Filed to story: The Things We Leave Unfinished Novel Free
She shook her head, her lips pursing as she watched the other climbers.
Her refusal stung. It shouldn’t have, and I knew it, but it still did. “Want to hike up the rest of the trail?”
Her head snapped my way in surprise. “You can climb. I’m happy to watch.”
“I didn’t come up here for me.” I’d brought her in hopes that the fresh air would help clear out whatever had taken her down earlier.
She winced. “I’d still hate to make you miss out. Go ahead. I’m fine.” She nodded, plastering on a smile so fake, it was almost comical.
“I’d rather hike with you. Come on.” I nodded back toward the trail and slipped my pack over my shoulders.
“You’re sure?” She narrowed her eyes.
“Absolutely.”
“It’s not you.” She sucked in a breath, then glanced back up at the rock wall. “The last man who promised to keep me safe screwed his lead and dropped me on my ass,” she said softly. “But I’m sure you already know that. Everyone knows that.”
If I’d been the serial killer she’d joked about, Damian Ellsworth would have been my first victim.
“And after today…” She shook her head, the edges of her mouth trembling. “Today just isn’t a good day for the whole trust fall thing. So let’s get going.” She forced another smile, then took off up the trail.
She doesn’t trust you. I swore under my breath as I realized that was the same reason she wouldn’t let me finish the book how I wanted.
It all came down to trust.
I steadied myself before striding after her, cursing at the irony. I’d spent the majority of my life making sure I lived by my word, and now it was being questioned by a woman so jaded even I couldn’t dig out of the hole someone else had dug.
Guess it was good that I was an expert climber.
“So how long are you here for?” she asked as we continued the hike.
“Until I finish the book.” My lungs burned as we pushed up the trail. “And, since my deadline is in two and a half months, I’d guess I’ll be here about that long.”
“What? Really?”
“Really.”
Two little lines appeared between her brows. “So where are you staying?”
“I rented a little place down the road,” I replied, a smug smile quirking at my lips.
“Oh?”
“Yep. It’s called Grantham Cottage.”
She stopped in the middle of the trail, so I turned around and kept walking backward, savoring the surprise and horror on her face. “Like I said, hang up on me now, neighbor.”
The look on her face made the hassle of tracking down a rental entirely worth it.
November 1940
Kirton-in-Lindsey
It was different being surrounded by other Americans now that Jameson was in the 71st Eagle Squadron. Almost like being back home, except they weren’t anywhere near it.
“They’re all so young,” Howard muttered as they watched the new recruits at their first beer call. It was an English tradition he’d been all too glad to keep, seeing as it wasn’t just about the camaraderie. This was where they had it out when disputes needed to be settled.
“Most of them are the same age we are,” Andy countered, leaning back against the walls of their newly acquired rest room. They’d been lucky enough to fall in on a collection of armchairs to mix in with the harsh wicker ones that sat scattered around the space, but the three of them stood apart in more than the physical sense.
“Not really,” Jameson said. “Not in the way that matters.” The three of them had seen combat. War was no longer something romantic, something to glorify. These new kids were just that, kids. They’d all been freshly delivered via Canada, having smuggled themselves out of the States in hopes of joining The Eagles.
Overnight, those-like Jameson-who had considered themselves rookies throughout the Battle of Britain were now the veterans. The new Americans were all pilots, but most of them were commercial. They’d flown supplies or even people. They’d dusted crops. They’d showboated in front of crowds.
They’d never shot another man out of the sky.
There were a few who had, and they’d already lost one back to 64 squadron. Not that Jameson blamed him. They’d been plucked from daily missions and tossed into training now for six weeks, and the frustration over their uselessness was mounting. They were needed in the sky.
This was bullshit.
“Maybe Art was right to leave,” Howard grumbled before draining half his beer.
“You read my mind.” Jameson looked down at his full glass. It wasn’t as satisfying as it had been when they’d done this after a mission. It felt…fake, like they were playing at being fighter pilots.
At least the unit had been moved to Kirton-in-Lindsey last week. That was one step closer to being operational. Unfortunately, they’d transferred the Buffaloes with them.
The American aircraft didn’t perform well at high altitude, and that was the least of its problems. The engine overheated regularly, the cockpit controls weren’t dependable, and it lacked the armament they’d come to depend on. Sure, the new men liked the open, airy cockpit, but they’d never flown a Spitfire.
Jameson missed his Spitfire almost as much as he missed Scarlett.
God, he missed Scarlett. It had been nearly two months since he’d seen her, and he was slowly going out of his mind. If not for the unit move, he would have made the trip to Middle Wallop already-he was that desperate to look into those blue eyes. She’d spent her October leave with her parents, which was understandable, but according to her letter, it hadn’t gone well. He hated the pressure that loving him put her under. It wasn’t fair that she was forced to choose between her family and Jameson, but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit his happiness at being the one chosen.
Without flying combat missions, he had more downtime, which meant she was never far from his mind. His letters increased from twice a week to three times, and sometimes even four. He wrote the letters as though he were talking to her, as though she were there with him, hearing how much he missed her. How much he longed for her. He told her stories from his childhood and did his best to paint a picture of life in his tiny hometown.
Even now he smiled, just thinking about taking her to Poplar Grove. His mother would love her. Scarlett always said exactly what she meant. She never minced words or played games. She wasn’t coy or flirtatious, either. She guarded her emotions the same way she protected her sister-someone was only given access once they’d proven their worth.
Sometimes he felt like he was still proving his.
“Hey, Stanton!” One of the men called over with a distinctly Boston accent. “Is it true you’ve got an English sweetie?”
“It is.” Jameson’s grip tightened on his glass.
“Well, where do you find one?” He lifted his eyebrows, and some of the new guys laughed.