. “Isn’t that mine?” He points at a navy blue Tumi bag gliding toward them.

“Of course it is,” Nicolette says a little more sharply than she meant to. The fact that Cam can’t always recognize his own luggage irritates her, even though it shouldn’t. She’s known him for, what, eight years? Nine?

You’re marrying an overgrown child , Cici had said after Nicolette’s engagement party. Never forget that .

The comment was made in jest, after Cam had opened the dishwasher in the middle of the cycle and sprayed water all over the kitchen. But all humor has a basis in truth.

The fact is that Nicolette chose this. She married a fun party boy because opposites attract. And because she was a little stunned that Cam could ever love someone like her. It still seems a little unreal.

Besides, it’s not fair to expect Cam to transform his personality just because she’s stuck being the practical half of their marriage for the rest of her days.

Cam grabs his own bag off the belt, but not hers, almost certainly because he doesn’t recognize her bag, even after traveling with her for a week. Instead of prompting him, she darts around his body to grab it herself, hauling it off the carousel and almost tripping in the process.

“Whoa, tiger,” Cam says with a laugh. “Easy. Is someone picking us up?” This is surely the first moment that the question of their transportation has occurred to him.

“I called a taxi,” she says, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Rose is probably waiting outside.” At least she hopes so. Cam will be crabby if their ride is late.

“Cool,” he says. “Can’t wait to kick back with your dad and Veronica, plus Margie’s cooking.”

They roll their luggage out to the sidewalk, where the late December temperature is below freezing. She scans the few cars in evidence, but Rose isn’t among them. “I’m sure it will be just a minute,” Nicolette says, pulling out her phone to check for a text. But there aren’t any.

Cam pulls out his new iPhone and ignores her, which is a habit of his that she usually detests. But at least it will keep him occupied.

The wind bites Nicolette’s face as she stares toward the turn in the road, hoping to see Rose’s minivan appear.

Instead, a black Grand Cherokee comes into view, and she stops breathing. It’s like seeing a mirage.

The Jeep stops right in front of her, and she lets out a little gasp when she sees the silhouette inside.

Cam looks up suddenly. “Is this our ride?”

She nods, not trusting her voice, as Damien exits and disappears behind the back of the vehicle, where he raises the rear liftgate, all without saying a word.

Nicolette’s heart stutters as he finally faces her and Cam. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes meet hers for a brief second before shifting to Cam. “Evening,” he says, his tone detached. “Rose is double-booked tonight.”

That’s all he says. No hug. No acknowledgement that they aren’t strangers.

Cam, oblivious to the tension, shrugs. Then he steps away from his suitcase, as if he doesn’t have two functional arms to lift it himself, and opens the door to the Jeep’s backseat. “Headed out to Colebury, yeah?”

Damien nods. Then he grabs Cam’s bag off the pavement and moves it effortlessly into the back.

Nicolette can’t stop cataloguing all the things about Damien that aren’t the same. He's broader across the chest. More muscular. He looks exhausted. There are dark smudges under both eyes.

And he doesn’t smile.

She tries to shake off her surprise, lunging for her bag. But Damien is faster. He grabs it before her hands properly close on the handle, slots it into the back, and then closes the hatch.

They’re face to face now, just her and this stranger who looks like Damien but acts like an alien. “Hi,” she says, with pointed eye contact.

“Hi,” he repeats, dodging her glance. “Good flight?”

“ Good flight? ” she echoes incredulously. “Seriously?”

He flinches, like he’s ashamed. Then he opens his mouth to say something more.

Except Cam picks that moment to bark something from the backseat. “Can we pick up the tempo a little, buddy? We’re on a tight schedule.”

They are not, by any stretch of the definition, on a tight schedule. But Damien reacts as if he’s been poked with a cattle prod, snapping to attention and ducking around the other side of the vehicle, where he climbs into the driver’s seat.

Nicolette goes in the other direction and finds herself standing next to the front passenger door. From the back, Cam is giving her a funny look. He holds the rear door open for her. “Baby? Come here. I gotta show you something.”

She gets into the back beside her husband and closes the door. Damien puts the Jeep into gear and pulls away from the curb.

“Check out this hotel,” Cam says, holding up his phone. “My dad still wants us to go to Aruba for Easter. You can get the time off, yeah?”

Her heart drops. “I told you I’d ask, but that’s a tricky time. The partners like to get away.” She’s working as a paralegal at a Boston law firm and trying to decide whether or not to reapply to law school.

In truth, she’s stalling. She doesn’t want to go to law school, but she also doesn’t have a great backup plan.

“Push for it,” Cam says. “See this beach? All you’d have to pack is a bikini.” He makes his voice sultry. “I’ll make it worth your while. ”

Now she’s squirming inside. “Look, Vermont got some snow,” she says, turning toward the window.

He wraps an arm around her. “Hope the ski conditions are good. Too bad I couldn’t talk your dad into going to Aspen. Vermont skiing is so trashy early in the season. Hell, it’s trashy, period.”

Nicolette’s eyes slide unbidden toward Damien, whose profile is only partly visible to her.

He’s staring straight out the front window, back straight, hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. There’s no indication that he’s even listening to them at all.

She’s mortified, anyway. And it’s a long forty minutes until they finally arrive at the gate to her family home.

“You need the code, buddy?” Cam asks as Damien lowers his window.

Damien punches it in without comment.

“Guess not, then,” Cam says in a snarky tone.

“Cam,” she says under her breath.

He makes a face of innocent confusion.

When the car finally arrives in front of the house, Damien opens the driver’s door almost before they’re in park. Like he can’t wait to get away.

Nicolette slips out of the car and waits for him to open the back. As he raises the liftgate, his chunky wool sweater rides up an inch, and she sees a flash of ribcage. Her guilty eyes can’t quite look away. But she notices something marring his olive skin. Like a scar. But his sweater slips down before she gets a good look.

“You take plastic?” Cam asks, reaching for his wallet.

“It’s already handled,” Damien says tonelessly. He lifts out Cam’s bag first, setting it with a thud onto the plowed drive.

“Then here,” Cam says, peeling a five out of his wallet.

She sees a flicker of hesitation on Damien’s face. But then he takes the bill and shoves it into his jeans’ pocket. “Thanks,” he mutters.

Cam turns toward the front door, where her father has appeared, wine goblet in hand. “Cam! I just opened a 1989 Chateau Pichon Baron! Let me pour you a glass.”

Nicolette hangs back, and when Damien offers her the handle of her suitcase, she doesn’t take it from him. “Look,” she says. “Seeing you is a surprise. I didn’t know you were back.”

He glances down at his boots. “Been back a few months. Trying to settle in.” There’s something heavy about his delivery. Like there’s a story there. But he doesn’t tell it.

“Well…” She sighs. “I’m glad to see you safely home.” After all this time, she still reads every single article about Afghanistan in the paper. Every day.

Finally, he lifts his chin and really looks at her. For a split second, the old Damien is back, eyes blazing with every ounce of intensity that they’d ever held.

But then he looks away again. “Good to see you, Nicolette.” He clears his throat. “Merry Christmas.”

Then he turns away quickly, before she can go in for the hug. He hops back into the Jeep and drives away.

After he’s gone, she realizes that he didn’t say, “Call me anytime.”

Damien heads back down the driveway, and it’s suddenly dark outside. In December, nightfall seems to descend on Vermont instantly—like an inexpertly lowered theater curtain.

The nights are long, and the days are short, which isn’t helping his mental health. He doesn’t sleep anymore. Not much anyway. When he closes his eyes, he’s back on patrol in Afghanistan, watching the distant hills for any movement that might be insurgents setting up for an attack.

His nights are so exhausting that sleep seems pretty futile lately. He feels like a leaky fuel pump—getting by, but just barely. It’s been like this for the entire six months he’s been home, and hiding it from his family takes every ounce of his self-control.

When he reaches the bottom of the Overlands’ long drive, the gate opens on its own. Which means that Nicolette is still standing in the front entryway, watching the video feed and delaying entering the warm house to do this small favor for him.

He looks both ways before turning onto the two-lane highway. But then the exhaustion overwhelms him, and he pulls off the road a quarter of a mile away. Coming to a stop on the shoulder, he puts the Jeep in park and leans back against the headrest, closing his eyes.

Thank you for the gift box, Nicolette. It meant a lot to me . That’s all he had to say to make things right. He just…couldn’t. Not with her douchey husband standing there smirking. With his titanium luggage and his shitty opinions.

Besides, it’s fine if she thinks Damien’s a dickhead. He has nothing to offer her. If she’d asked to see his newer drawings, he couldn’t even show her. They’re full of darkness and death. And so is he.

Afghanistan nearly killed him. And nearly is debatable in that sentence. It didn’t kill his body, but it murdered some corner of his soul.

She wouldn’t understand. Nobody can. Honestly, he wouldn’t even want her to understand. He watched Jarvis die during a firefight. Held his hand while the medic worked frantically trying to stop the bleeding.

There was nothing about it that made any sense. Death wasn’t anything like Hollywood wants you to think. Jarvis didn’t have any brave last words. He didn’t even have a chance to say Tell my Katie I love her . He just died on the dusty ground, a look of shock on his face.

He’ll carry that around with him forever. People like Nicolette and her ass of a husband will never understand. They’re lucky not to.

Damien stuffs a hand into his pocket and finds the five-dollar bill. He tosses it into the cupholder. At least it will buy him a shot of whiskey. He shoves his hand into his pocket one more time and finds what he was looking for. The marble Nicolette sent him. It’s been halfway around the world and back again, and unlike Damien, it’s unchanged. Still smooth to the touch and perfectly shaped.

He carries it with him always.