Page 62 of Worth the Fight

Mags is walking out with the steam billowing around her. Her long lean legs are on display, and my eyes trail up her calves to her thighs that are peeking out from the hem of an oversized T-shirt.

My oversized shirt. One that reads USMC across the chest.

“I wondered what happened to that shirt,” I tell her, zipping open my bag and reaching a hand in, feeling around for my pill bottle.

“You left it at my apartment when you last visited. I thought about returning it, but…”

“It looks a hell of a lot better on you, baby.” I abandon my search for my pills and reach for her, gripping her by the hips to pull her to me. Her breath hitches when her chest hits mine, and I lean forward, pressing a kiss to her lips.

My lips trail along her cheek, down to her neck, and I wrap my arms around her, tilting her back so I can really kiss her. She giggles, squirming when I hit a particularly sensitive spot, and I smile against her cheek, nipping once before I let her go.

“I’ll bring you every shirt I own if you promise to wear that and nothing else.”

She sits on the edge of the bed, one hand still gripping her towel and squeezing the water from the ends of her hair. “Deal.”

“How are you feeling?”

She rolls her left ankle, then flexes her foot a few times. “Sore, but I’ll be all right.”

“Was it hurting during the show tonight?” I’m still riding the post-performance high after getting to see her on stage for the first time in years. It brought me back to one of the first performances I ever saw of hers. We were just kids, teenagers, maybe fifteen years old, and I asked if I could tag along to one of her weekend performances.

I remember sitting in the audience with her parents and Nana, not knowing shit about ballet but not being unable to tear my eyes off the stage. I wondered if other people could see it—that she wasn’t the average teenage ballerina, that someday she’d make this her career and be one of the best at it.

I had that same feeling tonight as I looked around at the crowd. I wondered how many knew her by name. How many had seen multiple performances or watched her over the years. If they were just as proud of her as I was. “I’ll massage your feet for you later.”

She smiles at that, her gaze following me as I dig through my bag once more.

“I have something for you.” I hold my breath, pulling out a stack of old letters, the ones I had started to write to her when I was deployed but couldn’t find the words, or maybe the strength to finish. There were times I wanted to throw them away, but instead, I’d tuck them into the side pocket of one of my bags.

I ignored them once I retired back to the States, and it wasn’t until after she broke up with me that I dug them out. I crumbled them into a ball and threw them away, only to dig through the trash hours later to pull them out.

Some are torn, most are wrinkled, but I cleaned them the best I could, refolded them and tied them with these bands, thinking someday, I might want to go through them and see if the memories come back.

I’ve realized now that I don’t need these letters. I don’t need a reminder of how dark those times were. I don’t need a reminder of how much I’ve changed. I don’t know if it will be a good or bad thing if Mags reads them, but I can’t think of any other person in this world that would have the right to read them.

“These are letters. All the letters I started to write to you when I was deployed.” She takes the stack from my outstretched hand, resting them in her lap. “Some are full letters, not sure why I never got around to mailing them. Some are just a few lines, guessing those were the times I couldn’t focus myself enough to put words on paper.”

I run a hand through the side of my hair, and her eyes flick to the tattoo on my bicep. A soft smile crosses her face when she sees it. She raises her hand to trace the lines of the flower, and her touch is so soft it nearly tickles.

“You don’t have to read them, if you don’t want to. But if you do, can, uh … can you wait until I’m not around?”

She nods once, her gaze dropping to the letters and back up again. “Thank you, Lukas.” She brings them to her chest. “I love them already.”

“Don’t say that ‘til you read them,” I tease, and she rolls her eyes, standing from the bed and moving over to her dresser, opening the top drawer to stick the letters inside.

I rifle through my bag, pulling out the pill bottle I had been searching for earlier. She turns at the sound of the capsules rattling, and she watches closely as I pop it open, spill one into my hand, and toss it back with a dry swallow.

“What’s that?”

I hand the bottle over to her with the label facing up. “An antidepressant. Been on it for about a year now.”

She studies the bottle, nodding as she reads it before handing it back. “I don’t think I knew you were on one.”

I shrug. “Grayson’s fiancée was the one who suggested I try it. She helped me get therapy after everything kind of blew up in my face. I figured it couldn’t hurt to try something else.”

She brings a leg up to rest on the bed, knee bent, and it causes the hem of my shirt to slip up her thigh.

“Mags…” I step forward, a hand coming out to rest on her knee. I lean down, my gaze on hers as I slide my calloused hand up her smooth thigh, pushing the shirt past her hip to find her completely bare underneath. I groan, leaning down so I can kiss her. Just when I start to move my hand toward her center, she reaches out to grip my wrist.