Page 77 of The Art of Dying

Kitsch closed the door behind us, looking at his watch. “Where’s Big D?”

“Daddy!” Dylan said, ripping around the corner.

“Hey, bud,” Kitsch said, scooping him up with his free arm.

I’d always loved it when my husband held both of our children at the same time. He was an amazing soldier, but a better dad. I could see by the look in his eyes, whatever he’d seen wherever he’d been, it meant even more to him to have Dylan and Emily in his arms.

I knew better than to ask. He couldn’t tell me, and if it was an update about Mason, it would have to wait until after the kids’ bedtime. He took a quick shower and then played on the floor with them until supper time, asking them a million questions while they devoured their pot roast and potatoes, and sitting with them in their beds long after they’d fallen asleep.

I was sitting on the bed in one of his old Marine Corps T-shirts, towel drying my hair when Kitsch walked into our room and closed the door.

I let the towel fall to my lap. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

He swallowed, leaning back against the door. “I didn’t know until right this minute how hard this was going to be.”

“So, it’s really bad.”

He walked to the bed, kneeling in front of where I sat. “Baby…” he sighed. “Something happened.”

“Is he dead?” I asked.

He stared at me for a moment and then shook his head slowly.

“Oh, my God. Is it Naomi?” I asked, feeling my words try to catch in my throat.

“No.”

I frowned. “Then what is it?”

“I killed someone. Someone important.”

“You kill a lot of important people.”

“He wasn’t just important, honey, he was important to someone. Someone with a long history of the torture and death of families of people who wronged him in far lesser ways than I did.”

I lowered my chin. “Are you here to take us somewhere safe?”

He shook his head.

I closed my eyes. “For the love of God, Kitsch, just say it.”

“Kiss me.”

My eyes popped open. “What?”

His expression crumbled. “Kiss me. Because what I’m about to ask of you, it may be the last time.”

I cupped his face and met his gaze. “There is nothing… nothing you could say to me to make that happen.”

He winced. “Do it anyway.”

I pressed my lips against his, but when he kissed me back, it felt like begging. Some wives struggled with how awkward intimacy could sometimes be when their husbands returned, particularly after long deployments, but the butterflies in my stomach made it feel like the first time on his first nights back home. But everything about the way Kitsch touched me was different. It seemed anguished and desperate, like he knew it was the last time.

Kitsch’s mouth trailed down my neck, and he gently tugged at the already stretched neck of my T-shirt, planting tender kisses as he made his way to my shoulder. I reached down to pull up the bottom hem of my shirt, but he stopped me.

“Baby… we need to have a conversation first.”

I shook my head. “No, we don’t.” I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it to the floor.

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