Me, is what I want to say. Us. Or the lack of us.
He sounds utterly conversational and unaffected when he says, “See, here’s the thing. As I’ve told Jonah countless times, I get to deal with my shit the way I want to. But I’m willing to make a deal with you. You go back to Zthane and tell them you refuse to ever allow yourself to be bait, including on this mission, and I’ll find a different way to deal with the fact that you’re apparently still going to marry my fucking brother, even after what went down between us in Costa Rica.”
I don’t quite know which part of that to attack first, so I start with, “That’s blackmail.”
“Is it?” He leans forward. “I see it more as compromise.”
I’m infuriated. “You know why I need to go on this mission.”
“Actually, I do not.”
“People are dying.”
“As could you.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and blow out a sigh. I can see where he’s coming from; I’d feel the same way if the situation were reversed. But the stakes are too high here. So I change tactics. I soften my voice and tell him another truth, this one much tougher to admit, even though he must be aware of it. “It hurts me, knowing you are doing this to yourself.”
It takes a beat, but he follows up with, “It hurts me every single time my brother puts his hands on you. Or you kiss him. Or, hell, even look at him. But as I’ve learned this last year, you don’t always get what you want, C.” He stands up. “Looks like you won’t be getting what you want today, either.”
With that, he leaves. And I’m left behind, wondering just what in the hell happened.
Jonah isn’t listening to me.
I don’t blame him. For the last five minutes, I’ve been babbling about floral arrangements for the wedding I haven’t really prepared for, due to an insane work schedule, not to mention should be postponing. It isn’t fair to continue on, not when I’m so confused. Not when I cheated on him and haven’t had the guts to tell him the truth. But, better right now to talk about flowers than the mission I’ve yet to tell him about. Today is supposed to be a good day. I’ve already fought with Kellan over this. I don’t want to fight with Jonah, too. I poke at his ribs. “Earth to Jonah?”
His eyes widen apologetically as they refocus on me. “Sorry. You were saying?”
We’re at a flower shop in downtown Annar, where hundreds of buckets filled with flowers rest underneath striped awnings. It seems very Parisian to me, even though most of these blooms would never grace the Human plane. “I was asking if you preferred peonies or daisies. Or if you thought we ought to go ahead and get something truly exotic, like these Goblin roses.” Which look nothing like any rose I’ve ever seen before, which is saying something as a daughter of a Nymph.
I already know his answer before he says it. Whatever you like best, he’ll tell me. Pick what will make you happy. Jonah would be content if we got Karl to download some random marriage license off the Internet and held the ceremony in our living room.
If only I could guarantee such a reaction to the mission.
“Whatever you like best,” he says to me, pressing a kiss against my temple. “Pick what’ll make you happy.”
I exhale a laugh. He is so predictable.
And . . . once more focused on something other than the flowers in front of us. I twist around and pan the area to discover what’s captured his attention. A café half-filled with coffee drinkers, a restaurant not opened for dinner yet, a couple alternating between shouting at each other and groping, and a Dwarven jewelry stand. Does he know anyone over there?
Wait.
Could he . . .?
For a year now, every time we walk by one of the Dwarven jewelry carts littered throughout Annar, I hold my breath and pray that this’ll be the one where we will find Jonah’s ring. The one that matches the one on my left hand. The one that gives us the go to full-steam ahead with our future.
The one that proves I’ve made the right choice.
Jonah’s played it off, saying ring or no, our marriage plans are secure, but part of me clings to the mythology surrounding the rings. His and my ring, matched perfectly, just like the two people who share a Connection.
It’s fairy tale-ish, if only fairy tales were absolute and controlled by Fate.
Jonah rocks back on his heels, his fingers flexing next to his sides. I watch him quietly, hardly daring to breathe. He’s focused on the jewelry stand. I’m positive of it.
I’ve counted to twenty in my head when he turns back toward me. My fingers connect with his. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I just . . .” His free hand tugs through the long pieces of hair framing his face. “Do you feel weird at all?”