Page 78 of Open Secrets
“You know,” I say, swirling my straw through the ice, “we could try to find the father. I mean, she’s had to have stolen the essence of some poor man.”
Lyle raises an eyebrow. “Essence?”
I smirk. “What? You want me to say jizz in a family restaurant with chicken nuggets on the menu?”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God, woman.”
I lean in, grin widening. “Fine. Semen. Happy?”
His glare just makes me laugh harder. “Point is—we could hire a PI. Track her down, figure out who she was actually with.”
He squints at me. “Up until yesterday, we didn’t have money for therapy. According to you.”
“Well…” I shrug, taking a sip of water like I’m innocent. “I can put off Tuscany if it means you get to keep your medals.”
That pulls a startled smile out of him. He reaches across the table, taking my hand in his. His thumb rubs against my knuckles, warm and steady. “I don’t deserve you.”
I take a deep breath, letting it out slow, and tilt my chin up with a little smirk. “I know.”
He bursts into laughter. I can’t help grinning too.
“I love you,” I say, quieter now. “Even if I get mad about the past sometimes.”
He squeezes my hand. “It’s okay. I had to keep from murdering too.”
That makes me snort into my drink, water nearly going up my nose.
Once our food arrives, the smell of fries and grilled chicken filling the booth, I stab at my plate and ask, “Who would she even go to? Like if we don’t pay her, who’s the person she tattles to?”
Lyle thinks for a second, chewing slow. “Since she said ‘commander,’ I’m guessing she means Collins. He’s my battalion commander.”
I make a face. “That old bastard.”
Lyle nods grimly. “The man was passed over for promotion because of my dad. If she goes to him, I’m dead. He’d have me discharged so fast your head would spin.”
I mutter into my fork, “There goes that plan.”
“What plan?” Lyle asks, wary now.
I shrug, twirling a fry through ketchup. “I thought we could go to whoever she’d complain to… and complain first. Like, stake our bitch flag in the ground before she does.”
He just stares at me, blinking once, twice, like he’s trying to decide if I’m a genius or clinically insane.
“Stake your… bitch flag?” he repeats finally.
I grin, shoving the fry into my mouth. “Exactly.”
His laugh bursts out, loud enough to make the waiter glance over. But under it, I can still see the worry lingering in his eyes.
I look at a mom with a toddler near the back. She’s clearly exhausted, and every time her kid drops something to the floor, she looks embarrassed. The staff, instead of annoyed, quietly clean it up. I smile, remembering those days.
Remi was one when I got pregnant with Taylor. I wanted kids close in age, thought it would be sweet—siblings who’d grow upside by side, playmates instead of strangers. It seemed possible until Remi hit the terrible twos early. That kid gave me so many white hairs before his second birthday I should’ve bought stock in hair dye. I can still picture myself on the kitchen floor, trying to wrangle him as he hurled peas against the wall, both of us crying, him louder but me breaking in a way he couldn’t see.
And Lyle missed it. Not just the tantrums but the tiny victories too. Remi’s first steps, his first words, the first time he held Taylor’s hand without me asking. They all lived in shaky little videos I’d email across the ocean, my voice chirpy in the background like I wasn’t breaking down the second I hit send.
I swirl my straw through the ice, thinking about how many meals Lyle’s missed over the years—deployments, training, all the times it was just me and the kids at the table pretending it was fine. Even birthdays with an empty chair at the table. And now here we are, finally face-to-face over fries, and we’re still fighting ghosts.
I lean back in the booth, wiping my hands on the napkin. “Hey,” I say, softer now. “Even if we lose the pension, we’ll survive. It’s not like it’s a lot anyway. And I can get insurance through my business. It’ll suck to lose commissary access, but…” I shrug. “We’ll survive.”
