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

up for two months straight. I knew. I just thought it best to let you come to this conclusion on your own, and selfishly, I wanted to keep you. You’re one of my best girls. That being said, I was only giving you two more weeks before I said something myself.” She opened a desk drawer and pulled out some papers. “I have your discharge papers ready. You just need to take them up to headquarters.”

“I don’t want to be discharged,” Scarlett admitted quietly. “I want to do my job.”

Robbins studied her carefully and sighed. “And I wish you could.”

“There is nothing I can do?” Her heart lurched, feeling as though she was being cleaved in two.

“You can be a wonderful mother, Scarlett. Britain needs more babies.” She slid the papers across the desktop. “You’ll be sorely missed.”

“Thank you.” Scarlett squared her shoulders, then took her discharge papers.

Just like that, it was over.

There was a steady, dull hum in her ears as she turned in her discharge papers. It didn’t fade until she stood in front of that same oval mirror in her bedroom, staring at a reflection that was no longer rightfully hers.

She took off her hat first and placed it on the dresser. The shoes came next. Then the stockings.

She raised her hands to the belt of her jacket twice before she managed to get it undone.

This uniform had given her freedom she never would have experienced without it. She never would have stood up to her parents without the confidence she’d earned over the long days and nights of watches. She never would have seen her worth as more than a pretty showpiece.

She never would have met Jameson.

Her fingers trembled at the first button. Once she took it off, that was it. There were no more watches. No more briefings. No more smiling as she walked down the street, proud that she was doing her part. They weren’t just clothes—they were the physical manifestation of the woman she’d become, the sisterhood she belonged to.

She heard a shuffle behind her and lifted her eyes in the mirror to see Jameson standing exactly where he’d been that morning, leaning in the doorway, but instead of his pressed uniform, he still wore his flying suit.

…

His hands clenched with the need to hold her, but he kept his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t say anything as he watched her struggle with the buttons of her jacket. His chest ached at the pain, the loss in her eyes as she finally got them undone. She must have told her section leader today. She wasn’t just getting undressed; she was being unmade.

As much as he wanted to cross the room and ease her, this was something she had to do for herself, by herself. Besides, he was already responsible for taking so much from her that he couldn’t bear to be a part of this, too.

Tears filled her eyes as she slid free of the jacket, folding it carefully before placing it on the dresser. Next came the tie, then the shirt, and finally she stepped out of the skirt. Her hands were steady as she placed it on the pile, standing in nothing but the civilian underwear she’d always insisted on.

She swallowed, then lifted her chin. “And that’s…that.”

“I’m so sorry.” His words came out like they’d been scraped over broken bottles.

She walked to him, all lush curves and sad eyes, but when their gazes met, hers was steady. “I’m not.”

“You’re not?” He palmed her cheek, needing to touch her.

“I’m not sorry about anything that’s led me to you.”

He carried her to their bed and showed her with his body exactly how lucky he felt to have found her.

…

One month later, Scarlett marveled at the freedom the simple wrap dress afforded her as she and Jameson shopped in a small London store that specialized in children’s clothes.

There were some parts of civilian life—such as not melting in her uniform in the August heat—that more than agreed with her.

“I wish we’d done this two months ago,” Jameson muttered as they took in the scant racks of infant garments.

“It will be okay,” she assured him. “He won’t need much to start out with.”

“She.” Jameson grinned, then bent to kiss her temple.

As of June, clothing was now rationed, which meant she was going to need to get creative in a few months—and do a lot more wash. Blankets, gowns, and nappies—they had a lot to acquire before November.

“He,” she argued with a shake of her head. “Let’s get these to start with.” She handed Jameson two gowns that would work for both a girl or a boy.

“Okay.”

Her face puckered slightly as she stared at the small selection of nappies.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’ve never put on a nappy before—a diaper,” she clarified for him. “I know I need pins, but I don’t have anyone I can ask.” She still hadn’t spoken to her parents, and it wasn’t like her mother had done the child-rearing herself, anyway.

“You can always hire a nappy service,” a young clerk with a quick smile suggested from the end of the aisle. “They’re becoming quite popular.”

Jameson nodded in consideration. “It would leave us with less laundry, and probably ease a little of your we’re-never-going-to-be-able-to-buy-enough stress.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes. “We can talk about it after dinner. I’m starving.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a smile and took their items to the counter.

Of all the things to talk about while he had a precious forty-eight hours of leave, nappies were not on her list.

A few moments later, they were out on the bustling street, walking hand in hand. The bombings had ceased…for now, but the evidence was everywhere she looked.

“Anywhere you want to eat?” Jameson asked, adjusting his hat with one hand.

Scarlett swore she saw at least three women swoon from the sight, not that she blamed them. Her husband was incredible from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. “Not particularly. Though I wouldn’t mind going back to the