Nixon

••• Thirty-Eight •••

My fingers brush over the black leather, the material tough, able to withstand mother nature, to withstand years of wear and tear. Closed with a golden tie around the side, the journal looks simple rather than what I expected would be for for a King that sits on a throne of lies as he conducts a nation. I take my focus from the book, shifting it to the sunrise that reaches over the trees, pouring through the empty branches as the leaves are gone and snow falls to the earth like feathers of an angel. As my fingers brush against the leather, my eyes scan the horizon of the land Nixon build this pack from, taking Crimson Lock from a wealthy pack to one not just strong, but a leading pack, respectful, feared, and one to not be messed with. Nixon made so much of Crimson Lock what it is today, dating back to before Lillian even entered the picture and stained the masterpiece in areas where light once used to shine. I guess I was the opposite force of her, her enemy, her opposite who took those dark pieces of Nixon and built areas of light and whimsical color combinations as he once more experienced love abd happiness.

But now Nixon feels planets away, a barrier between us more distant than I could think to name...far out of reach as I wait for word. Ever since he left five hours ago I have stayed in his office, placed in his chair as I face the tall and wide windows, the journal of Zion's holding every duty secret of his, right on this desk as so much could be revealed. So many truths told and mysteries unraveled. Taking a deep breath, I take my hand from the book, clasping my hands together in my lap as I allow my eyes to check my phone, nervous for updates as I know the situation happening what feels like far away can not be one of happiness.

Within a matter of hours do I hope to hear my phone ring and Nixon to be the voice behind that call. I pray that Nixon's voice is the one on the other line as I get news of my husband to return. With my mind settled on focusing on the optimist side of life, I turn away from the window, swirling around in the chair to face the desk and room before me, empty but holding so many secrets just waiting to be discovered. Nixon led a life of mystery, of secrets, events played out that he may tell me one day when he decides the tome has come to open more of his demons to me. He would rather have me hear of those demons from him than from the black book he has stowed away somewhere in this house. I fell for the man that Nixon is today, not the man he was years ago, when Lillian whispered sweet nothings into his ear and told him of fantasies that he was able to see though in the end. Would I ever even want to hear those parts of Nixon's past, to expand my horizons beyond the little I even know of Lillian or his life before her. Of the man Nixon was years ago.

I stand, my bare feet upon the cold wood, clothed in nothing but a pair of dark blue shorts, a thin white top, and Nixon's own navy robe, one he kept for mornings after a shower, when he would venture down to the kitchen and brew a cup of coffee. Those mornings will always stick with me, how I would wake up to coffee made already downstairs, Nixon sitting at the kitchen table, looking out to the forest before him, light jazz music playing in the background. Those Saturday and Sunday mornings are moments I will  always cherish, no matter what the outcome of this day is. No matter what happens, moments where Nixon seemed to be more human than supernatural, more mortal than the immortal I sometimes see him as, and more down-to-earth. I can still recall one of our first nights in this new home, how he took me into every room, explaining a color scheme he had in mind, a layout of the furniture, a plan for what the room to be used for, and so much more as he led me around, a smile on his face as if it was Christmas, and seeming so child-like as my heart could only swell. A week ago we had ventured into the town, for my to get my roots touched up as he went around the local shops, returning to pick me up with bags from local child boutiques in his arms as he was a proud father-to-be. He picked out stuffed animals for this child, clothing for her age according to the different months of her age, and even a pastel pink knitted blanket that is draped over our own bed, a reminder of the family we have just begun. A family that needs its father.