Page 83 of From Rivals to I Do

“That’s right,” I say softly. “We’re here at Mommy’s resting place.”

We walk hand in hand, guided by memory and the presence of other visitors. Eventually, we reach a particular tombstone. It’s a simple but elegant stone, engraved with Jessica’s name and dates, a permanent marker of her brief yet impactful life.

Alex’s voice breaks the silence as he speaks to his mother. “Hi, Mommy,” he says, his voice a mixture of innocence and understanding.

I stand beside him, my bouquet of flowers in hand. “Hi, Jess,” I add quietly.

We spend a few moments there, in our own silent communication with Jessica. Alex tells her about his day, sharing the small triumphs and joys of his young life. I talk to her too, recounting the events that have unfolded since her passing. Looking at Alex, I tell Jess that we’d be leaving for Japan soon. She’d also always fantasized about leaving for Japan with me. It’s a bittersweet conversation, one filled with love, longing, and unspoken grief.

Finally, we carefully place the flowers on Jessica’s grave, a small offering of beauty and remembrance. Alex looks up at me, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I miss Mommy,” he whispers.

I kneel down and pull him into a warm embrace, my own eyes moist. “I miss her too, buddy. But she’s always with us in our hearts, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. A pure smile cracks across his lips.

As we leave the cemetery, I think of the complexity of the scars I carry. Jessica’s untimely departure had left a void that could never be filled, and it had taken a huge toll on me.

Chapter four

Chapter Four

Iwalked into the lobby of the four-star hotel I’m lodging in, in the heart of Nashville, Tennessee. The hotel’s opulent decor surrounds me, from the gleaming marble floors to the crystal chandeliers hanging overhead. I walk with a measured pace, my footsteps absorbed by the plush carpeting that lines the lobby.

Tall and imposing, my presence commands attention as I approach the reception desk. I wear a well-fitted charcoal gray suit with a deep blue polo shirt peeking out from beneath the jacket. The suit exudes an air of professionalism, a uniform I don daily as the successful businessman I believe I have become.

The receptionist, a young woman with heavy makeup and a smile that’s definitely faked, looks up as I approach. Her fingers tap the keyboard rhythmically as she checks her computer.

“Good evening, sir. How can I assist you today?” she inquires politely.

My voice carries a hint of gravitas as I reply, “I have a reservation under Derrick Freeman.”

The receptionist’s fingers fly over the keyboard, and her eyes scan the screen. “Ah, yes, Mr. Freeman,” she says, her tone warm. “You have a reservation for room 1030. Is that correct?”

I nod. “That’s right.”

The receptionist’s fingers dance gracefully as she retrieves a key card from a drawer. She hands it to me with a practiced smile. “Here’s your key, Mr. Freeman. Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” I reply with a nod of appreciation. I take the key card and head toward the gleaming brass elevators.

The elevator ride is smooth, the soft jazz music playing in the background a stark contrast to the chaos of my thoughts. I find solace in the elevator’s reflective mirrored walls, taking a moment to adjust my tie and run a hand through my dark hair.

When the elevator doors open on the tenth floor, I step out onto plush carpeting that muffles my footsteps. The hallway is softly lit, with artwork adorning the walls. I navigate the corridor with purpose, my destination clear.

Room 1030 stands before me, and I slide the key card into the electronic lock. The door clicks open, revealing a haven of comfort and luxury. I enter and close the door behind me with a definitive click.

I begin to shed the trappings of my day, first dropping the little briefcase I held onto the bed, then unbuttoning my suit jacket and loosening my tie. The room is tastefully decorated, awash in neutral tones with hints of deep blue, mirroring the colors of my attire. A vase of fresh white lilies graces the table near the window, their scent permeating the room.

I cross the room to a well-stocked mini-fridge and retrieve a crisp apple. I take a bite, savoring the sweetness. After a few more bites, I discard the apple core in a nearby trash bin. My gaze shifts to the flat-screen television mounted on the wall. I pick up the remote control and press the power button.

The screen flickers to life, revealing the face of a news reporter. Tension tightens in my chest as I watch, my expression unreadable. The reporter’s voice fills the room, and the images displayed on the screen depict a war-torn landscape.

The scenes remind me of a past I had worked tirelessly to escape, a world of violence and chaos. A world I had witnessed firsthand during my time as a Navy SEAL. As the reporter delves deeper into the conflict, my grip on the remote tightens.

Abruptly, I switch off the television, the room plunging into silence once more. I stand in the middle of the elegantly appointed space, my thoughts a turbulent sea. The memories are always there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to resurface.

In these moments of solitude, I grapple with my past, with the choices I made to distance myself from a life that threatened to consume me. The classical music I listen to, the controlled routines I follow, they are all attempts to anchor myself in a world where chaos no longer reigns. I turn on some music, and Hanz Zimmer’s Interstellar wafts through the speakers that have been grafted into the walls of the room.

To me, life is a carefully choreographed dance, a delicate balance between the past and the present, between the darkness I carry and the light I seek. As I gaze out of the window at the Nashville skyline, I contemplate the delicate thread that connects my experiences as a Navy SEAL to the man I have become—a man who walks the fine line between two worlds, never fully belonging to either.

---