I tried to picture it—Marco injured, Marco vulnerable, Marco in pain—but it didn’t compute in my head. It felt wrong. Uncomfortable. And suddenly, irrationally, I was angry—at Tommy for telling me, at Marco for never having mentioned it, and at myself for caring enough to feel rattled in the first place.
I swallowed hard. “He never mentioned the army.”
Tommy’s smile left. “Marco doesn’t mention much.”
No, he didn’t. But now I couldn’t stop thinking about it—the scars Marco hid beneath his pressed shirts, the injuries he never talked about, the physical therapy I didn’t even know he didn’t attend. Marco, stubbornly hiding all the messy, broken parts of himself from everyone.
Especially from me.
“When was he supposed to be back in DC?”
“Uh,” he said, thinking. “Around Christmas, I think.”
My mouth fell. “That was eight months ago.”
“I know. He could’ve been done with physical four weeks ago if he were serious about it.”
I couldn’t help but connect the timelines. We were married four weeks ago—the same time Marco should’ve been finishing physical therapy. And Christmas? That was right when he’d started showing up everywhere, hovering in the background of my life like some mildly annoyed guardian angel. Was it because of me, or had I just conveniently fit into his schedule of avoiding physical therapy?
God, it probably had nothing to do with me. It was probably his job. Or stubborn pride. Or boredom. Hell, knowing Marco, he might have genuinely forgotten he had an injury altogether.
“Did he say why?” I asked, trying not to sound as desperate as I felt.
Tommy shook his head, lips pressing into a thin line. “He doesn’t really tell anyone anything.”
Well, at least I wasn’t the only one Marco Grey was keeping out of the loop. That was weirdly comforting. Misery loves company, or whatever.
Still, it nagged at me. I hated that it mattered, but it did. Marco was careful about everything. Too careful to just accidentally linger somewhere he didn’t want to be. He had a reason—I just wished I knew whether it had anything to do withme or if I was projecting some deeply buried romantic fantasy onto a man who alphabetized his spice rack.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Marco makes a brick wall look like an open book.”
Tommy laughed quietly. “That’s about right.”
“Guess it’s good to know it’s not personal,” I said, more to myself than to him.
But the thing was, it felt personal. I just wasn’t sure if that was good or bad yet.
I hesitated, suddenly feeling awkward about standing in the living room in Marco’s oversize shirt, talking to a stranger who apparently knew more about the man I’d married than I ever would.
“You want to stay? Marco usually works late.”
Tommy smiled faintly, almost apologetic, shaking his head. “Appreciate it, but I’ve got to head out already. Only stopped by because I had a layover.” He paused, glancing around the apartment with mild curiosity. “Had to get in touch with his emergency contact to even find his address.”
“Who’s that—his emergency contact?”
“Remy. His brother or something, I don’t know. Sorry excuse of one though. I try harder than that guy does.”
I blinked at Tommy and then blinked again, like somehow the words might rearrange themselves into a sentence that made sense. Remy? Marco’s brother? The Remy who’d helped me sift through the disaster that was Cillian’s estate back in Chicago? The guy who’d sat next to me in those cramped offices?
He was Marco’s emergency contact. Brother, emergency contact—hell, I hadn’t even known they were friends, much less family. Marco had explicitly said he had no siblings.
“Biological,” I reminded myself quietly. He’d been very clear about that distinction. Foster brothers then? Was that the story?Was there some hidden chapter between Marco and Remy, two men who seemed worlds apart?
I tried to picture them side by side sharing childhood meals or whatever foster siblings might share. But all I saw was Marco locked up tight, so controlled you’d think he might implode if he unclenched for too long, and then Remy, the guy who felt so genuinely easy, so naturally empathetic, that even I—stubborn, messy, freshly widowed—couldn’t help but trust him. Could two people like that really come from the same roots? I guess stranger things had happened. Hell, look at me and Isabel. Same parents, same house, same everything, and yet we’d turned out about as alike as ice cream and vinegar.
Still, Marco and Remy felt different. Because Marco never let anyone get close—at least, I thought he didn’t.
And yet Remy was his emergency contact.
