Page 81 of Worth the Fight

It’s that letter that has me frozen. All this time, I never understood why Lukas kept his feelings from me. I used to cry to him, beg him to talk to me, to tell me what he thinks, and I’d get so angry when he said I wouldn’t understand.

Seeing now how he felt, I finally understand the sacrifice he took, not only for our country, but for us.

If he had been honest with me, if he had sent these letters or called more and poured his heart out to me about how bad it was getting, I don’t know if I could have continued to live my life the way I was. It was hard enough missing him, wondering about him, but knowing the truth might have actually been worse.

It’s then that it hits me—this is almost like The Lady of the Camellias. Marguerite kept those secrets to herself, because she knew if she didn’t, Armond wouldn’t have been able to go on living his life. I think Lukas knew in a way, too, that he couldn’t tell me, because I couldn’t have gone on with my life or my career the way I did. I might not be where I am today without his sacrifice.

That realization kicks me in the gut, and I roll to the side, sliding down until my body is pressed against the floor. The sobs rack my body, and I cry for what feels like hours, until the early light of dawn seeps into my windows, before realization dawns on me.

I know what I need to do.

CHAPTER 40

Lukas

With my hands on my hips, I stand in the center of the living room, looking around at all I’ve accomplished in the last seventeen months.

What was once an abandoned farmhouse with a caved-in roof and thousands of dead mice is now a three-bedroom, two bathrooms, completely remodeled home that I could move into any day now. It’ll be a home where Ivy grows up, and someday, it’ll be the house that Magnolia makes her forever home.

My chest aches at the thought, and I raise a hand to rub the area.

It’s not fair, sometimes, dealing with the distance. Not fair that she has to miss out on so many special occasions all in the name of her career. Not fair to love someone so goddamn much and have to settle for seeing them once every few months. But I know it’s what makes her happy, it’s her dream, so if I have to grin and bear it a few more years to keep that smile on her face, so be it.

I sigh, leaning over to pop open the lid to the paint can. Harper all but scowled at me when she saw that I’m painting the main living area Oatmeal. Which is basically white, which is basically a prison, she claimed. What she doesn’t know is that I’ll let her pick a color for an accent wall in the living room. Maybe.

A car door slams as I pour the paint into the tray, and I rack my brain to see who would be stopping by.

My family has stopped by periodically to see the updates. It’s Tuesday, so Harper will be bringing her goats their weekly case of bananas, but she usually stays at the main house for dinner and to catch up with the fam.

I give it another minute, waiting to see if I hear feet coming up the front steps, and when I don’t, I move a few paces to the bay window, my eyes squinting at the car in the drive that I don’t recognize.

A small silver car with an Illinois license plate sits in the driveway, no driver inside, but it’s when I move to look at the person standing by the front porch that my heart gets caught in my throat.

“Mags?” I rasp, dropping the roller to the floor and running through the house.

I whip open the front door, and the frigid evening air slaps me in the face. I don’t even bother to close it behind me as I cross the porch and take the front steps two at a time. “Mags?” I call, rushing toward her and reaching my arms out to go grip her shoulders.

“Baby, what … what? What’s going on? Why are you here?” I look down at her feet, making sure she isn’t wearing another walking boot, but all I see are sweatpants tucked into fuzzy winter boots. “Baby?” I ask again, shaking her shoulders.

“Lukas, what am I looking at?” Her eyes are looking past me, toward the house, pupils blown wide, and an almost terrified expression on her face, disbelief, maybe.

I don’t break my gaze from her, and I take in her rumpled clothing, her hair that’s twisted in a top knot on her head, the pink lining the rims of her lids, and her bloodshot eyes. She looks exhausted, confused, worn down. I take a step forward, wanting to pull her into my arms and have her spill every thought from her beautiful mind, but when I take that next step, her hands come up, and her palms gently press on my abs to stop me.

I freeze, unsure if she’s angry, sad, confused, likely all of the above, so I place my hands over her palms, squeezing. “It’s our house.”

Her lips twitch, barely, gaze still watery. “It doesn’t look like our house anymore.”

The tension is killing me, and I want to take her inside and show her around, but I need to know why she’s here. Why isn’t she in Paris right now? “Mags, what happened? What … how come you’re here?”

She gently pulls her hands from mine, moving past me to take the path up to the front steps. The smooth brick that lines the path is currently covered with snow, and she takes light but sure steps, ensuring she doesn’t fall until she reaches the front stoop.

She takes the first stair, moving slowly, tentatively, and when she reaches the top, she turns to spin, looking back at me much like she did that summer after high school, the last time we were here together.

Her body is taught, stiff, as she stares back at me. Then she spins, looking at the sun that’s threatening to lower into the sky.

It’s the view she has always loved.

She then turns toward the front door that’s still hanging half open. The warm glow from the inside lights illuminates her skin as she thinks, and then she reaches a hand out, palm barely touching the wood as she presses forward. That’s when my feet take motion, and I jog up the path, taking the steps in one stride and meeting her at the front door. I wrap a hand around her stomach, pulling her so my chest presses to her back. My lips touch the top of her head, and she sinks into me the slightest amount.