Page 13 of All of You

Sergeant Major Trask called out his typical send-off, making eye contact with as many soldiers as possible with his usual ferocity, and the men and women of the Rambler Battalion fled the meeting room like it was five o’clock on a Friday. Because it was.

“What’s the deal, Holder? You got a hot date?” Thatcher Wild, in all his tall, dark, muscled glory, sauntered up to me and slapped me on the back.

As much as I wanted to tell Thatch about Whit, it didn’t seem right. We weren’t dating, and even though he was a good guy, rumors always begin somewhere. Keeping my mouth shut was the only way to guarantee nothing started up.

“No, just messaging my sister. She has a hot date.”

That was true. Bea had started using an online dating app, which just about killed me, even though I had plenty of friends who did the same.

“Beatrice? I can’t imagine her needing a dating app,” Thatcher said.

If it had been anyone else, I might have flown into protective brother mode and told him to stop imagining anything about my sister, but he was Thatch. And even though he didn’t think I knew, he was interested in our friend Bec Jones. There was no chance his statement had been meant in any way other than complimentary.

“You might not think, but she’s super shy. Always has been. Anyway, man, I’ve got to meet with Major Flint, and then I’m heading east. I’ll catch you sometime this weekend?” I waved while walking to Flint’s office.

The knock on the door came at five minutes after seven. Thank goodness I’d made it back early and had had a few minutes to tidy up. Most of the people Whit spent time with probably had nicer places than mine, but I wasn’t ashamed of my home. I chose to live in Nashville upon redeployment from Afghanistan—partly to have some distance from the base, and partly because it enabled me to drink and Uber home more cheaply.

It hadn’t been a great few months.

Once I got a grip, I figured out other benefits of living closer to the city, but for a while there, my motivation had been to get through work so I could get through the week so I could get through the weekend, all as numb as possible.

Enough about that.

I tossed a kitchen towel on the counter and shuffled to the door. The surreality of what was about to happen struck me then, and a twinge of nervousness crept between my shoulders. I pulled open the door, and with it came the sweet, distinctive scent of Whit Grantham.

And then came the sight of her.

She stood on my porch in sneakers, jeans, a plain light blue hooded sweatshirt, and a gray baseball cap on her head. When I stepped aside and gestured for her to come in, she moved past me quickly. Her hair had been pulled back through the cap into a ponytail. She removed her sunglasses as she entered the place, then tucked them and her keys into the front pocket of her sweatshirt.

“Did you find it okay?”

Now that she was here and taking in everything in the room with a sweep of her eyes, I wasn’t sure what to do exactly.

“Yes. No issues, thanks.” She turned to face me and pushed her hands further into that front pouch. “Could we sit and talk?”

“Of course. Can I get you some water?”

“Yes, please.”

She sat on the worn, brown leather couch that took up the majority of the living room while I walked to the kitchen and pulled out glasses, filled them, and returned to her. I set one down on the coffee table in front of her and took a drink of mine before setting it down, all while waiting for her to speak. She’d called the meeting, after all.

Finally, right when I was going to break the silence and ask why she was here, she pulled her phone out, swiped a finger to clear it of a notification, then looked up at me.

Her irritation calmed as she said, “Hi. It’s good to see you.”

“Oh. Yeah, it’s good to see you, too.”

I hadn’t been expecting that.

“Thank you for letting me come to you. I would have asked you to come to me, but I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I have something to ask of you, but I want you to do something before I even ask. Can you do that?”

She smiled brightly, encouragingly, like you might at a child or a Golden Retriever you were willing to learn a trick.

“You’ll have to tell me what it is.”

“Of course.” She smiled down at her lap, then looked up at me. “I need you to promise me that you’ll answer honestly to what I’m about to ask you. I need you to promise me that you’ll tell me no if it’s asking too much, and that you won’t be offended I’m asking in the first place.”

The worry was clear on her face, her eyebrows pinching and her jaw flexing as she closed her mouth and waited for my response.

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