Page 49

Charlie smiled. “You must be an amazing baker!”
Corinne beamed, and I let her soak up the praise, even if it was undeserved. She had picked them out herself. It was basically the same in my book.
After dropping off the desserts, we moved to the drink table. Corinne jumped right in, pouring cups of water and juice with a focus and enthusiasm that made me smile. I stood beside her, making small talk with the guests as I refilled trays and tidied the area.
“Your daughter’s a hard worker,” an older man said, as I handed him a cup of water.
“She sure is,” I replied, my chest swelling with pride.
For a while, the steady rhythm of volunteering kept my thoughts at bay. But as the lunch rush slowed and I stepped back to catch my breath, the familiar guilt crept in.
I scanned the room, my eyes landing on a group of veterans sitting together at one of the tables. Their laughter was loud, their camaraderie evident, but I couldn’t miss the weariness in their faces. It was the kind of weariness that came from carrying too much for too long. I heard one of them say, “Yeah, peopledon’t care about us anymore. This is my first hot meal in days. Even the shelter costs $7 a day now.”
The others murmured their agreement, and one said, “It’s a damn shame. All that we did for their freedoms, and they see us as dirt.”
My stomach twisted. They reminded me of the men I’d served with, some of whom I’d lost.
I wondered how many of them had struggled to find steady ground after coming home. How many of them were still fighting battles I couldn’t begin to imagine. How many of them couldn’t find hot meals or places to lay their heads.
And then there was me. A billionaire. A man whose life had somehow turned out better than he ever thought possible—better than it probably should have.
I’d left the Navy the same as them, with a sense of precarity, my life turned upside down and my hands still sweating whenever someone moved too quickly near me, and yet here I was, running a company, raising a daughter, volunteering at food banks in my spare time. This was their meal.
It didn’t feel fair.
The room suddenly felt too loud, the laughter too sharp. My heart raced, and I struggled to draw a full breath.
“Dad?” Corinne’s voice sounded distant, though she was standing right in front of me.
“I’m... I’m fine,” I managed, although the words felt far from true. “I just need a minute.”
I turned and hurried toward the door, the edges of my vision closing in. My chest tightened further as I stumbled into the cold November air, leaning against the railing for support.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The memories hit hard, as they always did. The sound of gunfire, the acrid stench of smoke, the desperate shouts of men I couldn’t save.
I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the railing as though it could anchor me to the present.
“Robert.” The voice was calm but firm, cutting through the haze.
I opened my eyes to see Charlie, one of the event organizers, standing a few feet away. His shoulders were raised slightly, his posture non-threatening. He held a steaming cup of coffee.
He was an older man, his face lined with years of hard work, but his eyes were sharp. “Are you in a place for this, or am I gonna get it thrown back in my face?”
I wanted to laugh, but on some of my worse PTSD trips, I might have done just that. I could be animalistic in those moments, protective of myself from everyone and everything.
Delia’s face flashed in my mind, unbidden. The way her smile had faded when I’d told her to leave that night. The way her voice had wavered, hurt and confused when she asked why. I’d done it to protect her, I told myself. To protect her from me.
But that didn’t make it right.
“Hey,” Charlie said softly. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”
I nodded but couldn’t find the words to respond.
He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. “Mind if I stay with you?”
I shook my head, and he leaned against the railing next to me, sipping his own coffee. “It’s good, what you’re doing here. Bringing your daughter, making this a tradition.”