hands formed tight fists, her pale pink nails digging into her palms as the tears threatened. She’d painted her fingernails. That had to count for something. But how could she forget about her shoes?
Maybe she’d worn the wrong pair. She tried to think back to this morning, but the hours blurred together. She felt as if she’d spent a series of endless days, unable to sleep, fighting her way through a sea of pain, allowing herself to bury the truth.
Standing here in her scuffed shoes, she couldn’t hide anymore.
But falling apart surrounded by these men in their pristine uniforms? Impossible. Biting back her sobs, she closed her eyes, fighting the urge to run. That wasn’t her. She didn’t draw attention. Darren’s place was in the spotlight—and hers was waiting off to the side with a smile plastered on her face.
Once upon a time that smile had been real. Slowly, it had become something she wore only when leaving the house, not much different from a hat. And then she’d lost it altogether. It was as if she’d set it aside the day those strangers in uniform had knocked on her door, their expressions lined with pity. She’d put her smile in a closet and closed the door.
Damn him for leaving her to face this alone!
Opening her eyes, Amy turned away from the burial. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t watch. She moved toward the trees, unsure where she was going. Away. From his death and the seemingly insurmountable, endless pain.
She stumbled over a root. A man’s hand grasped her elbow, steadying her.
“I’ve got you.” The familiar voice was a low steady rumble.
“I can’t go back,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have to.” Mark Rhodes, her husband’s best friend since grade school, kept a hold on her arm, leading her away.
The tears came, hot and fast, so far beyond her control, she didn’t try to hold them back. Mark stopped beside her car, gently leaning her against the passenger-side door while he reached in his pocket and withdrew a key.
“I’m taking you home,” he said.
Amy nodded, allowing him to guide her into the seat and fasten her belt. She should protest, ask him to drive to her mother-in-law’s house, where the family, friends and all those men in uniform planned to congregate after the burial. But she didn’t say a word.
Mark drove in silence. He didn’t demand to know how she was feeling—though it was probably obvious from her tears—or offer reassurances. When they pulled up to her house, he helped her out of the car as if she were a child.
Taking her hand, he led her away from the front door and down through the grass. Out back, only a short distance from the home she’d shared with Darren, stood her kennel. It was a modest building capable of boarding a dozen pets. At the moment, it stood empty. Her customers had all come for their dogs to give her the time and space to grieve.
But right now, she wanted to hear barking. She craved the sounds of everyday life.
Mark guided her to a wooden bench beside the dog run, a large fenced-in area.
“Sit down, Amy,” he said, tempering his command with a gentle tone as if she were a frightened animal.
Amy obeyed, staring out at the mountains in the distance. Heart’s Landing, Oregon, her home since birth, sat a few miles inland from the coast, surrounded by distant mountains. She loved this view and this place. But not today.
“I wish I’d worn ruby slippers,” she said.
Mark sat down beside her on the bench. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him glance at her black flats. “Might have looked out of place.”
She shook her head. “Ruby slippers so that I could click my heels three times and disappear.”
“Dorothy went home. She didn’t vanish,” he pointed out. “And the loss would follow you.”
Her brow drew together as she studied him for the first time since he’d helped her run away from the burial. Like so many of the other men, Mark wore his dress blues. The maroon beret on his head set him apart from the others, denoting that he was a member of the Air Force Pararescuemen. But beneath his uniform and his elite status, she saw her friend, the man who’d been a part of her life from the moment she’d met Darren.
“There’s no escape?” If anyone would give her the truth, it was Mark.
“From grief?” He took her hand and held it tight. “No.”
“But you look so calm and in control. You know Darren’s gone, right? He’s never coming back.”
“I know, Amy. Trust me, I understand what it feels like to face the irrefutable fact that someone you love is gone.”
This time when she examined his expression, she saw the sadness, swirling in his brown eyes. “Your mom,” she said quietly. “How did you get past it?”
“I tried to escape. Moving away, joining the air force, pushing myself to complete the courses and become a pararescue jumper. But it stayed with me.”
“Nothing helped?”
“Time.” He stared out at the scenery. “And I started a list.”
“Of what?”
“Memories. I wrote down the little moments, the pieces I didn’t want to forget.”
“A list,” she said as if she didn’t understand the meaning of the words. How could something so simple, so banal, ease this monstrous ache?
Mark shrugged. “It might not work for you. But I can tell you ruby slippers won’t do the trick, either.”
“I’ll give it a shot.” She couldn’t stay here forever, unable to eat and sleep, feeling lost in her own life. If she didn’t do something...
Tears started flowing again. She hiccuped, struggling to control the sobs as her chin shook.
Mark wrapped an arm around her shoulder and drew her close. “I’ll tell you what, write down your memories and send them to me. Write a letter or email. Send a carrier pigeon if you want. Whatever you need to share. Every small memory matters. And I’ll do the same, send my favorite Darren moments to you.”
“Do you have a memory at the top of your list?” Her voice sounded foreign, still trembling from her latest bout of crying.
“Not yet,” he said, and for the first time she heard his calm and collected tone waver.
Amy looped her arm around his waist, holding him tight as they stared out at the mountains, both thinking about the man they’d loved and lost.
“Mark,” she said softly. “Not all of my memories are good ones.”
“That’s okay, Amy. That’s okay.”
One year later
“SCRAMBLE. SCRAMBLE.”
The commander’s voice echoed through the tactical operations center’s loudspeakers. Mark Rhodes leaned over the intel officer’s shoulder and scanned the details on the computer screen. IED blast. Double amputee. American. Special Forces. He ran for the door.
When he’d first joined the PJs, if he’d heard a mission drop, fear would have settled in his gut. What if their helicopter got hit? What if they landed on a mine? Sure, they touched down in swept areas, but shit happened. In Kandahar Province, Afghanistan, it happened every day.
But now, on his fourth deployment, he wanted to get out there and do his job. Save a life. Send a soldier home to his loved ones.
Mark reached the helicopter and started pulling on his gear. “One Alpha,” he shouted to his teammates over the bird’s roar.