I have the urge to talk to family and dial my sister as I walk into the house. She answers on the first ring.
"Are you dying?" Katya demands.
I laugh. "No. Haven't talked to you in a while."
"A week, Petr."
"I keep forgetting Sawyer's out of town." A twinge of envy slides through me. He's the commander of my old team, and the entire spec-ops team is overseas for a mission. I'd give almost anything to be with them. God, do I miss those days!
"Yeah," she sounds glum. "You coming to visit me?"
"Not this week. I have to talk to Bev about pie towers and shit."
"Ooohhh. I almost forgot it's Thanksgiving this week! Just tell her not to put them in the corner like she tried to last year."
I snort. "She knows what she's doing."
"You are way too nice, Petr."
"Yeah," I agree, mind on Brianna. "I think I am sometimes."
"What's wrong?" Concern is in her voice. "The Army isn't trying to take you go overseas are they?"
"Nah. I'm grounded from that," I answer. "They let me make my own hours and everything. I've got a cushy recruiter job."
"Which you hate."
"It's something." Not what I want, but it does keep me in the military.
"You sound down, Petr."
"Maybe a bit. It's almost the holidays. You're away, and Mikael is gone," I admit. "Baba says you need to give him three grandkids by the way."
"Tell Baba my husband has to stay in country more than a few days for that to happen."
I smile at her spicy response.
"Petr, tell me you aren't giving Brianna the time of day." Hyper vigilant about being my little protector, Katya asks me this question almost every time we talk.
"Trying not to."
"What does that mean?"
"It means … I don't want to but keep doing it."
"Petr!"
"I know." I push open the door to my bedroom and drop onto the couch facing the hearth, nudging my shoes off as I prepare mentally for her lecture.
"You are far too good for that bitch," she starts. "You want me to beat her up again?"
I laugh hard, recalling the incident between the two almost a year and a half ago, when Katya punched Brianna at a summer camp we sponsor every year for the children of parents who were slain in battle.
Katya sternly gives me an earful and finishes with, "Why do you keep going back to her?"
"I don't know," I respond.
"No, really? Why?"
"A little insecure, I guess." I stretch out on the couch and gaze at the ceiling.