“I was just thinking, we don’t need to do that with Jack and Grace, because they’ve probably inherited your infallible innate sense of direction. I mean, here we are in the middle of Nigeria—”
“We’re in the south of Nigeria. Not the middle.”
I ignored him and continued to speak. “. . . and you know exactly where we are.”
“Sarcasm. Nice. Real nice.”
“Says the Supreme Ruler of Sarcasm Land.”
“I’m not the Supreme Ruler of Sarcasm Land, Fe. I’m the Earl of Cynicismshire,” he countered flatly.
A short laugh burst forth from my chest, followed by more laughter—a lot more laughter. I held my stomach. It was real this time, not driven by panic. And it was cathartic. Greg must’ve been able to tell the difference because he cracked a smile.
Seeing his crooked grin, reluctant but genuine, splintered the wall I’d built around my emotions in order make it through the last few days. Raw feeling—latent regret, fear, sorrow, hope—swelled within me, my eyes burned with what would soon be a tidal wave of tears.
“I love you, Greg,” I said, already crying. “I love you so much. You can’t—”
“Shhh, shhh, darling. We’ll get through this.” He reached out to me again, grasping my hand and squeezing.
I brought it to my lips and kissed his knuckles, holding on to him and endeavoring to speak through sobs. “When we get home, I’m going to kill you. You don’t know-you don’t know . . .”
He grinned again, wider this time, and chuckled. “I think I have some idea.”
“You lied to me.” I glared at him, allowing the accusation to carry the entirety of my fear and rage. I cried against his hand, holding it with all my strength. I’m sure my grip was verging on painful, but I couldn’t let go.
His grin fell away, his eyes round and sober, and he nodded. “I did. I lied to you. But you must know I had good reasons.”
I warred with myself, not knowing how to feel or what to do next. Part of me wanted to scream and yell and rant and rave. Another part wanted to curl into a ball and cry forever. And still another part just wanted yoga pants and an ice-cream sandwich.
When I couldn’t stop crying after several minutes, Greg pulled the Jeep over and drove several feet into the jungle. With soothing sounds, he coaxed his hand out of my grip and unfastened my seatbelt. He lifted and pulled me onto his lap. I straddled his hips and he wrapped me in his arms.
I burrowed against his neck and held him, breathing him in, wanting to be closer. I frantically kissed his bearded jaw, his temple, his fuzzy cheek, his lips. He allowed me to kiss him, but I could tell he was holding himself back. Greg smoothed his hands up and down my back, making gentle promises.
You’re safe. I’m safe. I’ve got you. I love you. Everything is okay. We’re okay.
Two thoughts were on repeat in my head, intrinsically linked, one causing the other: You lied to me. You almost died.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it, wretched images flashed behind my eyes, worst-case scenarios. What if I’d been too late? What if he’d been unconscious? What if . . .
After a good ten minutes of crying, and unable to sort through the tangled mess of thoughts and emotions—because apparently my husband always left me with epic messes to clean up—I collapsed against his chest, spent.
My breath hitched at intervals, caught on sobs like a child after a prolonged cry, and my mind was blank. But I was thirsty.
Apropos of nothing, I thought and said, “I just drank all that water, and now it’s coming out of my eyes.”
This comment made him laugh in earnest—though it sounded strained—and squeeze me again. “We have more water, and you should drink it. You also need to eat.”
“You have food?” My voice was scratchy and nasally, and my brain was in a fog. “And where did you get this Jeep? And when did you take a shower?”
“I’ll tell you everything.” He kissed my cheek, lifted my fingers to his lips, and brushed a kiss on the back of my hand. His eyes were rimmed with traces of anxiety and I knew he didn’t like that we were sitting in a car, easy targets for anyone who might pass by. “When we get to the safe house and you’ve rested properly. But right now, you need to eat, and we need to move.”
“Safe house? You have a safe house in Nigeria?”
“It’s near the border of Cameroon and Nigeria, but yes. Of course I have a safe house.”
I wrinkled my stuffed nose, completely confused. “Why do you have a safe house?”
“Darling, I went to high school in Compton. I spent three years in the Marines. My wife was a CIA field agent. We are the paranoid sort who have safe houses. Just accept it.”
“Fine. I accept its existence. But we can’t go to the safe house. Quinn, Dan, and Marie are in Lagos. They’re negotiating your ransom. What do you think will happen to them when it turns out that you—just you and none of the other hostages—have escaped?”
Greg scowled at the road, grumbled something I couldn’t hear.