After several moments when the only sound between us was our breathing, I said, "Can I ask what happened after your arrest?"
He laughed. A good, warm laugh I felt as his body shook against mine. "Shannon Walsh. There was some program where new lawyers could work off their loans or something by doing pro bono public defense work. She was assigned to my case had the charges tossed out in a hot second. Then she brought me home with her."
He almost sounded cavalier about the great and small tragedies of his childhood, like they hadn't stolen the most essential things from him. I didn't know how he did it. I didn't know how he put one shiny wingtip in front of the other. When I allowed myself to think about it, I was paralyzed by my father's history of institutionalizing homophobia. I couldn't breathe under the weight of it. And yet Tom had faced a galaxy of awful. "Ah. Now it all makes sense," I ground out.
"She's the auntie everyone deserves," he said. "She has a way of collecting strays."
I tugged the corner of my lower lip between my teeth. "So does my brother."
Tom tipped his head back, a slow grin pulling at his mouth as he gazed at me. "Is that what we are? Strays?"
I ran my tongue over my teeth as I studied him. "We're whatever we want to be," I said. "Whatever we want, Tom."
* * *
We comparedschedules on the drive out of the city and along the coast, and I realized I was thankful to be stuck here. Thankful for all the misery and all the confusion, thankful for the days spent hating myself for fucking up my mission and falling down this hole. I was thankful because I didn't feel stuck anymore, I didn't feel lost. I felt rooted and right, two things I hadn't experienced since ever.
I hated the way I lost my cover and killed my covert career, I was still crushed about what happened to Veronica, and I didn't enjoy being on the hook for kicking off an international incident. All of those things were true and valid, and they didn't exclude the possibility it was time for that portion of my life to end. I didn't know anything with certainty and the mere thought of leaving the only job I knew how to do was overwhelming but I couldn't picture myself actually leaving Tom. Every time I imagined the call coming in from the CIA with orders for a new op, I imagined relief—I was capable and qualified and essential again—followed by acute, paralyzing pain. I couldn't do it, I couldn't go—and I didn't want to. The validation of being called up only got me so far and the hunger for a new challenge granted me a bit more mileage but the rest was unrelenting opposition to the notion of saying goodbye.
I'd done this enough to know leaving for a mission didn't mean leaving forever. To date, I'd returned from one hundred percent of my missions, and many operatives had similar track records. Losing a spleen and gaining some titanium screws wasn't the end of the world, even if I still resented the motherfucker who'd turned my arm into a pincushion. But I wasn't alone anymore, I wasn't the only one who stood to get hurt. For somewhere in this weird winter that wouldn't stop, I fell for Tom.
It was the last thing I'd planned to do during my confinement to Will's guest quarters and here in Boston, of all the frigid, un-surf-able places, but none of that seemed to matter anymore.
Sure, I'd need a job and there were months of physical therapy ahead of me but I wasn't destitute. I had money saved up. I could comfortably spend some time getting my arm back in fighting shape and then—well, no, probably notfightingshape—but I could take it slow. Even if the intelligence community didn't want me engaged in covert work, they could deploy me as a headhunter on college campuses. There were more than enough universities in the area, and CIA, NSA, and FBI were always looking for fresh meat. I could do that, I could be a nightcrawler. And I'd learn to cook too. I'd take classes or something like that. I'd learn how to make all of Tom's favorite things and maybe convince the boy to deviate from his salmon-and-broccoli habit. And we'd climb mountains together. Switzerland and Italy this summer, maybe Mexico or Tanzania in the winter. Yeah, I could do all of these things and it would be amazing. We'd sit down for one of Tom's famous logistics conversations and figure it out. We'd just figure it all out.
Maybe it could be that easy.
"Are you even listening to me right now?" Tom asked as he turned down the driveway.
"You're attending planning board meetings in two different towns this week plus a wonky historical preservation society gathering you doubt I'd enjoy, and that's on top of all the early morning shit you have scheduled," I said. "Long story short, you'll see me on Friday and that's fine because I can't be trusted to let you sleep when you'll clearly need it though you might be able to sneak away from the office for lunch."
Tom came to a stop in front of the garage. "Okay, so you were listening."
"Don't sound too disappointed, babe. You'll catch me one of these days."
"No, I've resigned myself to the fact you're a highly trained government operative with a brain like an Access database and you not only hear but also remember everything, except for me, the first time we met."
I slapped a hand over my heart. "Will I ever live that down?"
Tom took my hand, brought my palm to the weekend scruff he'd taken to growing. It felt amazing on my neck, my chest, between my thighs. "I had a crush on you that weekend."
"It only lasted the weekend?"
He gave an indecisive shrug. "I kept trying to put myself in the same spots as you and catch your attention but you weren't giving it."
"I'll give it now," I said, slipping my palm to the back of his neck and pulling him closer. "I'll give you all my attention now. As much as you want, for as long as you want it."
His eyes had a dreamy, glowy quality to them when he asked, "Do you mean that?"
I bobbed my head in agreement, ready to promise him everything I had to give and a few things I didn't, and brought his lips to mine. "I—"
Headlights slashed through the dark interior of Tom's car, briefly blinding us both and breaking the moment. I kept my palm on his neck and placed the other on his chest as I swiveled in my seat to find the origin. A black Suburban with tinted windows rolled up beside us and at the same moment, my brother appeared in the doorway to the main house, his hands in his pockets.
A car door slammed shut and Jordan Kaisall joined Will at the door. They shook hands before shifting to face us. They'd planned this.
"Fuck," I whispered.
"What's wrong?"
