Page 167 of The Unwilling Bride
"Margot shouldn’t have asked you that question. I’m sorry." I lead her down the stairs.
"At her age, she’s allowed."
"Don’t let her hear you." I snort.
"Nothing can stand between a grandparent and the grandchild they’re impatient to spoil."
I stop and look at her in surprise. "Margot has a full life. She’s a working chairperson of the Hamilton group. She goes into the office every day. She’s on the boards of various trusts and charities; she’s?—"
“Lonely.” My wife smiles.
It's that secret smile women get when they've worked something out that seems perfectly obvious to them and leaves the rest of us men scrambling to catch up.
"I’ll take your word for it." I pause on the first-floor landing and turn to her. "Want to see my childhood room?"
Her face lights up. "You grew up in this house?"
"We spent a big portion of our lives here. Whenever our parentsneeded some time off, they’d drop us off here. Geoffrey, the butler, and the staff loved having us around. Each of us had a room here."
"I’d love to see it."
My heart lightens when I see her excitement. Only when I push the door open and guide her into the room, do I realize I’ve never showed this space to a girl…or a woman. Many of my brothers sneaked in girlfriends once they were older, but me? I preferred to spend time reading. Or working out. But showing my wife this part of my life feels right.
She heads inside and looks around. I see it through her eyes. The single bed with the desk and chair next to it.
One wall is dominated by an overflowing bookshelf.
The others are crowded with posters of Commando, Top Gun, NSYNC, a minimalist Union Jack, a handwritten workout schedule with pull-up counts and run counts, and a torn page from a food magazine with a recipe.
I look up and spot the pull-up bar over the doorway Tristan had installed for me.
Yeah. He was there for me, always. A guiding hand. Never coming on too strong. I love my parents. But whenever I needed a sounding board, it was Tristan I turned to.
She heads to the desk, touches the models of a Black Hawk helicopter, a fighter jet, and of various superheroes who crowd the surface of the desk.
"Spiderman?" She waves the figure at me.
"When I was four years old, I lived and slept in a Spiderman costume. It got so dirty and smelly, Tristan had to bribe me into taking it off."
"What was the bribe?"
"Eating sushi." I laugh at the recollection.
She turns to me. "He bribed you with sushi? When you were four?”
"I loved food, even then. Eating sushi seemed on par with Spiderman."
I head to the corner of the room and bump my fist against the boxing gloves hanging on a hook. Then toe the resistance bands on the floor next to it.
She runs her fingers over the posters, then turns to me. "Clearly, you were attracted to both the services and food."
"I got to reinvent myself and do both." I shrug a shoulder. "I’m thankful for that."
"Despite the PTSD?"
"Despite the PTSD." I’d do it all over again. And this time, find a way to save my team. Feeling the coldness in my chest, I slide my fingers into my pocket and brush against the hair tie I have there. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Some of the tension recedes. I breathe out in relief.
