Page 27

From his pocket, the sergeant major removed something in his fist, and when he unfolded his hand, I saw the glistening of a chain and a dog tag.

“He wanted me to give you this. He said you’d take it home to his wife.”

The stony facade of my expression faltered for just a moment as I stared at the chain, wondering why Greg would assign me with such an important task. We’d always been friends, sure, but we were never anywhere near close. Certainly not as close as Sid and me.

Hell, I was closer with Private Lizzie Copeland, who I’d only met about a year ago, but she’d quickly become a little sister of sorts since arriving. Greg though? We had been buddies, at best, and this assignment felt too intimate for a buddy .

But then I thought about it for just a split second longer.

Dumass lived in Connecticut. My base was currently in New Jersey, so when I flew in and drove up to Massachusetts in my black Dodge Ram, I always passed through Connecticut.

There was no reason I couldn’t deliver the tags to his wife when I was already passing through anyway.

Hell, even if it was out of my way, I’d still do it.

Without another moment to think, I accepted the tags and nodded curtly. “I’ll make sure they get to her. ”

He pulled in a breath, a somber look in his deep eyes, and then said, “As you were, Sergeant.”

***

Delivering the tags to Dumass’s widow was about as difficult as I’d imagined it’d be.

She’d already known he’d died, of course, with how quickly information went around these days.

But she hadn’t expected me to pull into their driveway and knock on her door with a special delivery from her late husband.

She cried immediately the moment she opened the door and saw me in my uniform, apologized for making a fool of herself, as if she had, and asked if I wanted to come inside.

“Thank you, but I shouldn’t,” I said, shaking my head as I brushed my palms against my jacket. “I’m trying to get home before it gets dark.”

She nodded, her tears drying against her freckled cheeks, and tightened her sweater around herself. “Where’s home?”

“Massachusetts,” I answered. “Near Revere.”

She tipped her head, her eyes flashing with confusion, as if she was trying to place the name of the town I’d grown up in. Then she pursed her lips and said, “I’m not sure I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s not too far from Boston,” I replied with a kind smile.

“Oh,” she drawled, nodding, though I knew she still had no clue what I was talking about.

She admitted with a flush of her cheeks, “I’ve never been outside of Connecticut.

We always thought we’d get to move around a little.

You know, see some places, take the girls around, but …

” She shrugged sadly, as if to say, What am I supposed to do now without Greg?

“Yeah,” I answered, not knowing what else to say. Awkwardly, I glanced over my shoulder at my truck and cleared my throat. “I guess I’ll—"

“O-oh, right,” she hurried to say, embarrassment in her tone. “I didn’t mean to hold you up. I’m sorry. I’ll—"

“It was nice to finally meet you,” I said with sincerity, turning back to meet her eye. “I wish it’d been under better circumstances. Greg always talked about you and the kids whenever we had the chance. Honestly, I feel like I already know you.”

She smiled, her eyes welling up with tears once again. The chain of Dumass’s dog tags dangled from her fist as she brushed a rogue tear away. “It was nice to meet you too. He always talked about you too.”

I reared my head back a bit, startled. “He did?”

“Yeah,” Christy replied, nodding. “He never made a lot of friends. He wasn’t good at it. But he told me about when you guys were in basic training and how you were the only one who talked to him at first. You made him feel like he had a purpose in the Army.”

My throat tightened for a beat of a moment as I cast my gaze downward. “I had no idea.”

How could I have made such an enormous splash in this man’s life when I could barely make a ripple in my father’s?

Christy nodded. “Anyway, thank you, Sergeant. I— "

“It’s Max,” I said hurriedly, returning the smile. I reached out to gently touch her elbow. “Take care, all right? And, again, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She swallowed as the smile drooped a bit from her lips. “Thank you. And you take care too.”

I nodded curtly, then turned, not wanting to continue with the uncomfortable exchange.

I felt terrible for her—I truly did. Her need to reach out and connect with the piece of her dead husband that only I knew had been abundantly clear.

She wanted to talk, she wanted to share stories, and maybe, one day, I’d find the time to do so.

But right now, the guilt of having survived the last fifteen months twisted violently around every living part of me.

How cruel was it that I—an unmarried, childless man—could return to my home soil when Greg Dumass had been denied the chance to see his pregnant wife or daughters ever again, one week before he was supposed to?

It was bullshit, and the Lord was so cruel that, for one blasphemous moment, I questioned whether there was a Lord at all.

But as I got into my truck and looked out the windshield at the small Cape Cod-style house, I made up my mind that I had survived the last fifteen months for a reason and that maybe the only reason was for me to take a certain girl back home out on an actual, honest-to-God date.

So, I started to drive.

I cranked up the volume on the radio, drowning out my thoughts with Breaking Benjamin’s “Polyamorous.” I smacked my palm against the steering wheel to the beat of the song, pushing forth a nearly fabricated excitement toward going home to force my mind away from Dumass and his final moments alive.

I tried to think about Laura—her body, her lips, her eyes, her warmth.

I tried to think about my sisters. I tried to think about anything that might make me feel less like it should’ve been me lying dead in a box somewhere.

But every good thought to pass my mind soured and was replaced with something cold and sad.

His wife is pregnant.

He’ll never meet his unborn child.

Will his wife and kids be alone forever?

What will happen to them?

I’d trade places if I could.

I mattered in his life.

He hardly mattered in mine.

CLUNK!

POP!

“Fuck!”

I’d rolled right through a pothole that was apparently deeper than I’d initially realized. I turned down the music to listen to the telltale sound of a flattened tire flapping against asphalt and cursed again beneath my breath.

Shit .

I pulled to the side of the road, annoyed that something else, something far more irritating, was going to prolong my trip back home.

I climbed out of the truck, prepared to do a quick tire change, when I noticed the wheel well.

Furrowing my brow, I crouched to run a hand over the brand-new bump in the metal and shook my head when I saw the blown tire .

“Jesus,” I marveled in half awe, half anger.

I wiped a hand over my forehead and stood up, placing my hands on my hips as I swiveled my head this way and that, surveying the area.

It wasn’t the ugliest part of Connecticut, but certainly not the prettiest. The surrounding businesses didn’t have the most welcoming of facades, but I wasn’t stranded in the middle of nowhere, and when I squinted my eyes and took note of the auto repair shop down the road, I quickly decided there must’ve been a Lord after all.

Or maybe Dumass was out there somewhere, looking out for a fellow soldier and friend.

I grabbed my wallet, keys, and cell phone from the cab, locked up, and walked along the shoulder of the busy road until I came to the mechanic’s.

There was a neon sign reading OPEN in the shop’s window, in case the open garage doors hadn’t been a good enough clue, and I breathed a sigh of relief when a dark-haired guy in oil-stained coveralls emerged from inside the garage.

“Hey, man. What’s up?” he asked, wiping his hands against the navy-blue fabric.

I glanced at the embroidered name on his chest— Luke .

He was about my height, give or take an inch or two, and judging from his face, I’d put him somewhere near my age—younger probably.

But while I’d been trained my entire life to keep myself neat and orderly, he wore an unkemptness that made me question if he even owned a hairbrush.

It wasn’t a judgment as much as an observation, and I wondered what it’d be like to come to work looking so unruly.

“Hi,” I said. “I hit a pothole down the street— "

“Hell yeah,” he whispered triumphantly beneath his breath, punching the air. “I knew putting it there would bring in business.”

“What?”

He laughed and reached out to clap a hand against my arm. “I’m fucking with you, dude. My boss has been bitching to the town about the potholes on this street for the past six months.”

He removed his hand from my jacket and seemed to just now take in my outfit.

“Shit, should I be saluting you or something?”

“No, it’s all good,” I said absentmindedly, already estimating how long the repair would take.

I’m not getting back on the road until tomorrow … at the earliest. Shit, shit, shit.

“Well, thanks for your service, man. Did you just come back from, um …”

“Afghanistan,” I offered, filling in the blanks for him. “Yeah.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head. “I bet you’ve seen some shit, huh?”

I cleared my throat, not wanting to think about the shit I’d seen over the last fifteen months. Not during my waking hours. Not here, not ever.

“Yeah. So, um … my truck.”

“Oh, right, sorry. Yeah, I’ll just grab the tow truck and bring it down here. You can wait inside the shop, and I’ll come in to get you after I take a look. Sound good?”