The Things We Leave Unfinished Yarros, Rebecca (reading like a writer .TXT) 📖

“You love your job, don’t you?” he asked, as though admitting defeat.

“I do. It’s meaningful.”

“It is,” he agreed. “So what do we do?” he asked, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “In two days, I’m going to be on the other side of England.”

“Then I guess we enjoy what time we have.” Her chest ached, both with how much she loved him and the agony of what was coming.

“I’m not letting you go.” He turned and lifted her into his arms. “I might not be here physically, but that doesn’t mean we’re not together. Understand?”

She nodded. “Then I hope we’re both very good at writing letters.”

…

Of all the places she would have loved to go on leave—such as Church Fenton—spending the weekend at her parents’ London house was last on the list. To be honest, it didn’t even make the list.

The only reason she’d agreed to come at all was because they’d promised to stop feeding nonsense stories to the press, and it was her mother’s birthday.

The more she came home, the more she realized she wasn’t the same girl who’d left it. Perhaps the dutiful, biddable daughter she’d been at the start of this war had been simply another casualty in the Battle for Britain.

They’d won, and the Germans had halted their all-out assault after those horrifying mid-September days, though bombing raids were still terrifyingly common.

Jameson had been gone more than a month, and though he wrote twice a week, she missed him with a ferocity that escaped words. Every part of her ached when she thought about him. Logically, she’d made the right choice. But life was so…uncertain, and there were parts of herself that cursed logic and demanded she get on a train.

Meet me in London next month. We’ll get separate rooms. I don’t care where we sleep as long as I get to see you. I’m dying here, Scarlett. The words from his latest letter echoed through her head.

“You miss him,” Constance noted as they descended the staircase.

“Unbearably,” she admitted.

“You should have said yes. You should have run off and married him. In fact, you could go now. Right now.” Constance lifted her eyebrows.

“And leave you?” Scarlett questioned, linking elbows with her sister. “Never.”

“I would marry Edward if I could, but after Dunkirk…well, he still wants to wait until the war is over, and besides, I’d rather see you happy.”

“I will be very happy next month, when I will use my forty-eight hours to meet him here in London,” she whispered. The excitement was nearly too much to keep in. “Well, not here. I don’t think our parents would approve.”

“What?” Constance’s eyes widened with her smile. “That’s brilliant!”

“And what about you? Wasn’t that another letter from Edward I saw?” Scarlett raised her eyebrows and bumped her sister’s hip.

“It was!”

“Girls, do sit down,” their mother prompted as they entered the dining room, which was dimly lit. All their windows were covered tightly to block out any light that might shine through at night, as the blackout dictated, but it also served to make the daytimes equally dreary.

“Yes, Mother,” they answered in time, each taking their place at the obscenely long table.

Her father walked in, dressed in an immaculately pressed suit, and smiled at each of his daughters, then his wife, before taking his seat at the head. It was quiet, as always, the discussion kept to pleasantries.

“Are you girls enjoying your leave?” their father asked as they finished the main course. The chicken had been an unexpected treat, given the state of rationing.

“Absolutely,” Constance answered with a grin.

“Definitely,” Scarlett chimed in as the girls shared a secretive smile. Her parents didn’t know about Jameson. She’d need to tell them eventually, but not on her mother’s birthday.

“I wish you were home more,” her mother noted, her smile failing to hide the sadness in her tone. “But at least we’ll see you again next month.”

“Actually, we might not be able to visit quite so often,” Scarlett admitted. From now on, she’d spend every bit of leave she was given to see Jameson.

Her mother’s gaze snapped to hers. “Oh, but you must. We have so many arrangements to make before the summer.”

Scarlett’s stomach turned over, but she managed to lift her water and sip. Don’t jump to conclusions. “Arrangements?” she questioned.

Her mother drew back slightly, as though surprised. “Weddings take arranging, Scarlett. They don’t just happen. It took Lady Vincent a year to plan her daughter’s wedding.”

Scarlett’s eyes flickered toward Constance. Had she told them about Jameson’s proposal?

Constance subtly shook her head, already shrinking back in her chair.

Good God. Were her parents still intending to push the match with Henry? “And who is getting married?” Scarlett asked, straightening her spine.

Her parents shared a telling look, and Scarlett’s heart plummeted.

Her father cleared his throat. “Look, we’ve let you have your fun. You’ve fulfilled your duty to king and country, and even though you know my thoughts on this war, I respected your choice.”

“Appeasement was not the solution to the German hostility!” Scarlett snapped.

“Had they just negotiated an acceptable—” Her father shook his head, then took a deep breath, his jaw ticking. “It’s time to do your duty to your family, Scarlett.” His voice left no room for misinterpretation or argument.

Icy rage seeped into her veins. “Just to be clear, Father, you associate my duty to this family with marriage?” Their whole way of thinking was ancient.

“Naturally. What else could I possibly mean?” Her father lifted his silver eyebrows at her.

Constance swallowed and put her hands in her lap.

“It’s for the best, dear,” her mother urged. “You’ll want for nothing once the Wadsworths—”

No.

“I would want for love.” Scarlett took her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “I thought I made it clear back in August when I asked you to stop feeding the paper lies.”

“It may have been premature, but it certainly wasn’t a lie.” Her mother drew back as if