Conversations in Solitaire I: Casey
Four years. That's how long we've been together. Four years of sitting up nights, waiting for a phone call to shatter the ungodly hours of darkness. Four years of expecting the worst and giving thanks when it doesn't come to pass.
I've sat in emergency rooms, recovery rooms, court rooms. Distracted him when he was in pain, goaded him when he wanted to quit therapy. Gunshots, broken bones, car wrecks. . . In another four, I'll likely have a medical degree in my own right. In short, I've become an expert in piecing together the man I love.
There've been good times. Trips to the mountains to ski; just him and me curled up in front of the lodge fire. Weekends helping out around Chris' ranch or Josiah's charities. Hockey games with Buck and Vin. He completes me when he's there; and tears my soul out when he leaves.
For a two full years now, I've worn his ring. We haven't made it official yet and added that gold band to the diamond he blew three months salary on. There isn't any need, we'll always have next year to settle down. Or so he says. It's easy for him to say that; he's never the one waiting.
"I can't be a widow before I'm a bride." Oh God, I said it. Shut up! I want to scream at myself, Shut up! "If you walk out that door, it's over."
There. . . I said it. The words are out there, between us now. Nothing can take them back. It's how I feel. I shouldn't have to apologize for that. Right? So why do I feel like I've just asked him to turn his back on his family?
His eyes are sad when he turns to me; the kevlar vest that protects the most precious thing in my world slung over one arm, his hand still on the doorknob. It hits me then; I have asked to him to do just that.
"That's not fair," he starts softly.
He's right. It's not fair. We both know it.
"I know," I counter, not backing down for once. His eyes are older than when we first met. The innocence we shared has been stolen from him by more than a mere four years. I wonder how long before he is old.
"I love you. You know I love you," he tries again, still not abandoning the door.
"I do," I answer, somehow choking the words past the knot in my throat. "But I can't keep doing this. I can't keep answering the phone expecting to hear Buck telling me that something's happened to you. If you leave, don't bother coming back." I turn away from him. I can't bear to watch him walk out of my life.
"Casey, I'm sorry," he says, so softly I hear the vibration more than the words.
The door closes as the first tear slips silently down my cheek to splash against the solitaire reminder of promises I should have never asked.
The End
Continues in Conversations in Solitaire
II: Buck