Marrow

~Three Years Later~

“Where are you going?”

“To get champagne,” Jack says simply as he stands and straightens his black blazer, running a hand down his tie. I look over my shoulder at the bar where a small lineup snakes toward three overworked bartenders and then to my phone, tilting it to check the time.

“Jack—”

“Don’t worry, lille mejer.” His breath warms my temple as he leans down to place a kiss on my cheek. “I’ll be back in time. Champagne, Sydney?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Sydney and I turn to watch Jack stride away in the direction of the bar before I take a long sip from my half-full glass in a futile attempt to drown a tiny flare of irritation.

“You two are gross,” Sydney says.

“Thanks.”

“Too hot. Too smart. Way too much in love. It’s disgusting.”

“That’s the reaction we hope for.”

“And I’m still single, having to put up with your blatant disregard for my relationship status on a near-daily basis. It’s torture.”

“I’m a fan of torture, so…go me.” I scan the room as I tug on the ends of the high ponytail that skims my shoulder. “What about the guy standing by the pillars back there? Silver fox. He’s hot.”

Sydney follows my gaze to a man with short salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He smiles broadly at something a companion says and shifts his weight with an air of confidence and ease.

“Yeah, he’s pretty hot,” Sydney says, her voice falling distant as she watches him. The chime sounds for the end of the brief awards intermission and the man’s eyes pan in our direction. I dart my attention away, but Sydney is not so quick and gives him a shy smile and half-wave that seems to disintegrate before dropping her gaze to the tablecloth. “Fuck, why am I so awkward.”This content © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

“You’re not awkward, you’re endearing.” I turn away and crane my neck, trying to spot Jack’s tall frame among the throng of people returning from the bar. He’s nowhere to be seen. “What’s awkward is me publicly murdering my fucking husband for his goddamn disappearing act. What the hell is with him and these fucking things.”

“Jack’s not at the bar?”

I rise halfway to standing, weaving my gaze through the crowd to see if he became snagged in conversation, but I don’t find him anywhere. A molten core of wrath sparks to life deep in my chest. “Evidently not.”

He’s not one of the few patrons waiting for their drinks at the bar. He’s not taken a random seat at a table of strangers. He’s not standing by the doors, watching from the shadows.

Jack is gone.

“What in the ever-loving fuck—”

“Thank you all for returning to your seats,” the retired newscaster host says from center stage, blanketing the audience with her warm, rich voice. “The Silent Auction is now closed, and winning bids will be announced at the end of the ceremony. Thank you all for your generous donations.”

A round of polite applause filters through the decorated reception hall, but I’m too busy tapping out a short message to Jack on my phone to clap. It says simply:

GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE OR I WILL STRIP YOUR BONES FROM YOUR FLESH AND FEED THEM TO CORNETTO. 

I set my phone down with a thud and give Sydney a strained smile in reply to her questioning glance.

“And now, with the annual Educator of the Year Award, we recognize the contributions of one educator who makes an extraordinary effort to uplift and encourage students, creating an environment of excellence in learning.”

I cast a final glance around the room and check my phone for a reply. Naturally, there’s no sign of Jack. My fingers twist in my lap until they crack in protest as I school my features into something that hopefully looks decorous and not murderous.

The host smiles across the audience as photos of the campus and me with students light the screen behind her. “In addition to her teaching and research responsibilities, this year’s recipient has worked tirelessly to expand the University of Alberta’s Forensic Anthropology department by implementing the new Central Parkland Body Farm field research initiative, and for the last three years has chaired the Northern Lights Girls Mentorship Program to inspire the next generation of Canadian women in science. Presenting the award tonight to Dr. Kyrie Roth is her husband, Dr. Jack Sorensen.”

“What the fuck,” I hiss, Sydney cackling next to me above the sound of applause as I stare at the tall figure striding across the polished stage with all the confidence of a wolf sauntering through a field of lambs.

“Your face. That was great.”

“You knew about this?”

Sydney grins as I shoot a quick glance in her direction. “Of course I did. I was sworn to secrecy.”

“But you’re shit at keeping secrets,” I whisper with a doubtful flash of a glare.

“Not when there’s a bottle of Moët on the line,” she replies as she clinks her glass to mine. I give her an incredulous look as she elbows me and nods to the stage.

When I look up, Jack’s gunmetal eyes are fixed to mine.

“Hello, petal,” Jack says, leaning toward the microphone. His sly grin annihilates my rage and I huff a laugh, the audience chuckling. “I got your text asking where I’d disappeared to, but I don’t think you should feed my bones to the dog just yet. Maybe let’s see how the introduction goes first, shall we?”

I laugh along with the audience, dropping my forehead into my hand while a crimson flush ignites my cheeks.

When I look up to the stage once more, Jack is waiting, his gaze fusing to mine as the rest of the room seems to melt away.

“I should say a quick word of thanks to the awards committee for allowing me to present this recognition to my wife, but truthfully, I didn’t really give them much of a choice.” Jack looks down at the black and gold plaque in his hands. There’s a long and thoughtful pause as his faint smile fades before he returns his attention to me. “A little over three years ago, I was due to present Kyrie with the Allistair Brentwood Philanthropy Award, but I was late to the ceremony. Though it set off a chain of events that would finally bind us together, I nonetheless failed to recognize Kyrie’s achievements on a night that meant so much to her. I’m grateful for the opportunity to do it properly this time.”

My heart aches as though it’s grown too big for my chest. I don’t break my gaze from Jack as he looks across the audience.

“Those who know Kyrie well know that her many facets were cut from the sharpest edges of life. But with each one, she has not only survived. She has found her own way to thrive, on her terms. She carries her hard-earned qualities into every aspect of her work. As an educator, Kyrie models leadership, and empathy, and passion. But she is also fierce, formidable, and fearless. And having the privilege of knowing her better than anyone, I can confidently say that her most central quality, woven into everything she does, is her resilience.

“I’ve been fortunate to work with my wife for six years. The first three were…not my shining moments. At least not when it came to her. But, as Kyrie does, she lured me in, despite my best efforts to remain frozen. Even when she claimed to have given up on me, she didn’t. She persevered. And slowly, I began to see life through her eyes. It was like looking through a keyhole. The more I watched, the more she unlocked a secret world. Sometimes, there is violence and loss. Sometimes, there is beauty and joy. Sometimes I see grief, others elation. Despite it all, as though standing in the eye of the storm as resilient and unblemished as a polished, precious stone, is Kyrie Roth. And isn’t that what our best teachers do. They unveil hidden worlds, sometimes those that were right before our unseeing eyes. They ignite our curiosity. They make us question what else is waiting to be discovered, if only we let ourselves thaw.”

Jack looks to me once more, and I see in his eyes what belongs only to me. What he never shows to anyone else. “I didn’t know what life could be like until you shone your light into the dark. You are as indomitable as the sun. As integral to me as the lattice of marrow within my bones. And I love you, lille mejer.”

I’m up from my seat and weaving through the tables before Jack has even asked me to come on stage, the path to him hazed by a watery film.

But I will always find my way to Jack.

The applause is like rain behind a veil. Jack’s heart thumps a steady beat beneath my ear as I grip him in my embrace, and it’s the only sound I care to hear.

“You’re supposed to take this thing,” Jack whispers against my ear, nudging the corner of the plaque into my arm as his other hand holds steady to my exposed back. I nod, but it takes him pulling away before I let go. The heel of my hand grazes my damp lashes as Jack turns my shoulders toward the audience.

“I…um… I don’t think I can feed his bones to the dog,” I say in a tremulous voice as the audience laughs. “That was pretty great, Jack. Made up for the Brentwood thing. I’m not really sorry about the punishment that followed but maybe that’s a story for another time.”

The audience laughs again and I gather momentum as I rely on the details I memorized before tonight. I thank the faculty for the nomination. I thank my friends and colleagues, my students. My parents might be in my past, but I thank them too, for giving me the tools to cut my own path.

And finally, I glance over at Jack.

“Dr. Sorensen doesn’t know this, but I sat in the back of his class once. It was long before we became colleagues, back when he was a PhD student. He was teaching an osteology class.” I glance down at the plaque in my hands. A wistful smile ghosts across my face as I recall the thrill of being able to sit and watch from the shadows, to just listen to his voice, this man who had given me the chance to keep going, even though I wasn’t yet sure how to pick up the broken pieces. “It was a time of loss and uncertainty in my life. Watching him guide and excite this group of students with his extensive knowledge and passion for his work inspired me. He mentioned something about scavenger bite marks on bone, and that started the questions in my mind about the animals that left them and their behavior, questions that would eventually lead me here. But that one moment was a lightning strike. It ignited the hope that I too could be something more than what I had lost.” When I turn to him, Jack’s gaze seems trapped on the floor for a moment with a furrowed brow, but I’m waiting to catch it with a smile when he looks up. “So thank you, Jack. You showed me that the sun could still shine, even on the coldest days.”

A moment of time suspends in the flash of a camera. One I’ll remember forever. Jack’s expression, his smile a reflection of my own. The audience, the lights that bathe us in warmth. But it’s not just what I see that becomes branded into memory. It’s the way I feel. Loved not just for my light but for the darkness too, not in spite of it. Grateful, not only for this moment, but for surviving the difficult ones that have gotten me here. Cherished. Luminous.

The moment might pass as the flash falls to shadow, but the feeling still lingers on like a flare in the night.

A few more photos are captured before Jack offers an arm. I lay my palm into the crook of his elbow, his other hand resting over mine, cool and steady on my network of bones. We descend from the stage where he slips back to the table, leaving me to mingle with donors and well-wishers as the next award is announced. And when I return to my seat next to Jack, we only exchange a brief smile before I join his conversation with our colleagues, our fingers laced beneath the table.

We stay only long enough to charm some donors and influential locals, and then we leave for home, a chalet-style log cabin overlooking the North Saskatchewan River on a remote parcel of rugged land. After a full day of work and an evening of socializing, we both slide into bed exhausted, and I fall asleep quickly with the steady drum of Jack’s heart beneath my ear.

And when I wake the next morning, it’s to an empty bed and the scent of coffee.

I stretch, my hand tracking over Jack’s side of the mattress. The sheets are cold.

Cornetto snuffles at the foot of the bed, his tail wisping across the duvet as he rubs his face on the covers and slides up toward me.

“That’s right, Corndog,” I say, patting Jack’s pillow where Cornetto flops to his back for a morning belly rub. “Get your fluff on Jack’s side.”

When Cornetto is satisfied with our morning ritual and hops off the bed to tip-tap downstairs, I roll over, shifting my weight to an elbow to grab the steaming coffee on my nightstand.

Next to it is a small box wrapped in gold paper, the creases clean and precise.

No note. No card. Just a bow in a familiar shade of blue.

I pull the box onto the bed next to me, smiling at the precise wrapping execution before I tear the paper free.

Inside is a worn zippo lighter.

I look at it closely, knowing it’s not the same as the prized trophy Jack sacrificed when he set fire to my old house. The initials S.B. are engraved over a faded flower design. My brow furrows with the mystery as I turn the lighter over in my hand to admire it next to the scar on my thumb before I flick open the lid.

Snap. Flick, snap.

It’s a comforting possession, and I smile with the weight of it in my palm as I fold my fingers around the cold steel. “Thank you, Jack.”

My heart tinkles like chimes behind my bones as I get dressed and slide the lighter into the pocket of my hiking pants to head downstairs with my coffee. There’s no packed lunch waiting, which is my usual clue that Jack is making it a mission for me to find him. As soon as my coffee is done, I’m heading out into the bright March sun, its rays a promise of spring as it reflects on the lingering snow.

Cornetto leads me down the path that winds toward a rocky ridge on the property, weaving a few feet in front of me with his nose to the ground. I pick up Jack’s trail immediately in the melting snow and the frost-heaved gravel, the prints of his Blundstones still fresh enough to see the tread. When we near the ridge and pass the pines, Jack comes into view, standing in the small clearing near the edge of the rocky outcrop with his hands in his pockets. I smile as a fleeting memory of his photo ignites in my thoughts, the one I took of him at West Paine just before I joined the faculty. The moment passes before I think too much about setting it aflame, and I appreciate the view I have now instead. The one where my husband greets our dog before he lifts his silver eyes to mine with a smile.

“You didn’t make it much of a challenge to find you today. That was probably a record. What are you up to, Dr. Sorensen?” I ask, grasping his coat as I rise on my tiptoes to place a kiss on his lips.

Jack steals a stray lock of my hair from the wind, tucking it behind my ear. “I think you’re smart enough to figure out it’s a surprise, Dr. Roth.”

I huff a laugh and Jack takes my hand, leading the way up the remaining distance of the path. We climb the rise of the hill where the familiar terrain stretches below. Bright morning sun bathes the pristine snow in light, glittering on the tributaries of meltwater across the plain that slopes to the wide river. I can just make out the sound of the current in the distance when Jack draws us to a halt in front of a large wrapped box on a waterproof blanket, the paper and ribbon and bow all in gold.

I look toward Jack, a dark hunger flashing in his eyes before they leave mine and he nods to the box. “Go ahead,” he says.

Cornetto joins by my side as I kneel on the blanket and tear the paper and ribbon free from a black case. I release the two latches and open it to reveal a beautiful compound bow, the bow riser and limbs painted in shades of blue with arrows to match. “It’s stunning, Jack,” I say, letting my fingertips run across the curve of the riser. “Thank you so much. What’s the occasion?”

He shrugs, trying to look nonchalant, but I catch a familiar gleam in his eyes that he can’t keep from me. “You told me once I should grovel. You didn’t say when I should stop.”

I cackle a laugh and he smiles. “Yeah…that won’t be happening.” My grin turns wistful as I slide my touch across the hand-painted details, the variegated streaks of blue shining in the sun.

“Take it out,” Jack says. “If the size and spec aren’t right, we can change it.”

I toss him a brief smile and then lift the bow from the case, examining the details, getting accustomed to the weight. Jack bends next to me and studies an arrow before passing it to me and we rise, the arrow already nocked by the time I straighten to look through the bow sight toward the horizon.

“I think it will be perfect, Jack.”

“Best to be sure.”

My gaze falls on Jack next to me as he navigates something on his phone with a devilish smile. He glances my way before jerking his head toward the flats. A moment later, a middle-aged, powerfully-built man stumbles onto the plain from our hidden kill room built into the rockface below us, raising his hand to his eyes as he scans the terrain ahead. Panic rolls through the crisp air on a string of quiet swears as he takes a step forward, his bare feet sinking into the melting snow.

“Sean Bailey. Former owner of your new lighter. Trust me when I say he meets all your criteria, petal.”

“Oh, I trust you, my love.”

I raise my bow as the man starts running toward the river.

“Maybe you shouldn’t trust me too much,” Jack says, his voice as rich as melted honey as he steps behind me, careful not to obstruct my hold on the weapon. His touch glides across my hip, his cool fingertips sliding beneath my shirt to caress my skin. His breath warms the shell of my ear as he whispers, “Tell me, lille mejer, would your panties be soaking wet right now?”

“Only one way to find out.”

I grin.

And then I let my arrow fly.