Page 81 of Backlash

“I settled on a picnic because a lot of the really good food I discovered the last five years is just as good if it’s not hot.” I’m about to launch into a description of each item, but she cuts me off.

“But where did you get it?” she asks, carefully joining me on the picnic blanket. She spreads her skirt, carefully as though she has anything to hide from me.

“I made it.” I grab a chunk of cheese—the fruit and cheese assortment is standard for all meals throughout the Middle East. I’m not entirely certain how Adair will react to the Sujuk, a dry, spicy beef sausage, but it’s possible she has had everything else.

“You cooked?” she says.

I frown. Why is she acting like this is weird? “I love to cook, remember?”

“I know, but I’ve never had a guy cook for me like this before,” she says, her words strangely strangled.

“I’ve cooked for you.”

“With Francie,” she says, recalling the meals we shared with my foster mom five years ago. “Never like this.”

“I can’t tell if you’re scared to eat my cooking or not, Lucky.”

“It’s not that.” She shakes her head and a copper strand falls into her eyes. “It’s…really nice.”

I reach over and tuck the strand of hair behind her ear. Then I brush my thumb across her cheek. “I want to take care of you.”

We stare at one another, neither of us speaking. There’s a whole world stretching out around us, but she’s the only thing I see. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“So, what is this?” She points to the covered bowl containing an oily paste of herbs..

“That, Lucky, is za’atar. And I’m glad you haven’t tried it before.” I tear off a hunk of barbari, a kind of Persian flatbread similar to pita, but crispier, and bathe it in za’atar before popping it in my mouth.

Adair mimics my technique, and her eyebrows try to bounce clean off her face. “Where did you learn to make this?” she asks between ravenous bites.

“I was in Turkey for a while. For them, this is like having ketchup on the table.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, but I know better than that. I just opened the door she’s been trying to unlock since my return.

“You were in Turkey?”

“For a while, after I left the Marines,” I explain.

“So, you were in the Marines?”

I pause, momentarily surprised. That fact isn’t exactly top secret. It wouldn’t have taken much for her to dig that up. “I assumed you knew that. I told Cyrus.”

“I heard you joined up. That’s all. I left for London shortly after you enlisted,” she says softly. “I needed to get away.”

Not for the first time, I want to ask her why? Why she didn’t stay in London? Why she came back here? Why she never reached out? But I’m the one who has promised to give answers tonight. My own will have to wait.

“What happened when you left?” she asks.

I suspect she wants to know about why I left, but I avoid that part. Adair has suffered enough without knowing what her father did to me—to us. There was a time when I thought I could never forgive her for siding with him, but now I realize leaving her the way I did only made it harder for her to break free from her family.

“I enlisted. Francie was furious,” I begin.

“I bet,” Adair says with a knowing smile. “I hope she chewed your ass out.”

“Don’t worry. She did,” I confirm, before continuing, “but I couldn’t stand to go back to New York and take advantage of her anymore. So I joined up and went through boot camp. My drill sergeant said that I had a killer instinct and a willful disregard for human life, particularly my own.”

“Harsh, but I imagine that’s what they like,” she says, pouring herself a second glass of wine. If I’m lucky, it will soften her up for the rest.

“It was true. I just didn’t care. I figured I had nothing to lose, so I just went for it. Every training exercise. But she liked me.”

“She?” Adair says. “Your drill sergeant was a girl?”