Page 74 of The Infinite Light of Dust

I force myself to nod and pick up my latte to buy some time, just a moment so I can find my voice. “Yeah. I’m all right. I mean, funerals are kind of my thing.”

“Tell me about it.”

I don’t dare look at his face. I don’t want to see his grief or share my own, so I try to diffuse the intensity of what we’re both feeling with some dark humor.

“We’re running out of fingers to count the funerals we’ve been to in the last two years alone and—”

“There’s nothing you could have done, regardless. Don’t tell me you’re thinking you could’ve—”

He pauses and I stare harder at the small chip in my mug. I run my finger over the cracked ceramic.

“Karina. Look at me.”

I shake my head, not even close to jumping down this rabbit hole with him. I don’t have it in me. “I’m fine. Seriously.” I pause and take in the expression on his face. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m okay.”

“You’re always fine.” He runs his hand over the hair on his face and sighs, his shoulders leaning into the back of the plastic chair.

He’s not buying it. He can feel my anxiety.

He’s right. That whole fake-it-till-you-make-it thing? I own it.

What other choice do I have?

“How long are you in town?” he asks, scooting his chair a little bit closer.

Should I lie to him? Why don’t I want to?

“For two days. Maybe less. I booked a room at the W.”

“Oh, fancy.” He smiles.

“It’s so loud . . .”

He nods and thanks the server as she sets his tea in front of him. Her eyes take him in and she tucks her hair behind her ear with a big, beautiful smile that makes my stomach burn. I want to disappear.

He doesn’t look away from my eyes.

“And so unlike you,” he says.

“Huh?” I’ve already forgotten what we were even talking about.

“The hotel.” He takes a drink of his tea and I try to catch my breath.

Being around him is still so dangerous for me. Sometimes warning signs and butterflies are one and the same.

Kael

The sea of black clothing makes my eyes hurt. It’s been a while since I’ve been around such a uniformed crowd. I was so used to the camouflage I wore daily for years that even though I’m out of the Army, I still look for the camo out in the civilian world. Sometimes I miss not having to think about my choice of clothes every day. When I take one of my freshly dry-cleaned jackets off the hanger, I remember my ACU jacket, which had fabric so stiff from caked-in sand and dirt that it crinkled as we marched for hours in the Georgia heat. My hand reaches under my shirt to touch the dog tags hanging around my neck. For comfort? For punishment?

I’m not one ofthosesoldiers who wears them as a prideful decoration or to get free drinks at local bars; I wear them because the weight of the metal on my chest keeps my feet on the ground. I’ll probably never take them off. Yesterday morning at the coffee shop I noticed Karina’s eyes scanning my neckline and I knew she was looking to see if I had taken them off yet. The answer will always be no.

“It’s a little cold in here,” my mom says, and I drop the dog tags and bring my hands to my lap.

“Do you want my jacket?” I ask her. She shakes her head.

“They have to keep the body cool or it will start to smell,” a familiar voice says.

“Still a sick fuck, I see.” I stand up and hug Silvin. He’s a lot thinner than the last time I saw him. His jawline sticks out like that of a villain in an action film.

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