by Jordan, Skye
One month later
Dylan wandered toward the baggage claim area of Nashville International Airport with everything he owned in a single duffel.
In the fifteen minutes between deplaning and pushing through the exterior doors to stand at the curb, anxiety crawled to the surface. He felt acutely misplaced here, in the midst of America’s flagrant abundance. Everything from the sleek, modern terminal to the line of pristine luxury vehicles streaming along the pickup lanes felt extreme. Opulent. Excessive.
After living in places where running water was an extravagance, he experienced an intense sense of shame for having come from such wealth. An odd feeling of guilt for having the luxury of leaving the warzone for safer, more comfortable surroundings when ninety percent of the Syrian population would never have even the whiff of a better life.
A car horn blared, and Dylan jumped. His heart slammed against his ribs. Every muscle in his body tensed. It took his heart a full three minutes to return to a normal rhythm. Another five for his muscles to release. He’d been jumpy since the attack in Manbij. And he’d never recover from losing Amir.
To distract himself from the loss, he pulled out his phone and did what he always did when he needed a lift—he tapped into Instagram and brought up Emma’s feed. She always lived in the back of his mind, but Amir had pushed her forward on the last day of his life. And now, only a few miles away from her instead of a few thousand, a dam had broken and all the memories they’d made together spilled into his head.
She’d posted two new pictures since he’d left Syria. The first was of Emma with an ER nurse, heads together, big smiles, bright eyes. His heart kicked. Her hair had darkened over the years, shifting from strawberry blonde to a now-luxurious copper. But her eyes were still the color of the Pacific Ocean, light freckles still peppered her nose, and she still grabbed his heart by the throat the same way she had from the first moment he’d seen her, over a decade ago now.
The second image was one of a trauma room, trashed in the aftermath of an emergency. Blood drenched the gurney, sprayed the floor, soaked supplies. The words Life = 1 Reaper = 0 were printed across the image.
Dylan tried to smile, but everything he’d been through over the last month—laying Amir to rest, supporting his wife and children through their grief, making sure Marisha was secure financially—had stolen his ability to find an ounce of happiness in anything.
He did feel proud of Emma, though. So damn proud. He might have lost his right to feel pride in her accomplishments the day he lost his mind and sent her away, but every time he saw Emma grow or achieve or celebrate something in life, he knew he’d done the right thing all those years ago. The only growth that stabbed him in the gut was the fiancé.
The day she’d posted a photo of herself and one of her colleagues in an embrace, her left hand extended with the rock of Gibraltar on her ring finger, Dylan had lost his last spark of desire to live. He had let her go for that very reason, so she could move on and find a good husband. But watching her do just that through photos had decimated him.
In a sick kind of irony, losing her had been the reason he’d become so successful. He’d been a dead man walking for years. With nothing to live for, it was easy to throw caution out the window. To go after stories no other sane journalist would cover. That recklessness might have rocketed him to the top of his career in record time, but it had also gotten Amir killed. And now, it had brought him home to face Emma and fulfill Amir’s last wish.
So he was here to face her. Let her have her say. Find the guts to apologize for betraying her in the worst possible way. And let her go. Really let her go. Dylan hadn’t believed his heart could feel any heavier, but the thought of severing that last invisible tether with Emma turned his chest into a slab of granite.
But, first things first—his sisters.
He, Gypsy, and Miranda all had different fathers. He and Gypsy had lucked out in the dad department, and they’d been turned over to their fathers when their mother’s drinking and drug abuse was uncovered. But Miranda didn’t have a father, so she’d been shuffled between the foster system and her addict mother.
Their fathers had gone the extra mile to keep him and Gypsy connected by meeting up on holidays and during vacations. To their credit, they’d tried to include Miranda, but their mother had denied their requests out of spite.
He wondered just how bitter Miranda would be now, after he’d let the fallout of their mother’s addiction rest on his sister’s shoulders.
His phone pinged with a message from his younger sister, Gypsy. We’re here. Look for a blue Jeep.
Dylan took a deep breath and refocused. The cool fall air felt good on his skin. A cute cobalt-blue Jeep with a black hardtop pulled to the curb, and Gypsy grinned at him from behind the steering wheel. Dylan’s heart lightened a little.
Gypsy got out of the car and ran to him, squealing with joy. Dylan caught her and hugged her hard. And for an instant, one blessed instant, all his pain evaporated.
“Oh, man,” he said, eyes closed, soaking in the feeling of unconditional love, “it so good to see you.”
He set her down and held her at arm’s length. She wore jeans, boots, a long-sleeved, untucked flannel, and an ear-to-ear grin. But the smile didn’t hide the fatigue in her eyes. He glanced down the rest of her, searching for something to explain the tired expression, but she looked great.
Thinking about Miranda reminded Dylan of just how many bridges he had to repair while he was home.
“You sure that little munchkin you sent pictures of is yours?” he asked. “You don’t look like you had a baby just a few months ago.”
“He’s right here.” She beamed, gesturing to the Jeep. “Waiting to meet his uncle Dylan.”
Uncle Dylan.
The words fisted his heart. He’d been Uncle Dylan to Amir’s three kids. Kids Dylan already missed.
Gypsy took hold of Dylan’s sleeve and pulled him toward the car. She opened the door, then took his duffel and rounded the back of the Jeep. “Say hello to your nephew.”
Dylan stepped up to the car and leaned in to get a look at the baby. He was in a car seat that looked like it would survive Armageddon. Dylan knew car seats existed and why, but he realized in that moment this was the first time he’d ever seen one in use.
Cooper’s big light green eyes stared back at him, and Dylan instantly fell in love. He couldn’t understand how the extremes of joy and loss could exist in his heart at the same time, but the joy of meeting Cooper and the pain of losing Amir and his family filled equal parts of his soul.
“Hey, little man.” Dylan slid a finger into the baby’s tiny hand, and Cooper’s fingers curled around it, soft and warm. A similar feeling squeezed his heart.
In the next instant, regret swept in. His mind filled with all the joys Amir would miss out on with his own kids. How those kids would have to grow up without their father.
Dylan forced the dark thoughts away and bent his head to kiss Cooper’s fingers. “You’re one lucky boy, Coop. One really lucky boy.”
“Damn right,” Gypsy said, getting into the driver’s seat. “He’s got me for a mom.”
Dylan smiled and nodded, then pulled his finger from Cooper’s grip and slid into the passenger’s seat.
Gypsy pulled into traffic. “You must be tired. How long was your flight?”
“Multiple flights. I’ve been traveling for forty-eight hours.” Sleeping in airports. Waking in cold sweats from nightmares. Drinking to numb the pain.
He looked at Gypsy. Her dark hair was short and wavy, showing off her high cheekbones and killer smile. But the shadows beneath her eyes, more pronounced in the shadows of the car, told him more about what was going on inside her.
“God, it’s so good to see you,” she said, her smile bright, her spirit high. “How long are you staying?”
That was still up in the air. He didn’t know where life would take him now. “Few weeks. Tell me about this living situation again. I really don’t m
ind getting a hotel. I don’t want to put anyone out.”
In truth, he’d rather go to a hotel. Then he’d have somewhere to decompress when shit hit the fan, which was inevitable.
“Never,” Gypsy said. “There’s plenty of room. Miranda moved into her new house with Jack a couple of weeks ago. Her trailer is all ready for you.”
His shoulders relaxed a little. At least he’d have his own space. “Tell me about Marty again.”
“He’s in his late fifties. He’s sort of like Miranda’s father figure. He dated Mom for a time. He walked away from her bullshit after about a year, but stayed in contact with Miranda. He’s a Gulf War vet. Missing a leg, but you’d never know he wasn’t born with his prosthetic.”
Missing a leg slammed Dylan back in time, to the shock of running his hands down Amir’s legs and finding them gone above the knee. To Amir bleeding out in a pile of rubble and holding Dylan’s hands so tight, he cut off the blood supply.
Pain erupted at the center of Dylan’s body. His mind twisted and slid sideways.
He pulled in a deep breath and blew it out as a slow, controlled stream of air. Mind in the here and now, he reminded himself.
When he found his voice, Dylan asked, “Marty doesn’t mind me staying? I’ll pay rent, help out around the place, whatever he needs.”
“I’m sure he’d love to have someone to talk to. Since he sold me the bar, he’s been trying to help with Miranda’s business or fussing over his mother, Elaina, who also lives on the property. But I wouldn’t suggest paying for anything. You’ll hurt his pride.”
“It would hurt mine not to.”
Gypsy laughed. “You two are going to get along just fine.”
“So, tell me about this bar of yours.” Dylan listened to as many of the details as he could, but his mind kept trying to scramble out from under him.
The streets were so clean. The buildings so well kept. The streetlights fascinated him. Just the infrastructure that had to exist to create a power source, run the power lines, set up the lights, and pay for the electricity to keep them on all night would be nothing short of a miracle in the majority of the Middle East. Paved roads, fast food on every corner, lighted gas stations every block. Walmart, grocery stores, fancy restaurants.
“Dylan?”
He sucked a breath. “Yeah, yeah. It sounds great.”
“What sounds great?”
He glanced at her, then looked out the windshield. There were so many cars on the road and they were all staying in their lanes or politely signaling before moving over. No horns, no shouting or swearing, no near misses with a herd of goats or a stray cow. It was all so damn civilized.
“I’m sorry. I’m suffering serious culture shock right now.”
“I bet.”
“So, Miranda,” he said. “I guess I burned a pretty big bridge when I didn’t come home for Mom’s funeral.”
“Don’t worry, I took that bullet for you.”
He cut a look at Gypsy. His expression must have been harsher than he realized, because her smile vanished.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not you.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “Give me a few days to acclimate. I just came from a place where bullets were flying literally everywhere, and all kinds of people were taking all kinds of bullets they didn’t deserve.”
“I’m so glad you’re home.” She refocused on the road. “I meant that Miranda and I have had long talks about Mom and what happened with us. There’s a lot about her childhood we never knew, but we’ve really worked through most of the mess. I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble reconnecting with her. She’s so mature and so damn together. I want to be Miranda when I grow up.” She shook her head and sighed. “And her fiancé, Jack, has been so good for her. He’s softened all her rough edges. This was a good time to come home.”
“I’m glad you came here and patched things up with Miranda. I hated the idea of you staying behind when your dad moved to Switzerland with his family.”
“And I’ve always hated knowing you were alone after your dad died. Hated not being able to reach you. I worried, Dylan. I worried about you every minute between the times you sent postcards. That’s a pretty miserable way to live.”
He stared at her, processing those words. In Dylan’s world, no one worried about him but Amir. Dylan chose to go to war zones. His employers salivated every time he reported from the front lines. The greater the danger, the greater the story. Dylan spent his time risking his life to tell the story of another’s. His whole career had been designed around getting the real story out to the world in hopes of making whatever small difference the truth could make. He’d assumed Gypsy had her hands full with college. Knew that Emma had to hate his guts. He’d never stopped to think that anyone worried about him.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’ll do better.”
She gave him one of her megawatt smiles. “That’s all I can ask.”
Cooper whined, and Gypsy glanced back at him. “Someone’s tired.”
Dylan turned in his seat and reached back to pat the baby’s belly. “You and me both, kid.”
“He looks a lot like you in baby pictures,” Gypsy said. “Mom may not have followed through on much, but it seems her genes have.”
The baby quieted, and Dylan faced front again. A large, well-lit building caught his attention. His gaze zeroed in on the blue square with an H in the center, then darted in search of the name. “What hospital—”
“Cumberland Memorial,” Gypsy answered before he finished. Her gaze turned quizzical. “I assume you already know that’s where Emma works.”
His insides took a full quarter twist. So close. She was so close. The idea of seeing her again made his breath catch. He couldn’t stop looking at the hospital until Gypsy took a turn and the building disappeared.
“She stops by the bar once in a while.”
Dylan’s attention laser focused on Gypsy. “She does?” His heart dipped a little. “With her fiancé?”
“Fiancé?” One of Gypsy’s dark brows winged upward. “I’ve never seen a ring on her finger. How do you know she has a fiancé?”
He didn’t know how Gypsy could have missed a ring like the one Parnell had given Emma. Liam Parnell was a doctor. A surgeon. Everything Dylan had wanted for Emma when he’d pushed her away.
“Sometimes she meets a girlfriend, like she did a few nights ago,” Gypsy said. “But she usually stops by alone. Has one drink and reads at a corner table. Always leaves before the concert crush. Sometimes I catch her watching me. It’s…interesting. We do look alike, you know, you and me.”
Hope sparked in his heart. A sensation so foreign, he almost didn’t recognize it.
“But she introduced herself as an old friend of yours,” Gypsy said, “not your wife. Or should I say ex-wife?”
“Ex—” He couldn’t get out the “wife” that should accompany that ex. He’d taken her last note out of his wallet and read it over and over during the flight.
I never thought I’d be writing this letter. I believed with all my heart we’d be together forever. But when the going got tough, you dropped out. I’ve given you two previous chances to own your decision and sign divorce papers, but you couldn’t even do that.
Our life together has been over for years, and it’s time for me to move on. If I don’t receive these papers back within two months, I’ll go through with the divorce without them, as allowed by Tennessee law.
I wish you well. Stay safe.
Emma.
He’d read it so many times over the years, he’d memorized it. He hated the words, but loved the sight of her handwriting. Even after all this time, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to throw the note away.
He hadn’t been able to return the papers either. He’d tried. He really had. He’d automatically destroyed the first set. Had started to sign the second set, but only managed to get his first name down. Had actually fully signed the thir
d set and carried them with him, intending to mail them back, but ultimately burned them over a sink in a hotel room.
Somehow, returning those papers made it seem like he was okay with the divorce. He knew she deserved to be set free. In the deepest part of him, he was happy she’d moved on, done all she was meant to do, become all she was meant to be. He just couldn’t bring himself to say he’d made peace with letting her go.
She’d waited four years before finally filing the papers without his signature. She could have been divorced in six months if she’d just gone ahead and filed on her own. During those years, he’d clung to the glimmer of hope that they could make a new start once he’d fully recovered. After what he’d put her through, he didn’t dare ask for her forgiveness until he was sure he could be all he’d promised. She deserved nothing less.
But he’d waited too long.
He’d spent the years since drowning in self-loathing and trying to come to terms with the fact that it had all turned out for the best. At least for Emma. And that was all that mattered to Dylan.
But hearing she frequented his sister’s bar made him wonder if she still thought of him. If by being close to Gypsy, she somehow felt closer to Dylan. Then he remembered that fucking engagement ring and her bright smile.
“She asks about you now and then,” Gypsy said.
A fist gripped his gut. “She does?”
“Yeah.”
That unfailing flicker of hope returned. “What did you tell her?”
“What could I tell her? I keep track of you the same way she does—on the news.”
His head whipped toward Gypsy. “She keeps track of me?”
Gypsy met his gaze and held it a long beat. “Sounds like you two might still have a soft spot for each other.”
Excitement buzzed across his nerve endings, but Dylan tamped it down. “It’s more likely she wants to take a hit out on me.”
They passed through the city, the suburbs, and into the country on the outskirts of Nashville, where Gypsy turned onto a private road. The headlights splashed across an ornate entry gate with a patriotic theme before following a gravel path up a short rise. The shadows of a homestead stretched out in an area that appeared to be a mix of meadow and forest. Three mobile homes and one metal home were carefully placed on the property, giving everyone a modicum of privacy.
