Page 15 of Everlasting Love

Tucking my Kindle away, I fold the blanket and place it neatly on the back of the couch, wash my coffee cup, and head into the shower to try and wash away the blood on my hands. No matter how many times I’ve scrubbed my body since that afternoon, the stain of his death won’t wash away, and I’m stuck with this feeling of immense guilt that it should have been me.

When the water turns cool, I step out and dry myself. I slide my boxers up my legs and then my dog tags over my head. The cool metal against my skin feels foreign these days where it once was so familiar. I grip them in my hand and take a moment to think about what it means to wear the uniform I’m about to put on. Most would say it represents courage and honor but I wouldn’t use either word to describe howIfeel when I wear it.

To me, it represents death, failure, destruction, desolation, despair.

Loss and the deepest sadness.

Grayness.

Cold.

Loneliness and isolation.

Guilt and suffering.

It’s a reminder of the worst time of my life and the end of a good friend’s life.

I draw in a deep breath and blow it out again, then turn my attention back to my dresser and the second set of dog tags. Picking them up, I run my fingers over the indentations and read the words.

SULLIVAN

WYATT E.

626-16-4325

A NEG

CATHOLIC

I couldn’t refuse Hope when she gave them to me at soccer and asked me to wear them today just as she has each year since my return. It’s truly an honor to wear them but it’s also my punishment.

My burden.

I slip them over my head, the weight of them like a heavy anchor, and I drop to my ass on the edge of my bed. I let the pain wash over me. I feel it, allow it to fill me up, and then take slow, deep breaths in and out to release it. That’s what the psych told me to do when I feel overwhelmed, and it helps with the worst of it. It doesn’t stop it completely, but it makes it manageable.

Climbing to my feet again, I methodically dress in my service uniform. If Wyatt’s dog tags felt heavy, this fabric is heavier. It may as well be made of lead instead of cotton. With each article I put on, the weight across my shoulders increases and my skin grows tight and itchy. If it weren’t for showing my respect for one of my dearest friends—marching because he’s not here to do it—I wouldn’t participate in today’s parade. I wouldn’t leave my apartment. Before I change my mind, I grab my stuff and head out the door.

The Bunkeris busy this morning. Men and women dressed in their service uniforms congregate in groups according to the unit they were in when they deployed clearly identified by the fabric patch on their right shoulder. I spot Nix outside speaking to Troy, another former Ranger from a different battalion, and make my way toward them.

Tipping my chin, I greet them. “Steele. Gallagher.”

“Sutton.”

I tuck my hands into my pockets and rock back on my heels, clenching my jaw. The guys keep talking but all I can hear is the blood rushing through my body. I want today over and done with. I look out over the community garden and try to fill my head with more recent memories that don’t leave me feeling desolate. Jasmine’s sweet smile. Poppy’s bright energy. Violet’s vivid blue eyes. The lost look on her face when we went for ice cream, and the way my heart pounds faster every morning when I collect Poppy for school, hoping to get a glimpse of the woman.

A strong hand drops onto my shoulder and I tense. I was so lost in my head, I missed Troy stepping away and Nix moving closer. I must be losing it to be caught so unaware. “You okay?”

I study Nix’s eyes, noting the tightness and concern. “Not really. Just need to get through today and I’ll be better.” I dig my fists deeper into my pockets. No point lying to the man, he already knows the worst of it.

He squeezes my shoulder. “I know you find days like this unbearable, and you feel undeserving to wear the uniform but it’s simply not true.” I shrug out of his hold and take a step away. He lowers his voice. “It wasn’t our fault, and nothing that we could have done would have changed the outcome, Shane. But as many times as I’ve told you this, you insist on carrying the blame solely on your shoulders. You weren’t the only one there when it happened. You’re not the only one who carries the guilt of Wyatt’s death, but you’re the only one who seems to think the blame lies solely at your feet. It doesn’t.”

I drop my head to look at the floor because I can’t deal with the sincerity shining in his eyes. He truly believes what he says. However, my guilt is acute. If I’d been more aware of my surroundings—listened to my gut—I could have warned Wyatt before it was too late.

The routefor the parade seems never-ending, and we’ve only been marching for about half a mile. Thousands of people line both sides of the street, proudly waving American flags, dressed in red, white, and blue. National pride and gratitude ooze from the spectators as their cheers pierce the air. I keep my head straight and eyes forward, not seeing anything other than the head of the man in front of me. I don’t want to hear peoplecalling out theirthanksfrom the sidelines. I don’t want to see the pride they wear on their faces for us.

After we round the final corner, the end comes in sight and relief that this is almost over fills me. Over the pandemonium of the crowd, a sweet voice breaks through. “Sane! Mommy. There’s Sane! Sane!” My lips tip up automatically, and I glance without moving my head toward the voice. Sure enough, there’s Jasmine in her mother’s arms. Her tiny arm wrapped around Violet’s neck and in her free hand, an American flag. She’s waving it high in the air at me. “Sane!”

“Yeah, baby girl. It’s Shane,” Violet says, and I’m astounded that with all of the noise, their voices are as clear as a bell.

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