Chapter 1

Makeena

 

 

I can see my handsome-faced husband sitting on the sofa, staring at the powered-off TV like it’s on. Like it’s entertaining him. Like he’s engrossed in a show that he can’t look away from. But the TV isn’t on. It’s off, and his mind is drifting. With a black dish towel in my hand, I watch him. I know something is wrong with Royce. I can feel it. We’ve only been married for a short time – four months – and our marriage isn’t a traditional one. Nothing close to traditional. Still, I love him just the same.

Deeply.

With my whole heart.

He’s special to me.

He saved me.

Our connection is as profound as our love. That’s why I’m sure something’s bothering him.

I stand at the counter, staring at him. Even from this distance, I can see his long eyelashes, draping his almond-shaped eyes and the shadow of hair on his cheek. I chew my lip and drown in his good looks.

“Royce, how was your day?” I ask to break up his trance. Mine, too.

He looks at me. Blinks a few times. “It was fine,” he finally replies with a straight face, lacking expression. He’s an ex-soldier so his expressions, or lack thereof, doesn’t bother me. What troubles me is how, when we first moved into our home two months ago, he was excited about the prospect of starting a new life with me – about leaving Norfolk behind and starting over in Petersburg. He even went so far as to furnish the house and all. Then something changed. Lately, he’s been coming home, barely saying a word to me. He looks like he’s worried or even worse – he appears to be bothered by something. I have an idea what that something is, but I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I want him to talk to me.

“We’re having lasagna for dinner…one of your favorite meals,” I say in an attempt to get him to loosen up. It doesn’t work. In fact, he doesn’t even respond. He turns away from me like he’s the least bit interested in dinner or anything else I have to say.

“Royce?”

He slowly turns to look at me again, this time, studying me hard. A frown appears on his forehead but quickly dissolves. “Yes?”

“Did you hear me?”

He holds my gaze for a moment. “You said we were having lasagna for dinner.” His brows raise. “Is that what you said?”

“Yes. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine.” He stands up. Stretches. “I’m going to take a shower. Be right back.”

“Okay.” I watch him saunter away in a sexy stroll, even in dirty, torn jeans. I hate speculating about what could be wrong. I want to know what’s wrong, but he’s not the best at communicating his feelings. He’s never had to do it before me. I guess, from his perspective, he shouldn’t have to do it now.

 

 

It’s dinner time.

I prepare a plate for Royce and call him to the kitchen. With his voracious appetite, I never had to summon him to the kitchen before, but since he opted to watch TV in the bedroom and not the living room like he normally does, I call out to him. A few moments later, he appears wearing an army print tank top that shows off his bulgy biceps and thick pectorals. The black shorts he has on are flimsy and carefree. He looks relaxed. Finally.

He sits down at the table in front of the plate, pre-placed silverware and ice water I have prepared for him and begins eating. I take in the first few bites of my food, too but I’d much rather have a conversation with my husband rather than eat.

“Royce, do you enjoy working with my father?”

“I do. Wendell is a good man.”

I smile. He’s right about my father. He is a good man. A hard worker. An entrepreneur. I’ve enjoyed getting to know my parents, my sister and brother after being away from them for so long. Thanks to Royce, my hero, I’ve reunited with them and they’ve accepted me back into their lives with open arms.

And they love Royce just the same.

I looked up at Royce again. He’s chewing his food so seductively, I want to kiss those chiseled lips of his. Jeez. I’m still amazed at what he’s able to do to me. The things he’s able to make me feel. Right now, though, my main concern is getting down to the bottom line of what’s bothering him.

“I wish you would talk to me.”

He glances up, stops mid-chew and frowns just a tad before the disturbance disappears from his forehead. This is the second time he’s frowned at me in less than two hours. “What do you mean?”

“I want you to talk to me, Royce. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

He takes a slow sip of water and stares at me intently as he lowers the glass to the table. “Nothing’s wrong, Makeena.” He takes another fork full of lasagna to his mouth and chews. “How was your day with your mother?”

I swallow disappointment along with my food because I know he’s hiding something. “It was fine. She showed me where the farmer’s market is. You know how much I like fresh fruits and vegetables.”

He nods.

“She carries a lot of guilt, you know, even down to this day. She was talking about the kidnapping and tears came to her eyes.”

“Why was she talking about it?”

I shrug. “She usually brings it up. I never do, because I don’t blame her for what happened to me, but she’s having a difficult time forgiving herself.”

“Then the next time she tries to bring it up, reassure her that you don’t blame her and then change the subject.”

“I’ll try.” I eat more, then glance up at him. That’s when I see a cut on his left index finger. “Royce, you cut your finger?”

He looks at his hand. Looks at me. “I did, but it’s okay.”

“What happened?” I ask, sounding more worried than I probably should. It’s a cut – not a life or death matter – like say a stab wound. Still, I’m on edge. Because it’s a cut. On my man.

“I was throwing some tree limbs in the wood chipper.”

“Don’t you wear gloves?”

“I do, normally. I wasn’t wearing gloves when this happened.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know why. I just wasn’t.”

I immediately stand up from my chair and say, “Let me get you a Band-Aid for that.”

“Makeena.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Makeena,” he says, tone raised.

“Yes?” I turn to look at him before leaving the kitchen.

“I don’t need a Band-Aid,” he says.

“It looks like you do. It’s not a scrape, Royce. It’s an actual cut. It needs to be cleaned—”

Amused, he says, “Cleaned? I just took a shower.”

“It needs to be cleaned with some antiseptic, and you need a Band-Aid.”

“I’m not five-years-old, Makeena. I don’t—” he began with a raised voice, then catches himself. “I don’t need a Band-Aid, now will you sit down and finish your food with me, please?”

“Okay,” I say reluctantly as I cross the vinyl-covered floor and ease back into my chair. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“I’m not stubborn,” he mumbles with food tucked into his jaw. “I’m a man. I’ve endured a lot worse than this little cut on my finger.”

I glare at him. He’s so hard headed. Yet, I love that about him.

“Eat,” he says. “You’ll need your energy for later.”

“Later?” I question.

His lips quirk up into a sneaky grin, and then I know what he means by later. I smile to mask frustration. I’m not frustrated by later because I love the way he makes love to me. I love that he loves me. My frustration lies in the fact that I know we need to have an in-depth conversation about our move here, about his new life away from the military base, but he doesn’t want to talk about it.

He never wants to talk about it, which leave me wondering…