Page 78 of Keeping London (Flawed Heart)

Loïc

London

“I have to focus on what I can control because nothing is more depressing than trying to change what I can’t.”

—London Wright

To: Loïc Berkeley

From: London Wright

Subject: Funeral

Loïc,

The funeral’s tomorrow. Are they going to let you come home for it? Hopefully, you are already on your way. God, I hope so.

I need to see you. I don’t know what else to say besides I love you.

I. Love. You.

Always. Always. Always.

Love,

London

Sitting on the padded bench in the bay window of my bedroom, I close my laptop.

I’m not good at this, this military life.How do wives and girlfriends handle the stress of it all—the worry, the not knowing, the sadness, the anxiety…the despair?It’s all too much. It’s suffocating. I can’t function.

The days since Cooper’s death have dragged on, each one an eternity in itself. I know I have to mourn Cooper, but I’m drowning in my worry for Loïc.

I just feel…lost.

I’ve always been successful at things in life that I’ve truly wanted. Yet, more than anything I’ve ever needed, I want to be able to navigate my days with grace instead of despair. But, no matter how much I try to find the strength, it’s out of my reach every time.

No amount of money can buy feelings. But, if I could, I would cash in my entire trust fund for an ounce of peace. The lack of it is driving me crazy.

Leaning my head against the window, I watch as the wind whips frozen flurries around. The snowflakes travel in a frigid dance through the air. It’s captivating and hauntingly sad. They’re caught in the gusts of the bitter wind, unable to fall to the earth even if they wanted to.

Maybe, on another day, I would have found the swirls of white beautiful. But, today, all I see are flakes that are forced into a frenzy of movement, being denied the peace of the padded ground.

Soft knocks sound on my door before it opens gently.

“Hey,” Paige says quietly.

Lifting my face from the window, I look to her. “Hey.”

“I’m assuming no news?” She looks to me with pity.

“No.” I shake my head. “I just wrote him again but still nothing from his end.”

“He’ll come around. Who knows what happens over there after a death? Maybe he doesn’t have access to his laptop right now.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say with little conviction.

Her face perks up, and she sings, “The sun will come out—”

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