Page 11 of Double Bind (Cosmic Mates #6)

“I’ll get our desserts. Why don’t you save us a seat?” Amity suggested as they scooted along the buffet line.

“Bragg will reserve a table,” he said.

Arching her eyebrows, Amity looked at Faith.

“I think John wanted to talk to you privately,” Faith said.

“About what? We were together all day.”

“He didn’t tell me—it’s private.”

She pointed at her husband, seated with his tray. He waved.

Maybe Bragg wanted to discuss the surprise sofa? But why not talk to him when they were still at the shop? Or tomorrow? But with Bragg, who knew? “Get me one of those fruity desserts,” he said. Taking his tray, Marshall marched to the table. “What is it?” He sat down.

“What is what?”

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Faith said you did.”

“No.” He shook his head.

Marshall eyed the two women, heads together in conversation. He’d been in Dark Ops too long not to sense when something didn’t add up. In a whispering clutch, the women listed to the table.

“They ran out of dessert,” Amity announced cheerfully. “They’re bringing out another batch. I ordered some for our group. A robo will deliver it.”

His gaze shot to Bragg’s tray—sans dessert. “There wasn’t any when you went through the line?”

“Didn’t want any.” Bragg returned to his meal, seemingly unconcerned. The man never skipped dessert.

Marshall studied the women. They appeared focused on their meals.

“Food is good tonight,” Amity said.

“Yes,” Faith replied. “I wonder if eventually we’ll get tired of egger and horniger.”

Was he reading too much into things? Perhaps he’d become hypersensitive to nuances that didn’t matter outside the sphere of Dark Ops. This wasn’t a life-threatening situation—they were talking about food.

“They’re pretty creative in how they fix it, so maybe not,” Amity said.

“Have you checked out the groceries at the mercantile yet?” Faith asked.

“No more than a quick glance. Have you?”

Casual, mundane conversation. Too mundane. Something was going on.

“Some. I don’t recognize anything. I can’t read the writing on the packaging, and the pictures don’t resemble anything we’re familiar with. I did learn the storekeeper must look up if an item is safe for human consumption before we buy it.” Amity glanced toward the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” Marshall asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You appear unduly concerned with the lack of dessert.” They weren’t even half done with their entrée.

She shook her head. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Nothing,” Faith said.

“Nothing,” Bragg echoed.

Three nothings definitely meant something.

Amity averted her gaze and asked Faith, “Do you plan to do any cooking?”

Faith shrugged. “I don’t know. Eating in the mess is convenient.”

“I might give it a shot one night. See what the food options are, how close I can get to an Earth meal,” Amity surprised him by saying. “It might be kind of nice to eat in once in a while.”

“I would like that,” he jumped in. Then maybe they could enjoy a meal alone. Besides Faith and Bragg, other diners joined them at the table. He and Amity hadn’t eaten alone together since arriving on Refuge. He had no issues with Bragg—he wouldn’t have rescued him if he did—and Faith’s company was congenial, but he coveted precious alone-time with his wife.

“She’s a good cook,” Faith said.

“Great.” What she cooked didn’t matter. She could slap together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and he’d love it—as long as it was just the two of them.

Amity glanced toward the kitchen again. “We’ll…do it one evening, then,” she said distractedly. “You want to go shopping with me at the mercantile? We can pick out ingredients together, and I’ll cook one night.”

“It’s a date!” he said.

The mess hall noise spiked. All heads turned toward a robo wheeling into the dining hall with a burning object clutched in its spindly metal arms.

“Oh, no! What the hell?” Amity cried.

To his surprise, the robo rolled to their table. The flaming object appeared to have been a cake. A torch stuck in the middle of it had set the topping on fire. The robo set the flaming cake and a small stack of plates in front of him.

The two aliens at the end of their table gawked. “Humans! Strange people,” muttered one.

“Happy birthday to you,” John launched into song. The women joined in, racing through the lyrics.

“Dear Marshall, happy birthday to you. And many more!”

“Hurry! Blow it out before the cake burns any more!” Amity cried.

Blow it out? He needed an extinguisher. He could barbecue a steak on the flame.

“Make a wish first!”

“I wish for—”

“No, don’t tell us! It won’t come true if you tell us!”

I wish for a future with you. He downed the water in his glass and snuffed out the torch with the empty vessel. Blowing on burning blackened lumps atop the cake, he put out the rest of the fire. Smoke and the odor of char wafted up from the cake.

Amity looked close to tears. “Dammit! I wanted today to be perfect!”

“What’s today?”

“Your birthday! Isn’t today the anniversary of the day you emerged from the cloning tank?”

He blinked. “Yes, it is.”

“This is supposed to be your birthday cake,” she said unhappily. “I asked for a big candle. Something got lost in the translation. Fortunately, I only requested one candle, or the cake could have set the mess hall on fire.”

People celebrated birthdays, but he never had. His life hadn’t been worth commemorating, and there had been no one to celebrate with. He looked at Amity over the top of the cake. Touched beyond belief, he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Why only one candle?” Faith asked.

“I didn’t know what the appropriate age would be—the number of years since he’d been out of the tank—or the age he typifies.” She sought Marshall’s gaze. “So, I decided one would signify the first year of a fresh start.”

“Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me. Thank you.” He found his voice. She’d not only remembered what he’d told her, she’d sought to do something special for him. He suspected the others were in on it—they’d refused dessert. “You knew about this?” he asked their friends.

“Yeah! Serve the cake already!” Bragg motioned. “It can’t be burned all the way through.”

Amity scraped off the char then cut it and passed the slices around. Marshall took his very first bite of birthday cake.

“Well?” she asked. “How is it?”

“Sweet and a little spicy. Good,” he said truthfully.

“Has a nice smokey flavor,” Bragg said.

“John!” Faith gave him a too-gentle jab in the ribs. “It does not. It’s fine.”

“I wish the fruit topping hadn’t gotten ruined. A cake should be frosted and served with ice cream, but they don’t have milk products, so no butter, cream, or cheese for icing, which would have melted off anyway, given they put a torch in it!”

“Maybe they could milk a horniger,” Faith suggested.

“I wouldn’t want that job,” Bragg said. They all laughed.

“No, I’m sure shearing them for the fur is problematic enough,” Amity said.

“How did you arrange this?” He was still a little choked up.

“I told Lucento what I wanted, and he arranged for it.”

They offered cake to the aliens at their table, but they declined. He and Bragg ate another piece, and then the robo wrapped up the remainder for them to take with them.

The four of them left the mess hall together. Frigid wind whipped through the open area, grabbing at coats and hair. Amity tugged on her gloves and then hunkered into her coat, pulling the collar up to her ears. “Next thing I m-m-make is going to be a hat,” she said, her teeth chattering. Temperature plummeted with the starset.

He wrapped his arm around her to protect her from the wind. The four of them hurried to the residential zone in silence, no one inclined to chitchat in the frigid night.

Upon arriving at their unit, they parted company with their friends and hurried inside.

“Oh, it’s warm!” Amity exclaimed. “I’m glad we stoked the stove before dinner. Glad you stoked it,” she amended with a wry grin. She had yet to touch one of the horniger bricks. He didn’t mind. He was glad to do it for her.

He enjoyed pleasing her. In the past, he’d approached favors with a quid pro quo. If he’d helped somebody, he’d expected something in return.

Rushing off to Terra Nova to pull Bragg’s feet out of the fire was the first time he’d done a good deed without an expectation of reciprocity. Then he’d saved Faith, her stupid cat, and Amity.

Did that mean he’d gotten soft?

Amity removed her coat and gloves. Her hair, tousled by the wind, looked like she’d rolled out of bed after a passionate night. The cold had painted her cheeks and lips pink. He couldn’t wait to muss up her hair with his hands and turn her lips rosy with his kisses.

He set the cake box on the counter, still a bit stunned by his birthday party. Normally he’d prefer to be alone with her, but having their friends join in the celebration and sing to him had touched him.

I guess I am getting soft.

Bragg had been in on the surprise and hadn’t said a word all day! Asshole, he thought with affection.

“The birthday cake was incredibly special,” he said. “Thank you for remembering.”

“I have another surprise,” she said. “I got you a present, too.” She dragged the footlocker out from under the bed and opened it, removing a package wrapped in grass cloth and tied with a strip of horniger leather. “Here.” She handed it to him.

“What is it?” he asked, stunned.

“Open it and find out!”

He untied the bow and peeled away the grass cloth to find a soft, nubby fabric object. He shook it out. His throat thickened.

“It’s a sweater!” she exclaimed.

“I see that. You wove this?” The lump lodged in his throat again. He’d never had a birthday present. No one had given him a gift ever. His fingers caressed the pullover sweater.

“Crocheted it.” She paused. “Try it on. I hope it fits. I measured your other shirts to gauge the size.”

He tore his coat off, slipped his arms into the sleeves, and pulled the sweater over his head. He tugged the hem down and looked up. Amity wore a stricken expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“The shoulders are lopsided. One sleeve is longer than the other!” Tears welled in her eyes. “I wanted it to be perfect, and it’s a mess.”

With it on, he couldn’t tell what he looked like, but glancing down, he could see one sleeve hit above his wrist bone; the other drooped below it. But she’d made it for him. Nothing in the world was as special as this sweater. “No, I love it. It’s perfect.” He rolled up one sleeve even with the other. “See? Perfect!” He added, “And gray is my favorite color.”

He enfolded her in his arms and kissed her. “It’s the best sweater in the whole world. I’m going to wear it all the time.” The cake, the birthday song, the gift—he’d never celebrated a birthday before. She’d brought normalcy to his life. Thoughtfulness and joy.

“You don’t have to wear it. I’ll crochet you another one.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. “But I can’t do anything about the color. Hornigers are gray. Darmaine hasn’t been able to find a dye to color the yarn.”

“I love gray. I love the sweater.” I love you. He jerked. Did he? Is that what he was feeling? “I don’t want another one. I want this one.”

“We don’t have a mirror. You can’t see it. The shoulders are droopy. You had to roll up one sleeve.”

“I don’t need to see it. I can feel it.”

It felt like love.