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

“William had just been born, and you had so much on your plate—”

“That you didn’t want to bother me?” Her eyes narrowed. “Because I have such a poor track record of handling stress?”

He rubbed his hand over his face, wishing he could take back every word since he’d walked in the door—or go back to a few weeks ago and talk this all out with her. “I should have told you.”

“Yes. You should have. Did you stop to think about what we’d do here if you were sent to the Pacific?” She gestured to the room above them, where William slept.

“They bombed Americans!”

“And you think I don’t know what it feels like to have my country torn to bits by bombs?” She tapped her chest. “To watch my childhood friends die?”

“That’s why I thought you’d understand. When England went to war, you put on a uniform and fought because you love your country just as much as I love mine.”

“I don’t have a country!” she shouted, then spun to face the window.

He saw her face crumple in the reflection of the window, and his stomach sank. Shit. “Scarlett—”

“I don’t have a country,” she said softly, turning to face him, “because I gave it up for you. I loved you more. I’m not British. I’m not American. I’m only a citizen of this marriage, which I thought was a democracy. So pardon my surprise when it turns out to be a dictatorship. Benevolent, yes, but a dictatorship nonetheless. I didn’t fight free of my father’s control to have you step into his shoes.” She scoffed and gave him a sarcastic, bitter smile.

“Honey…” He shook his head, searching for something he could say to make this better.

“It’s not just you anymore, Jameson. It’s not even just us. You can be as reckless as you want when you’re in the cockpit—I know who I married. But there’s a little boy upstairs who doesn’t know there’s a war going on, let alone that it now spans the globe. We’re responsible for him. And I understand wanting to fight for your country—I gave that up for us, too. Please don’t treat me as less than equal because I chose this family twice. If you wanted a wife who would do nothing more than cook your meals, warm your bed, and have your babies, then you chose the wrong woman. Do not mistake my sacrifices for smiling compliance. Also, since I don’t keep secrets, William received a gift today.” She motioned to a small box on the table, then walked out of the kitchen, passing him without another glance, and a few seconds later he heard her footsteps on the stairs.

Jameson rubbed the bridge of his nose and scraped his ego off the floor, where Scarlett had crushed it beneath her foot. He’d been trying to protect her, to ease her, to keep yet another worry from her shoulders, and in doing so, he’d cut her out entirely. From the moment he’d met her, he’d stripped away little pieces of her. It didn’t matter if that had never been his intention—the result was the same.

She’d transferred for him, left her first station where she’d had friends. She’d hauled her sister along so she could keep the vow she’d made to Constance, too. She’d married him, lost her British citizenship for it, then had to pull family strings once again to be reposted when he was so she could follow him. When she’d fallen pregnant, she’d given up the work she loved—the work she’d based her worth on—and after she’d delivered, they’d been reposted again, and she’d lost daily contact with Constance…with anyone outside this house, really.

She’d given everything, and he hadn’t protested because he loved her too much to let her go.

He glanced at the small box that rested near his right hand, then picked it up, plucking the note from the top.

My darling Scarlett,

Congratulations on the birth of your son. We were so very pleased to hear the news.

Please give him this token of our affection and know that we cannot wait to meet the newest Wright.

Love,

Mother

Jameson shook his head in disgust, then looked into the box. A small silver rattle rested on a bed of velvet. He lifted the ridiculous toy to see the engraving that etched the handle. A large W was flanked by another W and a V.

Jameson dropped the rattle back in its box before he did something reckless and torched the damned thing.

His son’s name was William Vernon Stanton. He wasn’t a Wright. They weren’t allowed to claim any part of him.

He pushed off the table and draped his jacket over one of the chairs, then loosened his tie as he walked up the stairs. Light shone from beneath their bedroom door, but not William’s. Jameson pressed his ear to the door, and when he heard the soft rustling and one disgruntled protest, he went in and leaned over the small crib.

William looked up at him, tightly swaddled in the blanket his grandmother had sent from Colorado, and let loose a jaw-cracking yawn, then furrowed his brow.

“Yeah, I know what that means,” Jameson said softly, picking up his son and cradling him against his chest. How ironic that someone so very small had altered the gravity in his world. He pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in his scent. “Did you have a good day?”

William grunted, then opened his mouth against Jameson’s shirt.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He rubbed small circles on William’s back, knowing that he didn’t have what he was looking for. “You might want to give her just a minute, kid. I hurt her feelings pretty badly.”

He swayed from side to side, trying to not only give Scarlett a few minutes alone but buy himself precious time to think of what he could do or say. Did he want to leave them here, in a country they weren’t legally entitled to, knowing they couldn’t