by Jane Slate
“Hit me again Miller,” she instigated. “I’ll call the police and you’ll never see these kids again.”
She nodded over her shoulder to where the children had gathered on the stairs. Lily held Ella in her arms. She was trying so hard to be a big girl but Grace could tell she was frightened. They all were. Beside his sisters, Henry cowered with his father’s clunky helmet on his head. He was trying his best not to cry. A sickening feeling fell over Grace.
She couldn’t subject them to this. Not anymore.
“That’s right,” Grace whispered hotly. “Look at your children, Miller. Look what you’re doing to them.”
Miller tensed his jaw. His eyes softened. He looked at his children and loosened his grip on his wife, shaking his head. His face darkened.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His eyes lingered on Henry’s. He gave him a look Grace couldn’t quite decipher and was silent for a long time.
“I’m going to make everything all better,” he finally said. His voice sounded far away and distant. The bottle of whiskey in his hand dropped to the floor with a loud thud and spilled out on the carpet. He made his way up the stairs, holding out a hand to stop the children from following him.
“Y’all give your daddy a few minutes to collect himself,” Grace instructed, collecting herself. They nodded and reluctantly shuffled forward, taking their seats at the kitchen table. It was dinner time and their internal clocks were programmed.
Grace entered the kitchen and opened the fridge, pulling out all the fixings for grilled cheese sandwiches. The children’s favorite.
Then she heard it.
A high pitched cracking noise followed by a deafening silence. A gunshot. It came from upstairs and rattled the small house, lingering in the air long after it was over. Grace fell to her knees in shock. The children covered their ears and began to cry.
Grace lost it.
The suddenness and brutality of Miller’s actions hit her with full force. She collapsed under the weight of her shock as he slipped from her grasp.
He was dead.
PART TWO
"Dulce bellum inexpertis."
"War is sweet to those who have never fought."
Chapter Thirteen
Their relationship had bloomed one summer day years ago. Long before their children were born. A whirlwind romance that swept both of them off their feet.
And it had ended with the pull of a trigger and a single gunshot that rang into the night. The muffled sound of Grace’s life shattering around her.
With all the strength she could muster, she pulled herself from the ground and walked up the stairs. And there it was. The undeniable proof. A scene she would never forget. Miller was sprawled out on their bedroom floor, lying face first in a pool of his own blood.
Gone was any spark of life. She hadn’t seen him smile in months, but now she never would again. This was goodbye forever.
He didn’t even have the decency to leave a note.
With shaking hands Grace picked up the phone and dialed 911, stepping over her husband’s lifeless body. An ambulance arrived shortly after and two EMTS verified Miller’s death.
The hearse came next. And while all this happened, Grace’s world seemed to spin around her. Days later, she removed his clothing from his side of the closet and began to bag it. She hesitated as her fingers brushed over his leather cut.
She took it out and inspected it, running her fingers over the patches that adorned it. They had meant everything to Miller. She clutched the leather to her chest and buried her face in it, inhaling his scent.
Angie entered the bedroom clad in all black. She lingered in the doorway and reached for Grace’s hand.
“It’s time,” she whispered.
When they arrived at the cemetery, Grace didn’t know what to do. A pack of people swarmed around her and her children. She bowed her head and tried to ignore them. Angie squeezed her shoulder and pulled her through the crowd,
“Stay with me,” Grace begged her sister as she started to pull away. “Please.”
Angie nodded and came forward.
“Of course,” she answered.
She wrapped her arms around Grace’s shoulders and smiled softly. They stood in front of Millers grave and Grace didn’t even cry. What was left of her tears had dissolved with her resolves.
Grace could hear the low rumble of motorcycles approaching in the distance. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she stared down at the hole her husband would soon be buried in. Her children stood silent and glossy eyed beside her but there was nothing she could do to comfort them. They were still too numb and young to understand that this was their final goodbye. That their father was gone and he wouldn’t be coming back.
Not this time.
Tears began to brim over Grace’s eyelids, blurring her vision as six shiny motorcycles rolled through the cemetery’s large metal gates, each one offset by American flags that blew in the wind. Grace recognized two of the men as Landon and Nash. She shifted on her feet and avoided eye contact with them as the Priest who Angie had hired continued speaking, highlighting all the high points of her Miller’s short life.
No one mentioned anything about how it had ended.
A black hearse pulled in after the bikes, its windows dark and tinted. All of the vehicles came to a stop a few feet away from where Grace was standing with her family. A handful of Marines stepped out of the hearse as Landon, Nash, and the rest of the SOW men dismounted from their bikes. They opened the back hatchet of the hearse and lifted out the casket.
Each man grabbed a handle as they brought it forward, their heads held high. Nash made eye contact with Grace and nodded at her. She exhaled a deep breath and wiped at her eyes.
The men gently lowered the wooden casket onto the platform above the grave and stepped back, raising their hands to their forehead with their fingers tight together. They stood like that for several seconds, saluting Grace and her children.
Landon stepped forward and unrolled an American flag over Miller’s casket, his eyes never leaving Grace’s.
She looked away from him and stared at her husband’s casket as a numbness settled over her.
As the funeral progressed, Grace lost herself in memories of happier times. Times before the war. Before the drinking. Before her life had come crashing down around her. She pressed her fingers against the worst bruise Miller had left on her arm and deliriously held on to something that wasn’t there.
Would never be there.
Evoking physical pain on herself kept her alert and sane. She stared at the coffin and willed Miller to wake up. To declare it all just one big terrible joke. But she knew that would never happen.
The priest blessed the grave and sprinkled holy water on the base of the tombstone. He gestured for Grace to come forward. She ran her fingertips along the flag. Nash took it from her and folded it, enclosing it in a glass frame. He handed it back to Grace without a word and she clutched it to her chest with trembling hands, bending down to press her lips against the casket. She began to sob as her knees went out on her. Angie came forward and escorted her away as the rest of the guests stepped up to pay their respects.
Grace was a widow at the age of twenty-six, but it wasn’t the war that had taken Miller from her. It was a decision of his own making.
“Grace?” Angie asked softly, tapping her sister on the shoulder. “The kids are getting hungry. We should go.”
Grace shook her head and traced her fingers along the marble headstone. Guests started to retreat to their vehicles as the casket was lowered into the ground and covered with dirt.
“You go ahead,” Grace insisted. “I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll get a ride home.”
Angie hesitantly agreed and walked away with the children, climbing into the funeral car they arrived in. Grace turned her back and kneeled down in front of Miller’s grave. Exhaustion fell over her.
“Why did you do this?” she choked out, pounding a fist against the dirt. She closed her
eyes and took a deep breath.
The scent of murky water and fresh soil filled Grace’s nostrils. She could hear someone approaching her from behind, their footsteps wet and sloppy in the mud. She felt a hand rest on her shoulder and slowly stood up to turn around, brushing the dirt off of her knees.
Landon.
He looked at Grace with all of the emotions she was feeling. Grief, anguish, loss. Her eyes shone against his, a sea of molten blue clashing against brown.
“You look cold,” he commented.
Before Grace could formulate an answer, Landon removed his jacket and hung it over her shoulders. He mumbled something she couldn’t quite hear and shifted on his feet.
Grace whispered a thank you, avoiding eye contact with him. She could tell he felt guilty, as though their brief affair had somehow caused Miller to do what he did.
“No one does that anymore,” Grace commented, wrapping Landon’s jacket tighter around herself.
Landon shrugged.
“I guess I’m old fashioned.”
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and smiled softly, blinking back tears. For a while, they stood frozen like that. With his hand on her shoulder and their eyes glued to Miller’s grave as they basked in their sadness.
Grace struggled and tried to pull away from him, but Landon pulled her back, wrapping his strong arms around her body as she went limp against him. She clung to him and wept, letting her grief take over.
He buried his face in her hair.
“I’m sorry,” Landon whispered, his voice hoarse.
Grace crumbled and began to hit his chest, her tiny hands balled into fists. He didn’t try to stop her.
Her rage and bitterness bubbled to the surface. Everything she had been holding in as she struggled to remain strong for her kids unleashed upon him.
“I hate him!” she yelled, her voice choking in her throat.
“How could he do this?” she cried out. “I hope he rots in hell!”
Landon held her tighter in his arms and accepted each blow until Grace was too exhausted to continue.
“Let me go!” she begged, but Landon refused. He held her even tighter and she finally relaxed against him.
A bond had been formed. One of understanding and comfort between two broken people.
Landon reached into his back pocket and pulled out a bandana. He wiped it over Grace’s swollen cheeks and red-rimmed eyes and ticked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“Come on,” he said, pulling her towards his bike.
The drive back to his place was silent but for the soft hum of his Harley’s engine. They ignored the screams and honks from people in other vehicles as they weaved in and out of traffic. Grace wrapped her arms around him and pressed her head against his back.
When they finally arrived at Landon’s trailer, her spirits lifted. He unlocked the door and escorted her inside, reaching to turn on the light.
“Um...I’ll grab you a change of clothes,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You look exhausted.”
Grace smiled weakly and thanked him. A few moments later, Landon returned with an oversized U.S Marines t-shirt and a pair of cotton drawstring pants. He sat down beside her on the couch and handed them to her.
“You can change in the bathroom,” he said, nodding to a door across the hall. Grace fidgeted. She could feel him staring at her.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
She turned to make eye contact with him for the first time since they had arrived.
“Really.”
Landon smiled at her and nodded, standing up.
“Everything will be okay,” he said as he lit a smoke and stepped out onto his front porch. The door slammed shut behind him and Grace stood up and entered his bathroom, pulling off her dress.
Grace looked at her reflection in the mirror and flinched, running her fingers over the bruising on her body.
Landon was wrong about one thing.
Nothing would be okay.
She began to weep and collapsed on the floor, pressing her back against the cold ceramic of the bathtub. She tried to stifle her sobs but Landon heard the commotion and opened the door. He stared at Grace’s battered body with wide eyes and a slack jaw. She looked up at him and attempted to cover herself, but it was too late. He had seen everything.
Landon held his breath.
He didn’t understand how Miller could do this to his old lady. Never in his life had he been so horribly wrong at assessing a man’s character. Without any hesitation, he bent down beside Grace and took her in his arms, stroking her hair away from her face as she sobbed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he questioned as his voice cracked.
Grace stiffened and tore her eyes from his.
“I couldn’t tell anyone,” she deflected. “It would have only made things worse.”
Landon frowned, his thick brows knit together above deep set eyes. He didn’t say anything. Rage bubbled inside of him and all he could do was feel it. It broke his heart – seeing her this broken.
He blamed himself.
He had known something wasn’t right with Miller. They all had. And yet, none of them had done anything. He pulled Grace closer and continued to stroke her hair as he searched for the right words to quantify how sorry he felt.
“It’s not your fault,” she insisted.
The weight of her abuse wasn’t Landon’s burden to carry. She blamed herself for allowing it to get as bad as it did. She couldn’t explain how it had started. One day, it just did. Little instances of abuse became more frequent. Open hand slaps turned to punches and then, all of a sudden, Grace had morphed into the one thing she had never wanted to become.
A victimized woman.
And so to keep her pride intact, she kept her mouth shut with everyone but Angie and continued to weather the storm, hoping that it would one day end.
Landon shook his head as Grace began to cry again, her tears mixing with snot. She loosened her arms and Landon drew in a sharp breath at the mirage of fading bruises that covered her collarbone, stomach, and ribcage. He blinked back tears of his own as his shoulders began to tremble and placed a hand gently beneath her chin, lifting her face so that she was looking at him. He could see the slight discoloring around her eyes and the large knot beside her temple.
He wondered how he could have missed it.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
Grace attempted to pull away from him but he wouldn’t let her. He gathered her petite frame in his arms and rocked her against his chest, relenting slightly as she sobbed.
“Shh,” Landon whispered, seeing red.
He was a solider. A fighter. A warrior for his country. And yet, all he felt was revulsion for the man he had become. He had saved lives. He had fought until the very end. He had protected his country and the people he loved most. And he had sacrificed his own well-being in the process. But what good was all of that if he couldn’t protect the one person he found the most shelter in?
“No one is ever going to hurt you again,” Landon promised.
His hands traveled the length of Grace’s body, avoiding her most sensitive regions, but emotion wasn’t what she was looking for.
Not now.
All she wanted was to numb herself. To forget, even just temporarily, about the mess her life had become.
Landon grazed his fingers along her bruised skin and a heat built inside of her.
“Fuck me,” she demanded, straddling him. Her breath was warm against his face. She smelled of honey and rain and sadness. It was too much for him to bear. He tried to pull her off of him but she wouldn’t budge.
“Don’t think about it,” she whispered, pulling at the fabric of his shirt.
And he didn’t.
She was angry and sad and so was he. Without a word, Landon brought his lips crashing down against hers. He could taste the grief on her tongue. Grace stiffened then relaxed, reaching to unzip his pants. He ran a hand through her hair, down h
er neck, over the soft flesh of her breasts. She shivered as Goosebumps surfaced on her skin.
The way he used his hands made Grace’s blood boil.
She could feel her face flushing red as Landon had his way with her. She pulled away from him, breathless and unable to speak. He grabbed her head and brought her mouth back to his, curving his tongue along her bottom lip.
He touched every part of her body as though it was the very first time.
Chapter Fourteen
When Grace awoke she was startled and disoriented. Her surroundings were unfamiliar. She was sprawled out on a bed that wasn’t her own in a dimly lit room, wearing a shirt she didn’t recognize.
Then it all came flooding back. The wake. Miller’s funeral.
Landon.
Grace crawled out from under the soft covers that engulfed her body and rubbed the sleep from her eyes with a yawn. A mirage of feelings settled over her. Helplessness, uncertainty, and dread. All muddled together to form something similar to grief. She tried to stifle the emotion as best as she could.
She told herself that the worst part was over.
She had buried him.
Now all she had to do was find it in herself to move on.
A knock sounded at the door, startling her away from her thoughts.
“Are you decent?” Landon called.
Grace nodded. Then, realizing that he couldn’t see her, she responded.
“Yes,” she managed. “You can come in.”
The door creaked open and Grace’s throat tightened when she laid eyes on him.
“How are you feeling?” Landon questioned, leaning against the doorframe.
Grace shrugged and looked away from him. She gathered her hair into her hands and pulled it into a bun. A few long strands fell loose around her face and framed her translucent white skin.
“Yeah,” she whispered faintly, finding her voice.
“I’m fine.”
She folded her arms over her chest as her eyes lingered against Landon’s. His cotton undershirt clung to his muscular chest. Grace swallowed hard, trying her best not to notice. He hesitated in front of the bed before taking a seat on the end of it. She flinched as he reached over her and trailed his fingertips along the bruising on her collarbone.
