I’d fled his room overwhelmed by everything—the intimacy, his stories about Jason, his touch. It felt right, being in his arms.
And the sex…a-maz-ing!
My fingers run over the soft fabric of the dress as I put it on. Jason’s dog tags hang around my neck. I stopped wearing them a year ago—Ellie told me it was progress—but today, they feel necessary.
“I miss you,” I whisper to the empty room. “I’ll always miss you.”
I don’t add that I’m tired of living in the shadow of grief.
It’s a short drive to the community center. Outside, it’s been transformed: rows of folding chairs face a small stage draped in red, white, and blue, and the tribute wall stands proudly to one side, drawing attendees who pause to touch photos lightly and read names.
I park and walk over, scanning the crowd for Felix. My heart beats like a war drum in both anticipation and fear.
“Thought you might skip it.” Ellie’s voice startles me. She stands behind me, baby Serena strapped to her chest, Kyle at her side.
“I considered it,” I admit.
Kyle’s blue eyes are kind as he touches my shoulder. “He’s been looking for you. Over there, by the stage.”
My gaze follows his to where Felix is standing tall and straight-backed in his Dress Blues, the color standing out against his tanned skin. So handsome. He’s surrounded by other veterans, but our gazes still instantly lock across the crowd. The look in his eyes steals my breath.
“Go,” Ellie urges, giving me a gentle push. “You’ve waited so long to feel this again. Don’t waste another minute.”
Not yet. The tribute wall calls to me first: I need to see Jason before I can go to Felix. It feels important, like closing one chapter before beginning another.
Jason’s photo is prominently displayed, his service medal beside it. The sight of him grinning in his desert camo loosens something in my chest. For the first time, I can look at him without feeling the crushing weight of grief.
“He’s not you, and he never will be,” I murmur to the photograph. “But he’s your brother-in-arms. And I know you’d approve.”
A hand touches my elbow gently. I turn to see Troy Lawson, looking handsome in his Army Service Uniform.
“He was one hell of a Marine,” Troy says, nodding to Jason’s photo.
“Yes. He was.” My voice is steadier than I expected.
Troy’s gaze holds mine. “For what it’s worth, Felix is one of the good ones. Man bears a lot on those shoulders, but he just keeps moving forward.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I think that’s what scares me.”
“Nothing wrong with being afraid,” Troy says quietly, looking toward where his wife, Zoe, is herding their children into their seats. “It’s what you do with the fear that matters.” He turns back to me and smiles.
“True. Thank you, Troy,” I say.
The brass bell above the display clangs, its mournful toll scattering swallows from the nearby pines. As I pick my way to a seat near the back, Mayor Walsh introduces Felix as the keynote speaker. My pulse races when Felix approaches the podium, moving with the confidence of a man who has made peace with his scars.
“Memorial Day,” Felix begins, his voice carrying across the hushed crowd, “isn’t just to remember those we’ve lost. It’s to honor how they lived.”
The crowd nods in a collective moment of understanding, grief and respect.
“I served with many fine men who never made it home,” he continues, his gaze sweeping over the gathering. “Men who loved football and country music and getting ridiculous care packages from their kids. Men who carried keepsakes of their loved ones like talismans.
“For a long time after I came home, I couldn’t understand why I had survived when they didn’t.” Felix’s voice drops, intimate despite the microphone. “I felt guilty for breathing, because they couldn’t. For healing, because they never would. For finding joy in the world, because their families were still grieving.”
Tears blur my vision as his gaze lands on mine.
“One day, I realized something,” he continues. “The greatest tribute we can pay to those who sacrificed everything isn’t just remembering them. It’s living with purpose, and allowing ourselves second chances at happiness.”
His words resonate through me like that bell over the photographs.