The Things We Leave Unfinished

by Yarros, Rebecca

  He’d landed without an engine before. It wasn’t pretty, but he could do it again. The only question was if they were still above land or the sea. Land would be better. Land, he could handle.

  Sure, he might get taken as a POW, but he’d grown up in the mountains and his evasion skills were top-notch.

  “Red lead, where are you?” Howard called over the radio.

  The fuel gauge hit empty, and the engine sputtered, dying.

  The world went horrifyingly quiet as Jameson fell from the fight into the clouds below, the sound of rushing wind replacing the roar of his engine.

  Calm. Stay calm, he told himself as his beautiful Spitfire transformed into a glider. Down, down, down. He could only steer now—just along for the ride.

  “Blue lead, I’m in the clouds.” His stomach bottomed out as his visibility turned to shit. “Going down.”

  “Jameson!” Howard shouted.

  Jameson glanced at the blank space where the picture had been. Scarlett. The love of his life. His reason for existence. For Scarlett, he would survive, no matter what lay beneath the clouds. He’d make it through for them—Scarlett and William.

  He braced.

  “Howard, tell Scarlett I love her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Noah

  Scarlett, my Scarlett,

  Marry me. Please have mercy on me and be my wife. Days here are long, but the nights are longer. That’s when I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s odd to be surrounded by Americans now, to hear familiar phrases and accents when all I long for is the sound of your voice. Tell me you can get leave soon. I have to see you. Please meet me in London next month. We’ll get separate rooms. I don’t care where we sleep as long as I get to see you. I’m dying here, Scarlett. I need you.

  Was it coincidence? Proof? Did it even matter? I clicked among the four documents my lawyers had sent over an hour ago. Three death certificates. One marriage license.

  My phone vibrated on the desk and my gaze snapped to the screen. Adrienne.

  I hit the decline button and cursed my asinine hopes for jumping at every call. Of course it wasn’t Georgia, but there I was, hoping anyway.

  My chest ached at the thought of her, and I rubbed the spot over the physical organ like it would help ease the pain. It didn’t. I missed everything about Georgia. Not just the physical things like holding her or seeing her smile, either. I missed talking to her, hearing her perspective—which was always different from mine. I missed the way her voice charged with excitement when she talked about the work with the foundation, the way the light had come back into her eyes as she got her feet under her and started to rebuild her life.

  I wanted to be a part of that life more than I wanted my next two contracts.

  Adrienne called back.

  I declined.

  My little sister had stayed by my side while I packed my luggage in the small bedroom at Grantham Cottage. We’d taken the same flight back to New York, not that I remembered much of it through the haze of heartbreak and my own self-loathing screaming in my ears. Despite her best efforts to see me home, we’d parted ways at the airport, and I’d ignored the rest of the world ever since.

  Unfortunately, the world wasn’t ignoring me.

  Adrienne’s name flashed across my screen again, and a stab of worry broke through. What if she’s in trouble? I swiped, answering the call, which automatically transferred into my Bluetooth headphones. “Is something wrong with Mom?” My voice was gruff, thick from disuse.

  “No,” she answered.

  “The kids?”

  “No. Now, if you—”

  “Mason?”

  “Everyone is fine but you, Noah,” she said with a sigh.

  I hung up and went back to staring at my computer. The images attached to the email were grainy—clearly scanned copies of the originals—and had taken me six days and a call to my lawyers to receive.

  Adrienne called again.

  Why the hell couldn’t everyone just leave me alone? Licking my wounds wasn’t a spectator sport.

  “What?” I snarled, answering it when I really wanted to chuck the damned thing out the window.

  “Open your front door, jerk face,” she snapped and hung up.

  I drummed my fingers on the desk, wishing it was polished cherry and not contemporary glass and I was about nine thousand feet higher and sixteen hundred miles away. Then I took a deep breath, pushed my chair back, and walked to the front door of my apartment, throwing it open.

  Adrienne stood at the threshold, her coat buttoned up to her chin, juggling a carrier tray with two cups of coffee and her cell phone in the other hand, her mouth moving quickly as she pushed her way past me into the apartment.

  I jerked my headphones off, letting them hang around my neck as I shut the door.

  “—the least you could do is tell me you’re alive!” I caught the tail end of her lecture.

  “I’m alive.”

  “Apparently. I’ve been out there knocking for at least ten minutes, Noah.” She arched a brow.

  “Sorry. Noise-canceling headphones.” I pointed to the set of Bose around my neck and headed back to the office. “I’m in the middle of some research.”

  “You’re in the middle of wallowing,” she countered, following me. “Whoa,” she murmured as I sank into my office chair. “I thought the Stanton book was done?” She motioned to the pile of Scarlett’s books that littered the coffee table in front of the couch.

  “It is. As you well know.” Hence why I was in the middle of Manhattan and not Poplar Grove.

  “You look like shit.” She pushed aside two manila files and set the drink carrier on the space she’d cleared. “Have some caffeine.”

  “Coffee isn’t going to fix this.” I tossed my headphones onto a pile of research and leaned back in my chair. “But thank you.”

  “It’s been eight days, Noah.” She unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it, draping it across the chair she’d commandeered across from my desk.

  “And?” Eight excruciating days and sleepless nights. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t eat, couldn’t stop wondering what was going through Georgia’s head.

  “And enough wallowing!” She took a cup from the carrier and leaned back, her posture so much like mine that it was almost laughable. “This isn’t you.”

  “I’m not exactly at my best.” My eyes narrowed. “And aren’t you supposed to be the compassionate one in the family?”

  “Only because the role of stubborn asshole was already taken.” She sipped her coffee.

  The corners of my mouth lifted.

  “Well, look at that, he lives.” She saluted me with the cup.

  “Not without her,” I said quietly, glancing at the Manhattan skyline. Whatever this was, it wasn’t living. Existing, maybe, but not living. “You know, I used to think the term falling in love was an oxymoron. It should be rising, right? Love is supposed to make you feel like you’re on top of the world. But maybe that phrase is so popular because actually making it work is rare. Everyone else just crashes at the end of it.”

  “It’s not over, Noah.” Adrienne’s face softened. “I’ve seen you two together. The way she looked at you… There’s just no way this is how it ends.”

  “If you’d seen the way she looked at me in that office, you might think differently. I really hurt her,” I countered quietly. “And I promised I wouldn’t.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes. Even you. But holing up in your apartment and burying yourself in whatever this is”—she motioned to the disaster zone of my desk—“isn’t going to win her back.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Please, do tell me more about what I should be doing to win back the woman I blatantly, deliberately lied to for weeks.”

  “Well, when you put it that way.” Her nose wrinkled. “At
least you didn’t cheat on her like her ex?”

  “I’m not sure arguing that a liar is better than a cheater is really the way to go on this one.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I used my best weapon—words—and played with semantics to get what I wanted, and it bit me in the ass, plain and simple. There’s no coming back from that with her.”

  “So you’re saying she’s a Darcy?” Adrienne tilted her head in thought.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You know…her good opinion once lost is lost forever.” She shrugged. “Pride and Prejudice? Jane Austen?”

  “I know who wrote Pride and Prejudice, and I’d argue that Georgia is one of the most forgiving people I know.” She’d given her mother chance after chance.

  “Good, then fix this.” She nodded. “You’re right. Love—the good, the real, the life-changing—is rare. You have to fight for it, Noah. I know you’ve never had to before, that women have always come easily to you, but it’s because you never cared enough to try to keep someone around before.”

  “Fair point.” This was all new territory for me.

  “You live in a world where you can script everything someone says and one grand gesture makes everything instantly better, but the truth is that relationships are work in the real world. We all screw up. We all say something we regret or do the wrong thing for the right reasons. You’re not the first guy who might need a good grovel.”

  “Tell me honestly, have you been saving this speech?” I leaned across the desk and took my coffee from the carrier.

  “For years,” she admitted with a grin. “How did I do?”

  “Five stars.” I gave her a thumbs-up, then downed the offered caffeine.

  “Excellent. Time to rejoin humanity, Noah. Get your hair cut, shave, and please, for the love of God, take a shower because it smells like funk and takeout in here.”

  I gave my shoulder a discreet sniff and couldn’t argue. Instead, I glanced at the invitation Adam had messengered over a couple of days ago. As much as I hated it, there was one other person who might be able to answer the question that had been eating away at me for the last couple of months. The question Georgia had never asked Scarlett.

  “My job here is done.” Adrienne stood and slipped her coat on.

  “Rejoin humanity, huh?”

  “Yep.” She nodded, fastening her buttons.

  “Want to be my plus one?” I picked up the invitation and handed it to her.

  “These things are so boring,” she groaned, but read it over.

  “This one won’t be. Paige Parker is a major donor.” I lifted my brows. “I’ll bet you anything Damian Ellsworth will be there.”

  Adrienne’s eyes flared with surprise, her gaze darting to mine, then narrowing. “Someone has to keep you out of trouble. I’m free that night. Pick me up at six.”

  “You always did like a good show.” I laughed.

  She scoffed and walked straight out of my office.

  I heard the front door shut just as the text alert went off on my phone.

  GEORGIA: I read both endings.

  My heart stopped as I watched three little dots scroll along the bottom of the message, indicating that she wasn’t done typing.

  GEORGIA: Go with the real one. You did a great job at portraying her grief, her struggle getting here, and her eventual happiness when she married Brian.

  My eyes slid shut against the tidal wave of pain that washed over me. Damn it. It wasn’t just the loss of my preferred ending, the one that Scarlett and Jameson deserved, but the knowledge that I’d failed to convince Georgia she could have that same happiness in her own life. I breathed through the pain and managed to type out a text that wasn’t a thousand apologies and a plea to take me back.

  NOAH: Are you sure? The happy one is better written.

  Because it had my heart and soul in it. It was the right one.

  GEORGIA: I’m sure. This one is trademark you. Don’t doubt your ability to rip someone’s heart out.

  Ouch. She was freezing over again, not that I blamed her. Hell, I’d caused it.

  NOAH: I love you, Georgia.

  She didn’t reply. I hadn’t expected her to.

  “I’ll prove it,” I said to myself, to her, to the world.

  Chapter Thirty

  May 1942

  Ipswich, England

  Clack. Clack. Clack. The sound of typing filled the kitchen as Scarlett broke the heart of the diplomat’s daughter.

  Her heart clenched, as if she could feel the very pain she was putting her character through. She reminded herself that she would put them back together once they had both grown enough to deserve the other. This wasn’t a permanent heartbreak. This was a lesson.

  The knocks at the door nearly blended into the monotonous clicks of the typewriter.

  Nearly.

  She glanced up at the clock. It was after eleven, but it was also the first night Constance was scheduled to be back from her honeymoon.

  Scarlett pushed away from the table and walked to the door barefoot, steeling her heart for whatever she might find on the other side. Who knew what that monster could have done to her little sister in the last week?

  She plastered a smile on her face, then opened the front door.

  She blinked in confusion.

  Howard stood on her doorstep, dressed in uniform, his face drawn and pale.

  He wasn’t the only one. Behind him stood other faces she recognized, all in uniform with eagles on their shoulders.

  Her stomach pitched, and she gripped the doorframe with white knuckles. How many? How many of them were here?

  “Scarlett,” Howie said, clearing his throat when his voice broke.

  How many?

  Her eyes jumped from one hat to the next as she counted. Eleven. There were eleven pilots outside her door.

  “Scarlett,” Howie tried again, but she could barely make out the words.

  Jameson usually flew in a formation of twelve. Three flights of four.

  Eleven of them were here.

  No. No. No. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t possible.

  “Don’t say it,” she whispered as gravity shifted beneath her feet. There would only be one reason they were here.

  Howie removed his hat, and the others followed suit.

  Oh God. This was really happening.

  She had the instant, overwhelming urge to slam the door in their faces, to un-open the letter, but the words were already written, weren’t they? There was nothing she could do to stop this from becoming what it already was.

  Her eyes squeezed shut, and she leaned in to the sturdy wood of the doorframe as her heart caught up to what her brain already knew. Jameson hadn’t come home.

  “Scarlett, I’m so sorry,” Howie said softly.

  She took a fortifying breath, then straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and opened her eyes. “Is he dead?”

  There were words she’d asked herself hundreds of times over the past two years. Words that haunted her brain, amplifying her worst fear every time he’d be late. Words that taunted her sanity while she’d been a plotter. Words she’d never before spoken aloud.

  “We don’t know.” Howard shook his head.

  “You don’t know?” Scarlett’s knees trembled, but she stayed standing. Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe there was hope.

  “He went down somewhere around the coast of the Netherlands. From what he said on the radio, and what some of us saw, he took a hit to the fuel tank.”

  Heads nodded, but there weren’t many eyes willing to meet hers.

  “So there’s a chance he’s alive.” She stated it as fact, and the fraying edges of her composure latched on to the possibility with a ferocity she hadn’t known she was capable of.

  “The cloud cover was thick,” Howard said.

 
; There was a mumble of agreement among the pilots.

  “None of you saw him crash?” she asked, a dull roar filling her ears.

  They all shook their heads.

  “He said he was going down.” Howie’s face crumpled for a heartbeat, but he sucked in a deep breath and pulled himself together. “He said to tell you that he loves you. That was the last thing he said before he disappeared.” He ended in a whisper.

  Her breaths came faster and faster, and it was all she could do to keep the panic at bay. He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be.

  It simply wasn’t possible to live in a world where he didn’t exist, and therefore he couldn’t be dead.

  “So what you’re saying is that my husband is missing.” Her voice seemed to come from outside her body, as though she wasn’t the one really speaking. In that moment, she felt cleaved in two. There was one Scarlett speaking, standing in her doorway, seeking any logical reason to believe Jameson might still be alive. The other Scarlett, the one who was gaining ground, screamed silently from the depths of her soul.

  “Scarlett?” a higher, familiar voice asked. The gathering of pilots parted as Constance walked up the pavement. “What’s going on?” She asked Scarlett first, but when no answer could pass her lips, Constance filled the doorway beside her and faced Howie. “What. Is. Going. On?”

  “Jameson’s missing.” His voice didn’t break this time, as though it had become easier to say.

  As though he was accepting it.

  “Where?” Constance asked, her arm encircling her sister’s waist to steady her.

  This wasn’t right. It was Scarlett’s job to comfort Constance, not the other way around.

  “We’re not a hundred percent sure,” Howie admitted. “It was right along the coast of the Netherlands. So we’re not sure if he managed to land, or…”

  Or if he went down in the sea, Scarlett finished in her own head.

  The odds of surviving the crash, and even being taken prisoner, were better than those of outlasting the cold of the sea.

  “You’re going to look, right?” Scarlett asked, her breath catching. “Tell me you’re going to search for him.” It wasn’t a request.