Her future husband hesitantly stepped up to her as if he didn’t know what to do next. Corporal Jennifer Conyers did. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him into a surprised kiss, to the amusement of everyone there.
Yes. We would have been happy. I would have loved her, and maybe a piece of me always would. Or not her, per se. My image of her. I’d always love the bold woman who claimed that stunned bastard bearing the sign with her name.
He dropped that sign, by the way. I ended up with it, too. In fact, I amassed a fantastic collection of them as the soldiers descended and their spouses forgot about their signage. Not that I needed them. I just didn’t want to leave clean-up to already overworked military personnel. The least I could do was pick up after us.
As each pair united, or each family group, since some had children and parents and friends, they processed off the field to chat, or hug, or go get married. The number of onlookers dwindled to a handful. Technicians outnumbered lingerers. Still no Jackson.
I checked the email I’d printed, since our phones didn’t work on base and mine had probably dumped most of its battery charge while turned off anyway, and the digital sign that verified the transport designation. A match. I hadn’t come on the wrong day or ended up at the wrong field.
Mister Maine spotted his match before Private First Class Scott Climes could spot the sign with his name. “Hedoeslook even better than the picture!” Mister Maine said with a choked-up wonder, and held the sign higher. That sign endured one hell of a waving before Mister Maine darted from his position to the barricade to embrace his new husband and the sign fell to the ground.
Another sign for the pile. I wondered idly if the local Mail Call Mates representative would like them for a promotional mural.
I’d almost resigned to go check with the officer at the edge of the barricade and confirm Jackson had boarded this ship when I saw him come down the ramp. Boots first. Reddish-brown digital-print camouflage fatigues to match the Martian soil, clean but worn-in, covering longer legs than I’d realized. A slender waist that flared into a broad chest and shoulders, covered in that same, ruddy camo. One strong hand on the strap of his bag, the other carrying a smaller satchel.
For a moment, that sharp daydream came back. The dream of those strong hands on my hip and lower back as he kissed me with a yearning fit to kick off a lifetime of marriage. I held up my sign, all the other signs stacked behind it, and let a smile bloom over my face.
His head came into view. The look on his handsome, strong-featured face did not say “kissy time”. It didn’t even look happy to see me. Whatever he’d felt in that reaction picture I’d seen, it had faded between the snap of the camera and the shriek of the landing gear touching the ground.
One of his eyebrows cocked when he spotted me. His lips flattened, then quirked to one side in a wry twist. All I could do was hold my sign and my smile, with my stomach in knots and dread sinking from my head to my toes, as he moseyed down the ramp and across the intervening pavement.
This was not what I had expected. Given his expression, I don’t think it was what he expected, either.
“I’m surprised you came out today,” he said, when he stood a handful of feet away. He had a slow, easy cadence to his words, not quite a drawl but a cousin to one.
Nope. Not what he expected. “Why wouldn’t I?” I asked, and let my stack of signs lower to my side.
His look questioned my intelligence. “We weren’t meant for each other. The computer made a mistake, they said.”
Oh. That. His reaction made more sense now, though if they’d told him that, they’d also told him I’d agreed to the match anyway. It didn’t seem to have mattered.
“I don’t know that yet,” I said casually. “We’ve only just met. Maybe it knows something we don’t.”
“Iknow that,” he countered. “And I know it right now. You wanted a woman. I won’t stay with someone who’s longing for someone else.”
Now I understood. That video I’d obsessively watched had mentioned a lover who’d cheated, and cheating isn’t easy to put away and get over. He wanted someone who wanted him, not a husband who’d begrudgingly agreed to overlook a computing error.
I shook my head. “Iexpecteda woman. What Iwantedwas a partner to love. It’s about the person, not the gender.”
“Really.” His expression said he didn’t buy it. “Let’s stop fucking around with this. I’m tired, I’ve come a long way, and I got my damned hopes up only to hear it was a fucking computer error. I’m not marrying you, Sebastian Hendrick, and you wasted your time coming out here to meet me.”
* * *
Yeah. Rough start. What do you do with that?
Plenty of people would have called it quits, then and there. I wouldn’t have blamed them, either. When those words left his mouth, I thought hard about agreeing that this wouldn’t work and calling the match a mulligan. Jackson had given me more than ample reason for it. The wedding bands in my pocket felt as heavy as my heart did.
But that was the easy way out. Jackson hadn’t lashed out because he didn’t like what he saw, or didn’t want a mate. He’d put up his defenses in the face of anticipated pain. I could see he’d taken the news that the match had happened in an unconventional way with wariness, and he wanted to protect himself from a hard disappointment. He wanted to push me away before either of us ended up hurt.
That’s what I would have done, anyway. That’s almost what Ihaddone. If not for what I’d seen in his picture, I would have called this a bad job and aborted the mission.
Never let it be said I’m not stubborn. I would not let Jackson Sadler go without a protest. He deserved someone to fight for him.
“This isn’t a computer error,” I told him. “It’s a situation I don’t think I’m qualified to properly explain, but it isnotanerror.I came out here because after that match, I saw your introduction materials. Do you know how many times I watched your intro video?”
A blush heated the back of his neck. “I hated making that damn thing.”
“I hated making mine, too. It was awful.”