The General

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "My entire house could fit into your kitchen and dining room," he told me. Rightly so.

  "Yeah but... not an inch of all that square footage feels like a home. That sounds silly," I added, shaking my head at myself.

  "No, it doesn't. I get it. You didn't pick anything out. It's yours, but it isn't."

  "Exactly," I agreed, nodding.

  "Want a tour?" he asked, standing, satisfied with the crackling, dancing fire. Nothing like the superficial gas fireplace at my home.

  "Yes," I said, the word rushing, tumbling out clumsily, making a warm smile light his eyes. More green than brown in his house, even with the suit still on.

  "There's not a whole lot left to see," he admitted, moving in beside me, leading me down past the dining room to the small hallway with three doors. "This is the guest room. Or it would have been if I didn't take it over with boxes from both my parents and my grandparents after they passed, not ready to go through any of it, but not wanting to get rid of anything until I did," he said, pulling open a room full of - as he said - boxes. And trunks. And old luggage full almost to bursting.

  "This is the bathroom," he went on, opening the door situated between the guest and what had to be the master. "Only room with Sheetrock and paint," he added as he flicked on the light.

  And it was.

  The space was maybe half the size of my bathroom with a shower/tub combo, a small wooden vanity with a bowl sink, the bottom lined with soft-looking river rocks, and an old, oversized, gilded mirror that must have belonged to an older relative since it was the stuff of antique shops, not modern stores. The color he'd chosen for his walls was a creamy tan - warm, comforting. Like everything else in his home.

  "And this is the master," he said, leading me to the last room where I found another large fireplace, this one with red penny bricks. The bed he'd told me about his grandfather carving dominated the space, covered with brown sheets, a large tan comforter, and two spare blankets folded at the edge of the bed - one brown, one red and black plaid. The nightstands matched the bed in stain color, but looked more modern. Like maybe Smith had made them himself with glass tops and deep drawers. Lamps graced each one and across from the bed was the TV that was missing in the living room, situated under a dresser that Smith had likely made himself as well.

  "You can take the bed," he offered me, shocking me out of my awe. "I will take the couch," he added when my uncomprehending eyes met his.

  "Oh, no. I can take the couch. I'm the one imposing."

  "You're not imposing. And guests do not sleep on the couch," he informed me, shaking his head like the concept was ridiculous, like every movie and TV show about a friend crashing didn't involve making up the couch for them. "It's non-negotiable," he added in a softer voice, his eyes still warm.

  "If you insist," I agreed, looking down at my feet then back up at him. "Thank you for letting me stay. I can't explain how much I needed this. Without even realizing it."

  At the words, tears stung at my eyes, getting fought back with some quick blinking, not sure why I was feeling emotional about something as basic as civility.

  "Come on, let me get you something warm. You must be freezing still," he added, and I had to admit he was right about the house having a nip to it.

  It was likely a nuisance sometimes, but it made me think thoughts like cuddling under covers, no one wanting to get out of bed to brave the cold, preferring to share each other's warmth instead.

  "Do you have tea?" I asked, following him out, mildly worried my heels might leave ugly indents on his pretty floor, so I kicked out of them at the mouth of the hallway, setting them aside. "If not, I can do coffee if you have sugar."

  "I actually do keep tea around. Wet tea bags stop bleeding," he told me, going up into his cupboard to pull out a small glass airtight container full of teabags. "Tea is antiseptic too. Learned that from a buddy growing up who was diabetic, so he bleeded like a stuck pig if he got even a tiny cut. And since no kid wants to carry around little bottles of antiseptic and some of that staunching powder, his mom used to toss teabags into his pockets and backpack. Always worked. It was a habit from then on. I always kept them around."

  "That is actually really good to know," I said, nodding as he took out a pot, filling it with water, then setting it on the stove, pulling a French press out of the cabinet, filling it with his coffee, then waiting for the water to boil as well.

  "You alright?" he asked when he turned back to me, his hands going to his sides to grip the edge of the cabinet, his head ducked to the side slightly. "I know today was rough."

  "It wasn't too bad," I said, shaking my head. "Everyone wanted to cling to Bertram. I used to be their link to him. Today, they didn't need me. You were right about Maren," I told him. "I wish I had realized it sooner about her."

  "Well, you know now. Having a friend - a real one - will be good for you, I think. Especially one who already knows... how things were with you and your husband. So you won't feel awkward, feeling like you have to drop this bomb on her."

  "Do you have a lot of friends?" I asked, wondering what that might be like.

  "Aside from my coworkers?"

  "They count too, but, yes, aside from them."

  "I have a lot of connections in this town. Hailstorm, The Henchmen, Sawyer and his team of investigators. All people I'd share a drink with if I saw them out at the bar or something, but not exactly close friendships. I think when work eats up as much of your life as it does mine and my coworkers', you learn to make them your friends and family. Though, now with them starting to fall like flies, things are shifting a bit."

  "Fall like flies?" I asked, brows drawing together.

  "Everyone was single for the first few years. Well, Lincoln always has a girl, but women have always been in and out of his life. But the rest of us never took on anything serious. Then Quin met Aven. And Gunner met Sloane. Then Kai and Jules finally shacked up. Almost half the crew have their own little lives outside of work now. So things are... transitioning," he told me, turning back to pour my tea water and his own in the French press.

  "Do you miss the old way?"

  He paused at that, thinking it over. "Nah. I mean, it was nice for everyone to just be able to hang around no matter the time, not worry about who was going out of town and when. But I like this for them. They deserved some happiness. Some roots."

  "Them."

  "Hm?" he asked, pushing the plunger down into his coffee slowly.

  "Them. You said they deserve happiness. Just them? Not you?"

  He waved my teacup at me, beckoning me closer and the air felt thicker standing near him in his kitchen, the cup burning the palms of my hands as I cradled it. "I have a nice, quiet little life."

  "You do," I agreed. "But is this all you wanted? No women? Kids?"

  "Always wanted a woman and kids. Then I got my head a little fucked in the military, was sure it was never in the cards for me. Then work became everything."

  "Your head isn't fucked," I told him, watching as a smile positively split his face, making the edges of his eyes crinkle. "What?" I asked, feeling my cheeks heat even though I didn't know what I had said that was so amusing to him.

  "That's the first time you said Fucked in front of me," he told me. "I didn't think it was in your vocabulary."

  "In general, it isn't," I told him. "Appearances and all that. I was allowed a hell or damn every now and again, but anything worse was simply unbecoming." That was the word Bertram liked to use about me. Whenever he found something about me that he didn't like, he brought my attention to it and told me how unbecoming it was for a woman in my position in life.

  The list of unbecoming things included cursing, braids in my hair, any jewelry that cost less than five-hundred-dollars, short hemlines, low-cut bodices, a tan, any heels that weren't black or nude, my old accent, my tendency to call things great or cool or interesting, eyeliner, red lipstick, nails that were anything other than neutral, cutting my food with the knife in my right hand, the
way I used to cross my legs at the knee.

  Oh, the list was endless.

  I could hardly even remember them all.

  "Well, fuck appearances," he said, still grinning, his brow raising. Like he was daring me to say it again.

  Now that my attention was on it, I felt awkward, unpracticed at the word. When it came out it was high-pitched and squeaky, but I managed. I accepted the dare.

  "Fuck appearances," I told him, feeling my lips twitch up as well.

  "That'a girl," he said, clinking his mug to mine. "So, are you hungry?" he asked. And I was. I so, so was. Especially if he was cooking.

  "So long as whatever you make is half as good as that oatmeal."

  "The oatmeal?" he asked, snorting. "That hardly even counts as cooking. I'll pull some meat out of the freezer and see if anything fresh is still workable. The potatoes and carrots at least should be. It won't be fine dining, but you hate fine dining anyway."

  "I don't hate..."

  "Sweetheart, you claimed a fast food chicken sandwich was one of the best meals you've had in years. You hate fine dining," he told me, but his eyes were dancing. Like he found that quality endearing.

  "Can I help?" I asked, taking a sip of the tea.

  "Do you want to help?"

  "Yes."

  "Then yes."

  And, with Smith, it really was that simple. If I wanted to do something, he was fine with that. If I didn't want to, that was just as fine. It was such a strange, foreign, but wholly welcome realization. That no matter what I liked or didn't, no matter what I desired, or didn't, he was okay with it.

  Acceptance.

  It was something I had hardly ever gotten to know in my life. Not even from the people who were supposed to be closest to me. And here was this man, this man who - for all intents and purposes - I didn't know that well. And he was okay with me. Just as I was. Newfound belly pudge and unrefined palate and all.

  There was no shaking the light, floaty feeling in my heart as I shaved carrots, as I chopped them into pieces. He didn't even balk at me when they came out uneven, just scooped them into a waiting pan he had already filled with potatoes, onions, garlic, and oil.

  "It's gonna be a carby dinner," he told me after tossing out the greens that had wilted in the fridge in his absence.

  "I like carbs."

  "Good."

  With that, he took the pork chops out of the bowl of warm water where they'd been defrosting, mixed about half a dozen spices onto them, threw them in the broiler, and set to making a second side of macaroni and cheese. From the box. Like I had grown up on. Not even with those packets of liquid cheese. Oh, no. It was the powdered kind. With the milk and butter. Guaranteed to make my pants just a bit tighter.

  But as we sat down to eat, I couldn't have cared less.

  Everything was perfect and I didn't even hesitate in saying yes when he offered me seconds.

  "So, can I fire Lydia and have you come cook for me?" I asked, immediately worried I said something wrong when his eyes went a bit dark for a moment.

  But he shook it off, gave me a small hint of a smile. "Anytime you want me to cook for you, Jenny, you let me know."

  There almost felt like there was something heavy in the words, and the meaning behind them sent an odd shiver through my insides, a sensation I couldn't call anything other than delicious. Addictive. Something I wanted more of. Though I had no idea how to bring that about.

  "Can I wash up?"

  "That would be a no," he told me when I tried to take his plate. "Guests don't wash dishes."

  "But you cooked. I thought cooks don't wash dishes."

  "That is just some The Fast & The Furious bullshit. In my experience, the cook always cleans," he told me with a smile. "But if you want to go wash up - as in wash the day away - go ahead. Grab some shit out of my dresser if anything will fit."

  Not willing to pass up on a hot shower when I still had a chill in my bones from being out in the snow, I went into his dresser, finding an old, soft army green tee and a pair of green plaid boxer shorts, taking them into the bath with me, realizing I would be forgoing panties for the first time in, well, ever, since I had pretty strong feelings about underthings.

  The water took about forty-five minutes to get warm, but once it did, it was of the perfectly scalding variety, making my skin bright pink by the time I climbed out smelling like his spicy body wash and clean shampoo and conditioner.

  I wiped the wet off the mirror, watching my reflection as I finger-combed my hair since all Smith owned was a comb and any woman with a thick mane of long hair knew that combs were one of life's jokes.

  I looked different.

  And it wasn't the makeup I had swiped off, the lack of bruises you'd so often find beneath.

  There were no worry lines across my forehead, no downturn tip of my lips, no deer-in-the-headlights look to my eyes.

  I looked calm.

  Calm, that was such an odd concept.

  I didn't think I was even capable of it. Not after a life of walking on eggshells, of overthinking my words, my actions, my own desires.

  But that was what I was. Calm.

  And contented.

  That one was even more bizarre.

  It wasn't even something I could have hoped for in my life. It wasn't even an option. My life had been about enduring. About trying to reduce the blowback of whatever ticked off Teddy outside of the house. The best I could ever dream of was not being in pain. As sad as that was. It was something a woman who was always favoring a side because of a bruised rib, icing a nose or eye from a punch, cringing when she went down from a literal ass-whipping could desire for herself. A full day, week, maybe - in the biggest of pipe dreams - a whole month of no pain.

  But pain was over.

  Pain in my future would be unexpected, not a daily reality.

  And without having to worry about every little thing I said, did, wore, ate, watched, read, thought... I felt a deep contentedness starting to take root, become my new normal.

  It was all over, that old life.

  I had the chance to be the woman I never got to be before, the one I really was inside. I could start again. I could do, wear, eat, watch, read, think, and feel whatever I wanted to.

  I was free.

  On that thought - and the swelling inside accompanying it - I made my way back out of the bathroom, hearing Smith move around in the kitchen. "Go on and head to bed. I'm gonna bring you in some tea and get the fire started for you."

  Standing in the hall where he couldn't see me, my hand rose, pressed into my heart where an odd fluttering had started.

  Why?

  I wasn't sure per se.

  Because he made me tea? Was going to make sure I was warm?

  I guess... yes.

  It was that.

  He was taking care of me.

  And that was another first for me.

  I turned, making my way back to the chilly bedroom, climbing under the sheets that smelled like him, and I had to actively hold myself back from lowering down, rolling onto my belly, and taking a deep breath of his pillow, reminding myself that he could walk in on me doing it.

  Not a minute later, he was in the doorway, pausing, his gaze moving over me, something in his ever-changing eyes I couldn't quite read.

  "Sorry about the chill," he said, seeming like he needed to distract himself as he put the mug down on the nightstand on a little coaster that looked like a sliver of a log with the bark still intact, all shiny with some kind of epoxy. "The fire will warm it up fast," he added.

  "It's okay. It's warm under the blankets," I told him because it was true. But I was getting the odd idea that I was warm not because of the hot shower or the thick bedclothes, but because of something in the air right then, something sparking and flickering much like the fire he was starting.

  But before I could really analyze it, see if he was feeling it too, he was turning and walking back to the door, his gaze averted.

  "Goodnight, Jenny," he said
, gently closing the door that let out another of those groans I found myself smiling at.

  Alone, I let myself take a deep breath of the sheets before turning on my side to watch the fire dance around happily, feeling something similar inside, finding myself trying to make sense of it until my eyes reminded me of the sleeplessness of the night before, pulling me into a deep unconsciousness.

  It was the groaning.

  Foreign to my sleepy brain, the unfamiliar groaning sound woke me out of the deadest of sleeps, making my heart jolt a little wildly until I remembered where I was.

  At Smith's.

  In his bed.

  And the doors groaned.

  The doors groaned... when someone opened them.

  I threw myself over in bed, finding the door indeed open, a little bit of light flickering in from the living room down the short hall, casting Smith's wide figure mostly in shadow.

  "Sorry, sweetheart," he said, his voice low, sleepy-sounding. Like he'd just woken up as well. "I just wanted to check on your fire," he added, waving a hand to the fire that was just twinkling embers. "I'll just build it back up and get back out. Go back to sleep," he said, voice soft, like he was trying to lull me.

  But I didn't sleep.

  I was suddenly more awake, more aware than I had perhaps ever been.

  Like of the way Smith slept only in thin pajama pants, meaning I got a fantastic view of the outlines of thick, deep muscles of his chest, abdomen, shoulders, back.

  Like how his biceps contracted when he reached to put another couple logs on the fire, steepled like a church ceiling.

  Like how the wood cracked as the fire started to leap.

  Like the immediate warmth it provided.

  Like the way the smell of campfire - one of Smith's smells - filled the room.

  Like the way I was suddenly acutely aware of the way the sheets rubbed against my smooth legs, the way my chest felt tight, my nipples peaked, my belly fluttered, my core tightened.

  "Wait," I heard my voice call. Plead, even, as he turned to walk back toward the door.