Soon, he would have to tell her the truth and face her disgust or keep his shameful secret and break her heart with a Discard. Whatever path he chose, it was going to destroy him.
Chapter Seventeen
Alys tasted the special dish she had cooked for Swift to see if something was wrong with the seasoning. She had been sure to follow his mother’s recipe exactly. It tasted delicious, but he picked at it, poking his fork into the rice and poultry casserole without eating much of it. He hadn’t eaten any bread yet either or the vegetables she had so carefully steamed. “Is something wrong with dinner?”
“What?” Swift glanced up from his plate. “No? It’s fine.”
Alys didn’t believe that for a second. “You’re not eating anything, and your mother told me this was your favorite dish.”
“It is my favorite dish,” he assured her. “And it tastes delicious.”
“But?” She didn’t understand what was happening. After their wild lovemaking, he had gone quiet in the shower and seemed to be trapped in troubled thoughts. “Did something happen on the mission?”
“You know I can’t talk about that.” He stabbed his fork into a few slices of squash and shoved them into his mouth.
“I’m sorry.” She dropped her gaze to her plate and focused on eating. The all too familiar sensation of walking on eggshells returned. How many nights had she spent anxious like this, waiting for her father to explode in anger over some perceived slight? How many nights had she spent cleaning up broken dishes and flung food?
“No, I’m sorry.” Swift set down his fork and reached for her hand. “You made this delicious dinner, and you served it on your new dishes. It is delicious, Alys.”
“If you’re not hungry, we can put it away and have it tomorrow. Your mother says it keeps well and reheats nicely.” She desperately wanted back the smiling Swift who had greeted her earlier. “I’m sure you’re tired after your mission. I shouldn’t have been so demanding of your time.”
“No, Alys. You have every right to demand my time. You’re my—.” He stopped suddenly, and a look of panic crossed his face. He gulped, and she wondered if he was about to be sick. He stood abruptly, rattling the table. “I’m sorry. I need to—.” He cut himself off again. “I have to go.”
“Go? Where?” She stood, mirroring his movements toward the door of their apartment. “Swift? What’s wrong? Swift? Swift!”
She called after him, but he didn’t answer. He strode right out the door without looking back. Alone and confused, she remained rooted to the spot for a few minutes, expecting him to come right back and apologize. When he didn’t, she returned to the table and sat. What is going on with him?
With mechanical movements, she finished her dinner and then tidied up the kitchen and dining table. She left dessert untouched in the refrigerator and stacked containers with leftovers on the next shelf. She started the dishwashing cycle and then removed the laundry she had left in the dryer. It didn’t take long to finish her chores for the day, and she was left feeling even more bewildered and alone.
Where did he go? Is he coming back? What did I do wrong?
Worried he might be sick, she considered going to the med bay to see if he had checked himself in for treatment. She had no idea what he had been exposed to on the mission or what horrors he had witnessed. One of the chapters in the books assigned to new wives talked about something called post-traumatic stress disorder. Was that what he was experiencing? A mental health crisis?
Do I contact his superiors? She had a list on her tablet and instructions on how and when to contact them.
But what if I’m wrong and he’s just out clearing his head? He’ll be embarrassed and upset if he finds out I called his boss and made a big fuss.
Alys decided she would wait for him to return. She turned down the lights and took up a cozy spot in her favorite chair. She picked up the basket of sewing notions Swift’s mother had sent as a gift. It had been delivered two mornings earlier from the gift shops on the exchange floor. The threads were better quality than any she had ever used, and the embroidery needles were so fine and sharp.
She had sketched out a design, starting first with flowers and a fence, and before long, she realized she was drawing the rough shape of her home. As many terrible memories as she had of the place, she had many good ones, too. Memories of her siblings, of her mother, of smiles and laughter. Summer days on the swings hanging from the big tree out back. Spring mornings gathering her mother’s favorite flowers from the garden to decorate the table. Fall afternoons picking apples and chasing the little ones through the leaves. Snowy nights huddled around the great hearth, listening to her older brothers read from the Good Book.
Whether it was from the stress of Swift storming out or homesickness, she began to cry. The tears fell onto the white embroidery fabric pulled taut in the wooden hoops, soaking the thin strands of thread she had already stitched. She had been feeling more emotional lately, probably because Swift had been gone and she was still struggling to acclimate. She wasn’t prone to bouts of emotional crying, but it felt rather good to let it all out tonight.
Through her tears, she back stitched the outline of a tree and branches in four strands of brown before switching to three stands of green for the leaves. She used a fishbone stitch to create small veins in the leaves and then used a darker shade of green thread and a satin stitch to fill in each leaf. The work was tedious and required her concentration which kept her from dwelling on upsetting thoughts.
A long time later, after she had nearly finished the tree’s canopy, the door opened and closed. She kept her gaze glued to her embroidery, not trusting herself if she looked at Swift. She feared she would burst into tears again, and she didn’t want to further stress him out with her emotions. Instead, she kept sewing and waited for him to make the first move.
He seemed uncertain and stood on the periphery of their living room for a minute or so. Eventually, he walked around the larger couch and sat on the coffee table directly in front of her. Like so much of the furniture in their new home, the table was sturdy and solid and bore his weight easily. Swift sighed and lowered his head into his hands. He stayed that way, bent forward and quiet for a while, as if trying to marshal his thoughts.
“You know I wasn’t a good man.” It wasn’t a question. “You know about how I behaved toward Ella and how I decided to change.”
Fear pooled in the pit of her stomach. She set aside her embroidery and focused only on Swift. “I do.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. “Do you remember what I told you about trading time with a mate for favors or privileges?”
Alys swallowed hard as her heart began to race in a panic. “Yes.”
“I told you I had bought back all those favors I had traded after the mess with Ella.”
“You did,” she said, her voice strained with trepidation.
“Well, I forgot one,” Swift finally confessed. “I forgot about a trade with a battle engineer named Shear. He’s been out of this sector for so long that he slipped my mind.”
“But?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Swift lifted his ashamed gaze and met her worried one. “He’s back, and he’s refusing to cancel or change the trade. He says we had an agreement, and he expects me to honor it.”