by Enders, KC
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to just let it all go. Give it away or …” The wave of sadness that presses down on her is visible from here. “I guess I could ask Jack if there’s anywhere I should send Dallas’s things. His dress uniforms? Maybe someone else can use them.”
“Today’s not the day to decide. Those were important enough to move down here. Hang on to them, maybe let Jake decide if he wants them,” I say. When I’ve got everything neatly folded, I set the stacks high on a shelf at the back of the garage. “We’ll go get some plastic totes in a bit. Grab some dinner.” I break the empty boxes down, load the pile for donations into my truck, and give the floor of the garage a quick sweep.
A couple of plastic totes, a sturdy freestanding shelf, and everything will be organized and tidy, allowing Chloe to safely pull her vehicle into the garage.
“You don’t have to do all that. You’ve done so much for me already.” She stands gingerly and fumbles with the camp chair, folding it to store. “I don’t know how to thank you for everything, Miles.”
Chloe walks stiffly toward me, and I take the chair from her, tucking it against the wall.
“Do you want to come with me?” I ask. I reach my hand out to steady her if she needs it but hold myself back.
She’s moving slow, and I’m sure her knee is tender, but I don’t really want to leave her. Not even for a short time. I’d rather have her tucked into my truck beside me with the wind ruffling through her hair.
“Do you mind? I’m not exactly quick on my feet, you know.” There it is. Just a hint of her sweet smile. “But I think maybe I’d like to get out of here for a bit. Is that okay?”
“I’d love it.” I steer Chloe toward my truck noting that she did at least change out of the leggings I shredded earlier and duck into the house to grab her shoes and purse. My breath catches as I step back out because as many times as I imagined pinup Chloe, dolled up and posed on Maggie’s hood, seeing her tucked into the passenger seat—hair wild and not a stitch of makeup, ready to run a couple errands with me—is somehow even better.
As I drive, I itch to reach for her hand.
As we walk through the store, it hurts me to see her pain.
As the sun sets, painting the sky behind her in brilliant colors, my heart feels at peace for the first time in a very long time.
Chapter Eleven
Chloe
Bronson’s ears perk, and he unfolds himself from the couch where he’s been sleeping soundly for the past two episodes of my Netflix binge. He slowly approaches the front window, as if he’s tracking a bird. It was important to Dallas that his dog be trained for when they had the chance to go hunting.
He stands perfectly still as he looks outside, ears up, tail straight. A barely perceptible tremor running through his body indicates he is prepared to go. All that’s needed is the command.
“Bronson,” I say sharply as he starts to tremble harder. “Leave it.” I push up from the couch and walk to the window to see what has him pointing.
My mom’s car is parked across the end of my driveway, blocking Miles’s pretty green truck in place. Jake jumps out of the back of the car, trying to look cool but failing miserably. He almost reminds me of Bronson, the barely contained excitement pushing its way to the surface.
The dog wags his stumpy little tail and seems to relax ever so slightly. It only lasts a moment though because the minute Miles steps out of his truck to greet Jake, Bronson loses his mind, whining and dancing his way to the front door and then back to the window. Obviously, I’m not moving fast enough for his liking.
“Bronson, sit,” I say firmly.
It’s all he can do to obey.
“Stay.” I use the hand signal that Dallas taught him to follow as faithfully as he does spoken commands. Keeping my hand to him, palm out, I open the front door and step out onto the front porch.
Bronson whimpers behind me, shaking all over.
“Quiet.” Without a thought, I reinforce the command with my pointer finger to my lips, and Bronson is immediately and completely silent.
“Hey. You’re back early,” I say to my parents as they walk up the drive, nervously darting my gaze to Miles.
Mom rolls her eyes and says, “Your dad was driving us all crazy. Your brother just about kicked us out first thing this morning.” She rests her hands on her hips and gives my dad the side-eye.
“The hell he did. Brent was on his way out the door, ready to come down here himself to check and see if Chloe’s friend handled her shower issue,” my dad huffs. “Who’s this?” Dad gives a chin lift toward Miles as he straightens to his full height.
“Miles Kent, sir. I’m the friend.” Miles extends his hand to shake and waits patiently as my father sizes him up and waits just a hair past comfortable to accept and shake the offered hand. “Ma’am,” Miles says politely to my mother as he offers his hand to her as well.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Miles. Elenore Franks, but please, call me Ellie.” She holds his hand in both of hers, a smile pulling at her lips as she takes full stock of Miles from head to toe.
My mother turns her sparkling eyes on me, and whatever is about to pass through her lips is going to embarrass me like I’m back in high school and she’s meeting my first real crush for the very first time. Not just any crush—Dallas.
“Jake, sweetie, go get your bag from Nonna’s car. I’ll get you unpacked, so your mama and Miles can show Grandpa what they’ve been up to this weekend.”
Dear sweet Jesus, is this really happening?
I toss my hand out to the side, and my dad doesn’t hesitate to lead the way inside, bestowing an ear scratch on Bronson as he does.
“Let’s see what you got up to here, Kent,” he grumbles.
My mother loops her hand through my arm and smiles slyly as we file into the house after Miles. Of course, she doesn’t miss the way Bronson barely contains his shit when Miles stops to greet him.
“Well, isn’t that interesting?” she murmurs.
While she might think I’m the only one to hear her comment, the subtle shake of Miles’s broad shoulders indicates that he heard not just the words, but also the insinuation in her tone.
I’m torn, not sure whether it’s best to run interference with my dad for Miles or face the inquisition by my mother.
Thirty-four years old, and I’m still nervous with a boy in the house, meeting my parents for the first time. A boy with muscles and a cocky grin. A boy with a classic car and capable hands. A boy who makes my heart flutter when I thought for sure it was broken beyond repair. A boy who makes me feel things I never thought I’d feel again.
The decision is made for me when my mom gives me a gentle shove toward the kitchen, saying, “Let’s see what we can pull together for a nice lunch, sweetie. We’ve got some hungry men. Jake, baby, bring that bag in here for me.” And just like that, my mama is running the show.
Footsteps creak lightly overhead, the TV buzzes from the living room, and the scream of my mother’s silent questions echo in the kitchen. She rummages through my refrigerator, pulling stuff out for sandwiches and salad fixings. We work side by side for a few moments until she can’t stand it any longer.
“So …” That single word, hanging in the breeze is all it takes to get me talking, and she knows it.
“Like I told you, Mom, when I got home on Friday to grab Bronson, water was pouring through the garage ceiling. I called my friend Natalie, and next thing I knew, Miles was swooping in, taking care of everything.”
“Mmm, friend.” Her implication rings loud. “And Bronson? He’s only greeted one other person that way.”
Don’t I know it. “Mmhmm,” I respond, busying myself with chopping veggies for a big green salad.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.” I fight the smile threatening to pinch at my cheeks. “He’s Jake’s rugby coach. He works with my friend Natalie. That’s it, Mom, nothing more.” At least, nothing I’m ready to talk to my m
other about.
No matter how good our relationship, she doesn’t need to know that the countertop where she’s laying out lunch hosted a scorching make-out session just last night. My cheeks flush at the memory of his touch, his lips on mine. The way he moved me and fit so deliciously against me.
“Maybe it’s time for more,” she says softly. Turning to face me fully, my mother leans against the counter and looks at me, seeing me the way only she can. “Six years, Chloe. Dallas would want you to move on, live your life. He’d want more for you than living with just his memory.”
“It’s not six yet, Mom, not until this summer. And I know he would. It’s just hard to—”
“Mom, is lunch ready? I’m starving. Grandpa wouldn’t stop on the way home,” Jake complains, bursting into the kitchen. “He said he had to get back and make sure the plumbing was the only thing being taken care of.” His words are muffled as he paws through the pantry, but there’s no question what my father was hinting at.
If he’s okay with saying that to my mom, I don’t want to think about what he might be saying to Miles right now.
“Just about, baby. Go yell for Gramps and Miles, okay?”
As soon as his back is turned, I shoot my mom a full what the hell look, and bless her, she just laughs and waves a hand through the air. As if that little motion is enough to bat away my annoyance at my dad’s comment in the car. Thank God Jake’s still oblivious to innuendo. At least, he seems to be.
“Oh, lighten up, sugar. Your dad’s just looking out for you.”
My quiet call of bullshit is swallowed down as my father’s booming voice floats down the stairs along with him.
“That’s a fine vehicle out there. You get her that way, or did you put in the work?”
Speaking of thinly veiled double meanings …
Humor laces Miles’s polite reply. “Thank you, sir. She was in rough shape when I found her. Most of the work, I did myself, but I’ve had to ask for help here and there.”
“Well, it looks like you put your heart into her.” Respect is evident in my father’s words. If only he left it at that, but above all else, he’s my dad, and he’s not about to miss an opportunity to drive a threat home. “You treat her right, and she’ll do the same for you. Just don’t jerk her around. Something that special needs to be handled with care. Reverence. You get me?”
“Dad,” I warn.
I know he means well, but he’s pushing too hard. If he keeps this up, he might end things with Miles before they have a chance to get started.
Thankfully, Miles looks like he’s rolling with this display and nods respectfully. “Yes, sir. Loud and clear.”
After lunch, I send Jake up to do his homework, and Miles takes my dad out to the garage, so he can inspect the rest of the repairs. I don’t know if it’s the final inspection or the peek under the hood of Miles’s truck, but my dad seems to have been won over.
“Ellie, let’s go. These kids don’t need us old folks hanging around all day. Miles, you ever want to open her up out on the country roads, you give me a call.” They shake hands, and then my dad turns to me. “Chloe, your brother missed you this weekend. Might want to give him a call and catch up.”
And with that and my promise to see them soon, my parents take off, leaving me with their stamp of approval.
“So, those were my parents,” I say, rolling my lips between my teeth. “They mean well, but they can be a bit much.”
“They’re great. Your dad knows his old cars,” Miles comments, smiling. “Hey, how’s your knee? Not too sore?”
“It’s good,” I say, picking up the pile of Jake’s freshly washed clothes and setting it on the stairs. “But I think I’ll just wait to take this up when I go later.”
* * *
Miles checked that everything still looked good on the repairs. He threw the rugby ball with Jake and wore him out. He threw the tennis ball for Bronson and wore him out. And I watched it all from the comfort of my patio chair, my foot propped up on the ottoman. I graded the rest of my papers and updated the online grading system, happy to see that Shane Dempsey was out of danger of summer school. I drank a glass of sangria—fine, two—and I let my mind wander.
I thought of Dallas.
Every couple we knew had had the conversation somewhere between deployments. The what if conversation.
What if you’re hurt?
What if there’s an accident?
What if the baby gets sick?
What if something breaks in the house?
What if you don’t come back?
We’d had the conversation more than once, and Dallas was adamant that I not pine for him. That I should move on and love again. That finding love and welcoming someone new into our lives wouldn’t diminish our love, wouldn’t negate what we had.
“Bonus points if he’s in the service, extra if he’s Special Forces. If he looks like me, we’ll call it a tribute—as long as he’s good to you and Jake. But for the love of God, don’t marry navy or air force. Stick with the army. Soldiers work for a living; navy guys write books and the Zoomies take naps.”
I’m sure the other branches of service have similar shit talk about their army brothers, but I’ve seen the respect, the high esteem they hold for each other.
“I think I’m going to head out. You need anything before I go? Another glass of sangria?” The smooth, deep timbre of Miles’s voice pulls me back from the past.
The sun is low, casting pinks and oranges across the sky, a beautiful backdrop for a striking man. A man who looks nothing like Dallas. A former SEAL. Wind kicks up, tousling his dark hair.
“Thank you,” I say, squinting up at him.
“No worries. Glad I could help.”
I stand, taking my wineglass in hand. I reach for my laptop as Miles steps forward to do the same.
“I’ve got it.” He places his hand on my back, steadying me as he invades my space.
We’re close. It would be so easy to slide my hand behind his neck and pull him closer. To tilt my head and kiss him.
His gaze goes soft and drops, settling on my lips.
“Mom, can I have some ice cream?” Jake yells, leaning through the sliding glass door.
The moment is gone in a gust of wind and poor timing. I take a step back and see my disappointment mirrored in Miles’s expression.
“Go ahead. Just show some restraint, all right?” I call as he disappears inside.
“Yes, ma’am,” is echoed between the men on either side of me.
Chapter Twelve
Miles
“Where the hell were you all weekend? You never got back to me.”
The smell of stale beer overlaid with Chance’s cologne burns my nose. It seems like more and more often, he’s showing up at work with the weekend’s bad decisions trailing behind him.
I push a bottle of water in his direction and dig through my drawer for some ibuprofen.
“I was helping a friend with some renovations.” It’s close enough to the truth.
“A friend? What fucking friend is doing house shit and needs your help?” Chance shakes four, maybe five, pills into his palm and washes them down before slumping into the chair across from me. He sets the bottle on the floor and crosses his arms over his chest. Most likely to hide the way his hands are shaking.
A beat passes, drawing into a full minute, before he lifts his head and fully focuses on me. “That chick, the SOS call Lee got on Friday from her friend. She didn’t send Liam in to help, did she?”
My fingers still, hovering above my keyboard. Not that I was actually typing anything of importance, just responding to an email from Aly’s lawyer. I shake off his stare. “Liam didn’t need to drop what he was doing for everyone. Wasn’t a big deal to step in and help her out.” I tap the delete button a handful of times and try to think of a stronger way to ask when I really need to show my face in California.
“Her? Her who? Natalie or one of her friends? You got an in with the wives, man? Provi
ding services while their husbands are gone?” A slick look settles on his face.
“Not funny,” I say. Yeah, there’s a teasing tone, but that’s not my thing. Never has been, and sure as fuck is never going to be. Cheating, lying, deception, and avoidance are hard fucking limits. “There’s no spouse. You remember that chick who passed out in line at the convenience store when we were out, grabbing lunch, a couple of weeks ago? Turns out, she’s Shane’s math teacher. Natalie went to school to hash out Shane’s shitty math grade and brought home a new friend.”
“Sleeping Beauty?”
“Snow White, man. Get your Disney shit straight. But, yeah, that’s her. She had a pipe burst, so I fixed her shower, patched some drywall. No big, just giving her a hand.”
“Just a hand?” He scrapes his palm across his three-day stubble, the skin on his wrist shiny with fresh ink.
I shake my head, not wanting to get into this with him. Of course, Chance takes it up a notch, sticking his tongue out between his fingers.
“Shoplifting the pootie? Tapping the single mom? Clark, that is not like you.” He laughs, standing to hopefully walk away. “You’re going to have to give up your cape, lose the hero shit. Now that you hit it, man, you have got to quit it. Take a field assignment and get the fuck out of town.”
“Right,” I say, shaking my head.
I love the guy, but sometimes, I just want to smack the shit out of him. Beat some sense into him. Not because what he’s saying is wrong. It’s just not even close to what went down, and he should fucking know that’s not me.
“Shut up, asshole. I replaced a valve, changed her fucking showerhead, and almost had to take her for stitches after she fell and split her knee open.”
As the words spill from my mouth, I know—I just know—he’s going to latch on to the comment about roughing up her knees. But, no … nope, that’s not what he goes with.
