In the Likely Event(36)
Izzy belted herself in across from me, her movements smooth, with no hint of her fear of flying. The put-together woman in front of me looked nothing like the devastated woman I’d picked up off the floor this morning. This woman was a consummate professional, dressed in the opposite of her sleep shorts and tank top. Then she white-knuckled the seat cushions, and I saw the crack in her facade.
Leaning out of my seat, I slipped my AirPods into her ears again.
Her gaze locked with mine, and damn if my pulse didn’t quicken, because that look, the same one she’d had as we’d held hands during that crash ten years ago—scared and somehow trusting—made her feel like mine again. But that ring flashing in the sun was an eviscerating reminder that she wasn’t mine. If the way she’d reacted to that phone call yesterday was any indication, she belonged to someone named Jeremy. Apparently Jeremy was good enough for her. Stable enough for her. Rich enough to appease her parents, too, judging by the size of that rock.
I added Jeremy to my list of douchebag frat boy names, right up there with Chad and Blake. But douche or not, he was the one she’d chosen. I was just the one willing to fly into a combat zone for her. It didn’t matter how much time had passed; I couldn’t seem to let go. It wasn’t her fault that I still loved her. It was mine.
I handed over my cell phone so she could pick what she wanted to listen to.
You choose, she mouthed, handing it back, reminding me too much of those sun-drenched days in Savannah. Pressure settled in my chest, and I scrolled through my playlist, picking the song that fit.
The helicopter launched as I hit play on the acoustic version of “This Is Gospel,” and her eyes widened. She looked away right when the chorus would have hit, and I heard the lyrics about asking to be let go of in my own head as surely as if I’d had one of the AirPods in—that was how well I knew the song. It was another one of her favorites.
But I was the one who needed to let go.
“We can only wait another ten minutes,” I told Izzy as she looked over the emptying room we’d commandeered at Mazar-i-Sharif’s airport. The aching look of expectation on her face made my chest go tight.
“Ten minutes might be too long,” Torres muttered as he walked by.
I wasn’t going to risk taking her into the city, or farther than a two-minute run from the birds. The Americans and those who qualified for the SIVs had met here over the last three hours, discussing their evacuation needs while representatives of the leadership gave their reports to the congressional aides.
The few dozen who had their visas and wanted immediate evacuation were already loaded into the Chinook, and there were only a few stragglers left, picking up paperwork that Izzy and the others had brought to help speed up the visa process.
“And you won’t let me go out looking?” Izzy asked again, hope dimming in her eyes.
“Going out there and shouting Serena’s name from the rooftops isn’t going to get you the reaction you want.” I both hated and was grateful for her naivete. It meant I’d done my job keeping the horrors of war away from her . . . until she’d come seeking them. “According to the contacts we have here, she knows there’s someone who wants to see her.”
“But you didn’t say it was me?” Izzy’s gaze whipped from the retreating back of the civilian she’d just finished helping across the table to mine.
“You mean, did I advertise that an aide to a United States congresswoman was out here searching for a needle in a haystack? No, I did not. Because I like you alive.”
She stood and glared at me, her chair squeaking against the linoleum floor, and I noted the reactions of every person in the room who wasn’t part of my team or hers. There were only a few now, and they were headed for the door, since Graham had started shutting the place down.
“I’m not going to leave her here,” Izzy hissed, keeping her voice low.
I shot the interpreter at her side a glance, and he backed away, giving us space, but Torres hovered. He always hovered when he sensed I was about to blow.
“You will if she’s not here in ten minutes.” I leaned in. “You promised you’d do as I asked out here, and I’m holding you to it. We’re leaving in ten minutes, whether or not Serena is on board.”
Izzy’s body tensed and her eyes narrowed at me. “And spend the next . . . however long wondering if she’s alive or dead? Wondering if I could have done or said something that could have brought her home? No, Na—” She grimaced but recovered quickly. “Sergeant Green, I’m not going to do that, not again.”
“I don’t think she’s talking about her sister anymore,” Torres whispered before backing away.
“Point made,” I replied, and she lifted her stubborn little chin. “Ms. Astor,” I started again, dropping my voice, more than aware of the people around us, “you can’t control the decisions other people make, nor do you bear the blame for the consequences of their choices.” The fact that we’d made it this far without having this discussion was a miracle, but I sure as hell wasn’t getting into this using some code language, and this was far from the appropriate place.
“You sure about that?” She wrapped her arms around her waist, careful not to catch the printed silk scarf that covered her hair. “Because I’ve had a few years to think about it, and I’m pretty sure if I’d just looked at someone and said, ‘Please come home,’ maybe they would have.” Her eyes searched mine, and I struggled to pick my heart up off the goddamned floor.