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

just a story about falling in love.” Scarlett laced her fingers behind her head. “Without the potential for disaster, would we ever really know what we have?”

“I didn’t,” Constance whispered.

Scarlett locked eyes with her sister. “You did. I know you loved Edward. He knew it, too.”

“I should have married him the way you did Jameson,” she said softly. “At least we would have had that before…” She drifted off, her eyes lifting toward the trees above them.

Before he died.

“I wish I could take your pain.” It wasn’t fair that Constance was in such misery while Scarlett counted the hours between Jameson’s days off.

Constance swallowed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” Scarlett sat up. “It matters.”

Constance mirrored her but didn’t meet her eyes. “It really doesn’t. The other girls who move on, who see love affairs as temporary—I understand. I really do. Nothing here is guaranteed. Planes go down every day. Bombing raids happen. There’s no point holding your heart back when there’s a good chance you’ll die tomorrow anyway. May as well live while you can.” She glanced over the small garden. “But I know I’ll never love anyone the way I did Edward—the way I still do. I’m not sure I’ll ever have a heart to give. Seems safer to read about love in novels than it is to honestly experience it.”

“Oh, Constance.” Scarlett’s heart broke yet again for what Constance had lost.

“It’s fine.” Constance hopped to her feet. “We’d better get ready, since we have watch in a little over an hour.”

“I can make us something to eat first,” Scarlett suggested. “I’ve gotten rather good at a couple quick things.”

Constance looked at her sister with well-deserved skepticism. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s get dressed and run over to the officers’ mess.”

“You don’t trust me!” Scarlett scoffed.

“I trust you implicitly. It’s your cooking I doubt.” Constance shrugged, but her teasing smile was genuine, which was more than enough for Scarlett.

Dressed and fed, the girls made it to watch in plenty of time. They left their coats in the cloak room, then headed for the filter room. As busy as their boards were in their small sector, it was hard to imagine what the ones at Group Headquarters looked like.

“Ah, Wright and Stanton, always the pair,” Section Leader Robbins noted with a smile at the door. “Anything you ladies need before watch begins?”

“No, ma’am,” Scarlett replied. Out of all her section leaders, Robbins was turning out to be her favorite.

“No, ma’am,” Constance echoed. “Just show me to my section of the board.”

“Excellent. And when you both have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about your responsibilities.” The woman smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Are we lacking?” Scarlett asked slowly.

“No, quite the opposite. I’d like you both to train as tellers. More pressure, but I would be willing to wager that you’d both make Section Officer by the end of the year.” She glanced between the sisters, measuring their reactions.

“That would be wonderful!” Scarlett answered. “Thank you so much for the opportunity; we would—”

“I need to think on it,” Constance interjected, her voice dropping.

Scarlett blinked back her surprise.

“Naturally,” Robbins said with a kind smile. “I hope you have an…uneventful night.”

The sisters made their farewell, and before Scarlett could question Constance about her answer, her sister opened the door and disappeared into the always-silent filter room.

Scarlett followed her in, then put on her headset and relieved the WAAF at her corner of the board, taking a quick sweep over her section to familiarize herself with tonight’s activities. There was a bomber raid coming across her quadrant, nearly to Constance’s.

Would the raids ever end? Tens of thousands had been killed in London alone.

The radio operator’s voice came through her headset, and she fell into the routine of work, letting the other worries wait until later.

Every so often she’d glance at Constance. On the outside, her sister appeared normal—her hands were steady and her moves efficient. This was where Constance thrived lately, where emotion couldn’t reach her. Knowing the emptiness that swirled inside sent another wave of nausea rolling through her.

It wasn’t fair that she’d been able to keep her love, when Constance hadn’t.

Minutes ticked by as she moved the aircraft across the board, and then her stomach pitched for an altogether different reason.

The 71st was on the move, not toward the bombing raids but the sea. Jameson.

She moved the squadron across her quadrant in five-minute increments, noting the number of planes and the general direction, but soon they were no longer hers to keep watch over, and others took their place.

The hours flew, but she was too worried to eat during her break, too anxious to see the 71st return to do much else but hover over that board, because she knew he was flying tonight. When her fifteen minutes were up, she headed back into the filter room and took over her station once more.

She noted with no small sense of satisfaction that the number of bombers on their way out was smaller than coming in. They’d had a few victories tonight.

The radio operator’s next plot came through her headpiece, and she reached for a new marker with a slight smile. The 71st was back in her quadrant.

She placed the marker at the appropriate coordinate, then froze as the radio operator updated the number of aircraft.

Fifteen.

Scarlett stared at the marker for precious seconds as her heart lurched into her throat. She’s wrong. She has to be wrong. Scarlett hit the microphone switch on her headset.

“Could you give me the strength of the 71st again?” she said.

Every head in the room snapped her direction.

Plotters didn’t talk. Ever.

“Fifteen strong,” the operator repeated. “They lost one.”

They lost one. They lost one. They lost one.

Scarlett’s fingers trembled as she replaced the little flag on the marker to one that read fifteen. It wasn’t Jameson. It couldn’t be. She would know, wouldn’t she? If the man she loved with all her heart had gone down—had died—she’d feel it. She’d have to. There was simply no