This scene takes place right after the end of Rogue Officer when Griff and Sloane go to Florida to spend Christmas with his mom.
Griff
“Sweetheart? The car’s ten minutes away.” Sliding my travel card into my wallet next to my driver’s license, I tap the temple of my glasses to turn them on.
For ten days, we’ve hidden out in Sloane’s little bungalow, but it’s almost Christmas, and all my mom wants is to see her son and meet the woman who changed his life. So we’re flying to Key West for the long weekend.
I catch the scent of her lotion seconds before she stamps her foot on the hardwood to let me know she’s behind me.
Even after all we’ve been through, I still lose my breath every time I see her. “You look amazing.”
She chews on her lower lip, her brown eyes full of uncertainty. “What if someone recognizes me?”
Her ASL is almost better than mine now. She’s been watching videos with me every day, and the other night, I brought her a cup of tea while she was in the bath and found her with my tablet propped up on the counter, learning all the grammar rules that differ from English.
“If anyone hassles you, they’ll have to deal with me.”
“Worried…T-S-A?”
“I’m not looking forward to it. No.” Wrapping my right arm around her waist, I brush my lips to hers. “My glasses are on. You don’t need to sign until I have to send them through the X-Ray.”
“But it’s easier for you, isn’t it?”
I shrug my good arm. “Sometimes. But my heart hears you, Sloane. Always. No matter what.”
***
The airport is a cacophony of noise even I can hear. The glasses are overwhelmed within minutes of showing our IDs to the TSA agent. Thank fuck for Dax’s connections and the money Wren and Ripper liberated from Volkov. Flying first class let us bypass most of the line.
Bags, tablets, phones, and my glasses go into the bins, but I pull the card out of my wallet before I relinquish it to the X-Ray machine and pass it to the man standing next to the full-body scanner.
I’m deaf and have a prosthetic arm. I can read lips if you speak slowly, and my girlfriend can sign.
“Sir, arms over your head and hold still.”
Sloane worries her lip between her teeth as I step into the machine. She doesn’t relax until the TSA agent waves me through and points to a spot on one of the anti-fatigue mats. Another man comes up with a small cotton pad and motions to my arm, but he’s mumbling.
“I’m deaf, man. I know you need to do a secondary screening, but can you wait a minute for my girlfriend? She can interpret for me.”
He motions to my arm again, and mumbles something I can’t understand since he yawns as he’s talking. Dammit. I carry that card for a reason. I won’t give him shit for doing his job, but he needs to respect me as much as I need to respect him.
“Sloane!” I call. “A little help.”
The female agent waves her through, and she rushes over to me. “My boyfriend is deaf,” she signs, saying the words at the same time. “Tell me what you need.”
After a few seconds, she adds, “Unbutton your sleeve. They need to see.”
I’m not surprised. Or upset. This is part of my reality now. But the look the agent shoots me is pure frustration. Like I’m inconveniencing him by missing an arm.
After the uniformed agent squeezes the prosthetic in several places and tests is for explosives, he waves us on and we can finally gather our things.
“I liked security in Zurich much better,” Sloane says when we’re sitting in the relative quiet of the Fly Miles Elite lounge with steaming cups of tea and a plate of fruit between us.
“It helped that Dax had connections with Air Suisse. But most international airports are better than the United States.”
I rub my left shoulder, checking the straps supporting the prosthetic. “My mom has a hot tub.” With a weary smile, I take a sip of tea. “I hope you packed your bathing suit.”
***
It’s well after eight when the car service pulls onto a palm tree-lined street in Cudjoe Key. Mom hurries down the steps—only a little slower than the last time I saw her.
“Griff!” She wraps her arms around me, her fingers brushing the prosthetic’s straps, but she doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t react at all.
Until she draws back to look at me. “Flight good?” she signs.
“Mom? You learned how to sign?”
Giving me one of her patented “Mom side-eyes,” she adds, “You’re deaf. You sign. I learned.”
“I told you about the glasses.” If I’m honest, the damn thing aren’t doing me a damn bit of good right now with tears burning my eyes.
Until Sloane traces a line across my left palm. The sensation never fails to ground me. To remind me what’s real. What’s truly important.
“Mom? This is Sloane.”
***
Sloane
Griff’s mother leads us up the stairs to her condo. “You stop me if your glasses don’t pick up everything I’m saying.”
“Mom, if they don’t…how would I know?”
Jeanette stops in her tracks, turning with one hand on the railing. “Well, shit.”
“Unless we’re in a loud restaurant, you don’t have to worry,” Griff says. “And I’m damn good at reading lips if I need a break from them.”
“You’re sure?”
He takes her by the shoulders and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Yes. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I’m your mother. I’ll always worry about you.”
Seeing the two of them together makes me think of my mama. Even though Griff’s friends pulled off a small miracle by giving me dual citizenship, it’s too dangerous for me to travel to Russia to see my family. But in the spring, we will try to meet somewhere safe for all of us.
“I made up the guest room. Second door on the right,” Jeanette says. “Go unpack while I talk to Sloane.”
“Mom—“
“Griffin…go.”
With a quickly mouthed, “I’m sorry,” he disappears down the hall.
“Now come with me, honey. I have coffee, tea, wine, champagne, lemonade, and water. What can I get you?”
“Water’s fine. I…um…don’t drink.” I wait for her disapproval. Her questions.
But all she does is fill two glasses from a pitcher in the fridge, one for each of us. “Here you go. Let’s go outside. It’s nice this time of night.”
A gentle breeze stirs the air, and Jeanette pats the bright pink cushion on a patio chair. The water is so calm. No crashing surf, no waves. The sun set on our drive from Orlando, and tiny lights stretch out along the shore in the distance from dozens of other houses. It’s peaceful, and the anxiety I’ve carried all day starts to ebb.
“How is he? Really?” she asks. “He’s lost weight. He looks…happy, though. Does his arm hurt him? I read about phantom pain. I don’t want to pry, but…”
This is my first—my only—real relationship. Do I tell her? If we were meeting my mother, would I want Griff to be honest with her?
After I take a sip of water, I settle for what I hope is a safe answer. “I don’t think he’ll mind if you ask him.”
Jeanette stares out over the water. “Griffin and I haven’t been close in years. When he joined the CIA…well, not being able to talk about your job makes things difficult. I hadn’t heard from him in almost three months when he emailed me after…the attack. I wanted to visit, but he said he wasn’t ready. So I stayed away.”
My heart aches. Griff loves her, but late last night, he told me how worried he was about coming here. About how his mother would react to his new reality.
“He told me a little about those first few months,” I say. “They were hard for him. But he is happy now. He doesn’t have phantom pain, but sometimes, the prosthetic weighs on him. I think he will tell you if that happens while we’re here.”
Relief relaxes the myriad of lines around her eyes. With her white hair pulled into a loose bun and little makeup, she fits here, in this condo on the water with pink cushions and a seashell table.
“What about you?”
“Me?”
Jeanette turns so she’s facing me. “You look like you’ll hit the ceiling if I move too fast. Do I make you that nervous? I don’t bite. I promise”
My cheeks heat, and I play with the hem of my tank top. “I have anxiety. Sometimes…I get panic attacks. Today was a lot.”
I’d hoped to get through the next three days without needing more than a single dose of my anxiety meds. But the airport ruined that plan.
Griff’s mother pats my hand. “My bridge partner, Audra, has anxiety. She didn’t leave the house for years before they started having all those commercials on TV for mental health. You know the ones with that cute girl from The Good Place?”
Nodding, I dip my fingers into my pocket to touch my pill case. I won’t take another dose for three hours, but it calms me a little to know it’s there. “We watched the whole show while we were in Zurich. With my friend Marina.”
The sliding door opens, and Griff slips outside with a glass of iced tea in his hand. He’s removed his light jacket, and his t-shirt puts his prosthetic on full display.
Jeanette only stares for a single beat, then lifts her gaze to his face. “Can you still chop vegetables?”
“Yes.” He waves each finger in turn before transferring the glass to his prosthetic hand and squeezing onto the loveseat next to me. His other arm drapes around my shoulders, and I snuggle against his side. “Most advanced arm on the planet.”
“Good. I ordered a spiral cut ham for Christmas dinner, but you’re going to help me prep my famous kale casserole.”
“I can help too,” I offer. “Though…I’ve never cooked anything fancier than an egg white omelet.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re here.” Jeanette kicks her legs out and crosses them at the ankles. “Tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to make my grandmother’s apple pie.”
***
Flour covers the apron Jeanette gave me, and the lump of shaggy dough in front of me looks awful.
“What am I doing wrong?” I ask. “It’s…lumpy.”
“It’s supposed to be lumpy.” She peers across the counter, pursing her lips, and angling her head slightly. “Sprinkle one more tablespoon of water over it, then go back to kneading. But only for a minute. You want those lumps of butter. That’s what makes the crust flaky.”
Griff left half an hour ago to pick up the ham for tomorrow, and Jeanette has been chopping apples the whole time. She’s not making one pie, but three, and this last crust is apparently my responsibility.
“There you go. Now flatten it out a bit, and we’ll pop it in the fridge to chill.”
When I finish and wash the bits of dough from my fingers, she covers the bowl of apples, and nods toward the Christmas tree. “Let’s sit in the living room until Griffin gets back with the ham. Go on. I’ll be right in.”
I refill our glasses of iced tea and take a seat on the couch. Her tree is small, every branch laden with ornaments, and half a dozen presents wrapped underneath.
Jeanette hums as she emerges from her bedroom with a box in her hands. “It’s been just me here at Christmas for the past few years. I forgot all about the stockings. Help me hang them?”
She hands me the box, then pulls three framed beach prints off the wall next to the tree.
I set the box on the coffee table and pull out the first stocking. Red velvet backing, with a cross-stitch scene of Santa Claus checking his list, and Jeanette’s name on top. Griff’s is blue, with a snowman and a young boy on a sled.
But I gasp when I reach the last one and tears burn my eyes. The Christmas village reminds me of Zurich, topped with snow white mountains and a handful of delicate trees. Running my fingers over the dark green letters of my name, I swallow hard. “Did you make these? All…of these?”
“My eyes aren’t as good as they once were, but I think it came out okay,” she says as she eases my stocking from my trembling hands and hangs it next to the others.
“Jeanette, it’s perfect. Thank—“
“Oh, no.” She shakes her head in that way only a mother knows how to do. “I can tell how much my son loves you. Call me ‘Mom.’”