by
Moviemom44
Marie stands in the doorway of our room, watching me zip shut the backpack that will be my only luggage for this trip. I'll only be gone for the day this time, instead of the whole weekend, so I packed light - a couple of water bottles; an extra shirt, in case there's another ketchup mishap; a coloring book and crayons; and Ororo's borrowed iPod, freshly loaded with music she swears is popular with pre-schoolers. If she wondered why I was asking what the tricycle set was listening to these days, she didn't let on. Thank God for iTunes. Where else would a guy like me find songs sung by talking vegetables?
"So, are you ever going to tell me?" Marie asks.
It's the first time in three months that she's questioned me about my twice monthly weekend disappearances. I have to admire her restraint. Her perturbed tone is a far cry from the indignant growling I'd be doing if our positions were reversed.
I wish I could tell her. She's my wife. I shouldn't be keeping secrets from her, especially not this secret, but for now I have no choice. I can't say anything yet, not until I'm absolutely sure there's really something to tell.
"Tell you what?" I reply, shooting her my most charming smile. "That you're the best thing that ever happened to me? I thought I made that perfectly clear last night—four times."
Hey, it ain't braggin' if it's the truth. True or not, however, my attempt to distract her with flattery and a rehash of our lovemaking is a dismal failure. Not only is she not swooning, she doesn't even crack a smile.
"What's at the other end of Route 87?" she plows on tenaciously.
Oh, shit.
After a split-second panic attack—how the hell does she know that?—I figure that she's fishing. Most of my travels take me north into Canada and 87 is a fairly common route from New York to Quebec.
As I shoulder the backpack and dig the bike keys out of my jacket pocket, I decide to go with the tried and true stalling tactic of giving her an answer, just not the one she wants.
"Uh, depends on how far north you go. Once you hit Quebec, it turns into Route 15 and then from there—"
"Stop it, Logan! Stop actin' like you don't know what I'm talkin' about. I know you take that road to wherever it is you end up on these mysterious trips of yours. I saw the exit sign…last night…when I touched you…"
So that explains why I passed out after round four last night. I feel the angry growl start to rise in my chest. How dare she take advantage of my sexually sated state to pick my brain like that? To say nothing of blowing my shot at a Round Five. But then I see the guilty look on her face and my fury quickly dissipates. I know she did it out of desperation, not spite.
"Did you see anything else?" I ask, holding my breath.
Please…
She nods as tears well up in her big, brown eyes and her chin trembles.
...oh, please…
"A windshield, like in a van or SUV." Her face crumples and the tears flow as she chokes out the last detail. "And a child's car seat…in the back."
Aw, fuck!
How does that line go? Something about being 'just inches from a clean getaway'?
One more day. Not even that - a lousy eight or maybe ten hours and I'd have had the whole mess settled, one way or the other. And with only one little lie of omission to make up for. OK, a big lie of omission. Still, she'd have forgiven me for that — eventually. But actively refusing to answer her? That's a whole other animal. One that I just know is gonna come back and bite me squarely in the ass.
Even so, I can't explain now. Even if I could, I don't have time. A glance at the clock on the nightstand tells me I have to leave in the next ten minutes or I'll hit rush hour traffic which will add more than an hour to my travel time. And that doesn't include picking up the rental car and wrestling with the car seat. Shit, I gotta go!
The boy's mother has already proven that she means it when she says she won't wait more than thirty minutes past our scheduled meeting time. If I blow it again, she might do more this time than cancel the weekend; she could deny me visitation altogether. I can't let that happen.
But I can't just walk away from Marie either, not with her eyes so full of hurt and fear.
In my wildest dreams I never imagined being in this position. How on God's green earth did an eternal loner like me end up with more family than I know what to do with? And how do I tell Marie, my wife who I love more than anything, that my appointment at the last exit on Route 87 is with a woman I spent one weekend with five years ago and a little boy with dark, curly hair and hazel eyes who may—or may not—be my son?
"Marie, darlin', I'm so sorry I haven't told you about…where I'm going, but I swear to you it's not a bad thing. It's complicated, because there are…other people involved, good people…innocent people…who I have to protect, at least until I know everything I need to know. But honest to God, baby, none of it changes how I feel about you." Listening to myself say the words, even I know it sounds like so much bullshit, but it's as close to the truth as I can get for now.
I walk around the bed and stand in front of her. With my empty hand, I reach out to brush away a tear, but she steps back, avoiding my touch. She glares up at me, her eyes like two brown lasers burning holes in my face, daring me to cross the threshold without offering more than that anemic apology.
"Oh, Christ, Marie, I don't want to leave with things like this between us, but I have to go. If you can just trust me, darlin', for one more day, I promise by tonight you'll know more than you probably want to about all of it."
She considers my plea for a minute, her expression softer now, but still far from completely trusting. Then a flash of something—inspiration?—brightens her features and suddenly she leans in close to me and inhales deeply.
What the—?
And then it hits me. When she switched her skin on last night, she didn't just get those revealing bits of my memory, she also absorbed my powers, including my feral sense of smell. For a few hours at least, her nose will be as good a lie detector as mine is.
"So, am I lying?"
She studies me for several seconds and I get a real sense of how the gladiators must have felt while they waited for Caesar's thumb to decide their fate. My own nose tells me I'm sweating like a whore in church. I just hope Marie won't mistake the stench of anxiety over missing my fast-approaching deadline for the foul odor of falsehood.
She shakes her head slowly. "No," she finally says. "You're not lyin', but what you're not sayin' is scarin' me to death."
"I know. I'm sorry for that, too."
She looks at me expectantly, hoping I'll say something—anything—to ease her mind, but I can't. I simply don't have the answers she needs, not until I know for sure whether or not the boy is mine.
Another glance at the clock. Six minutes and counting. "Marie—"
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Logan stares back at me, his eyes issuing a desperate plea.
Let me go.
In that tiny instant, my inner bitch rears her ugly head and I resolve to do whatever it takes to keep him standing here in this room until the end of fucking time.
Let him go? Uh-uh. Not this time.
I have let him go, time and time again, without a single question about where he's going or who's waiting when he gets there. I don't ask before he leaves or after he comes home. I don't ask in the middle of the night when the nagging suspicions come creeping in, sounding like Jean in my head.
He's stepping out on you, Rogue. You knew this would happen. You're not enough for him. You'll never be enough.
Christ, the woman's been dead two years and still her running narrative on how wrong I am for Logan drones on, providing a vicious script for all my insecurities.
Look at him. Better yet, smell him. He reeks of panic. He can't get out of here fast enough. What's his hurry, I wonder? Getting to her - or getting away from you?
I never laid a bare hand on Jean, not once, but I might as well have, as firmly as she's entrenched under my skin.
Son of a bitch! I was past all that. We were past all that. We're married, for Christ's sake! You'd think the fact that Logan put on a tuxedo, stood up in front of every person we know a year ago and promised to love, honor and cherish me til death do us part would be enough to quell any doubts - even Jean infested ones - wouldn't you? Sure you would. And so did I.
Until three months ago. Until the Friday he came home early from cage fighting, made the most passionate love to me we'd ever shared - which is really sayin' somethin', 'cause our wedding night was nothin' short of legendary -- and then got out of bed, dressed, packed a bag, kissed me breathless and left, tossing "See you Sunday" over his shoulder on his way out the door. I was too drained from our hot monkey sex to protest, let alone speculate on where he might be going or why, so I just tossed "Be safe" back at him as the last shimmering waves of ecstasy hummed through my body.
Looking back, I can see the pattern clear as day. Every other Friday night, world's greatest lover. Saturday and Sunday, absentee husband. Sunday night, a guy whose best friend and his dog both died...on his birthday. I think it was that last thing that kept the voice of suspicion from screaming in my head from the very beginning. Certain kinds of missions have always affected him that way. He never talks about those. Not even with me.
But sometimes Hank can get him to open up, not about the gory details, just enough to prevent spontaneous combustion. So I asked him after Logan's last trip if he knew what had happened on the mission and, oh by the way, what the hell is up with all these solo missions that turn my husband into a walking ad for Prozac?
Hank eyed me over his spectacles like I'd just turned as blue as he is and informed me that no one had sent Logan on a solo mission in over six months. My expression must have been eloquent, because he immediately tried to backpedal his way to a cover story, but it was too late. Hank's a great friend, but he's a lousy liar.
I should have been hurt at being deceived all these weeks, but the first thing I felt was stupid. The stupid, naive little wife who sits at home and laps up the crock of shit she's being fed by her cheating husband like it's caviar and champagne while he uses her love - her trust -- to stab her in the back again and again.
And then the pain hit. Why? What had I done? Or not done?
Next came the fear. Doesn't he love me anymore? Is he going to leave me? And finally, finally, the fear and pain did what fear and pain always do; they became anger.
Oh, I was pissed. On an apocalyptic scale. But with the rage, oddly enough, came clarity of thought and I knew that I couldn't confront him without any evidence. I had to find out where he was really going and what -or who - he was doing there before I came at him with all the fury of a woman scorned. And while it about killed me to spend last week pretending everything was fine, I knew my best opportunity would come after our Friday night shagfest, so, like it or not, I had to wait.
I'd prepared myself for whatever brand of whorin' around I might see, but that car seat...Holy Christ, a car seat!
Shocked would be an understatement. Blindsided was more like it. Nothin' in my memories or his could have softened that blow. I've always known that Logan has a tender spot for children, for all kinds of young, helpless things, really. But the feelings attached to that blip of memory were so strong, so turbulent they literally took my breath away, forcing me to let go of him before I got any real answers. And with even more questions than when I started.
Clearly, the seat's occupant is no random kid. This child - some other woman's child - means a lot to Logan, so much that he's been sneakin' off every other weekend to see...him. If I don't know anything else, I know that much; that vibe was definitely male.
In the hours between last night's mental invasion and now, most of the anger has shifted again, back into fear and pain and the awful, naggin' certainty that this boy -and his mother? - belong to Logan as much - or more - than I do.
But possession is nine-tenths of the law, which means until he tells me otherwise, Logan is still mine. He swears that whatever is happening hasn't changed how he feels about me and I know he isn't lying, so I'll do like he asked and trust him - for now. But I don't have to like it. And I goddamn well don't.
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Marie moves aside to let me pass, but her eyes remain fixed on mine with an almost predatory determination. Somehow, while I was peeking at the clock, she's gone from scared to scary.
"Just don't make me sorry I trusted you, Logan. 'Cause in case you forgot, I'm not just your wife, I'm the Rogue."
With that, she grabs me by the shirt front and pulls me into a fierce, bruising kiss. It's obvious she's staking her claim, but the tiny sizzle of her mutation across my lips is also a reminder -a warning - that she's more than capable of kicking my ass to kingdom come and I'd damn well better not forget it.
"You sure as hell are, darlin' and I wouldn't have it any other way," I say with profound sincerity on my way out the door. "I gotta run. Bye."
And I do, literally, run down the steps. I'm halfway down when I hear Marie yell.
"Logan, wait!"
I consider pretending I didn't hear her so I can keep going, but she knows full well how keen my senses are and I'm in enough trouble as it is. I stop and turn around. Precious seconds tick away as I wait for her to catch up to me.
"What?"
"The child…who is he?"
The answer that damn near bursts from behind my teeth is 'My son', but that's just my heart talking. The truth is, I won't know for sure until after Hank analyzes the blood sample I won't be able to stand to watch him take out of that skinny little arm.
"Marie, I can't-"
"His name, Logan. Can you at least tell me his name?"
Before she agreed to let me meet him, his mother made me promise not to reveal his existence to anyone in my world, and so far I've kept my end of the deal - Marie's unauthorized snooping notwithstanding. But Marie is my wife and I made promises to her, too.
"It's Jack, darlin'. His name is Jack."