Mom reached out, her hand trembling as she brushed her fingers across my cheek. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I love you so much.”
Dad’s voice was rough as he added, with his ever-practical side. “We never stopped hoping you’d walk through the door, son. Not for one moment.”
I closed my eyes, the guilt crashing into me again, but beneath it was something else—a fragile thread of relief. They hadn’t given up. And somehow, after everything, we were still here as a family. I lost control then, the tears sliding down my face, raw and broken, and my mom broke, dragging me closer, my face in her lap as she cried with me. She stroked my hair and made all kinds of promises about how much she loved me, how she wanted tohelp me. It was nothing about her or Dad, even though they could blame me for enlisting, for getting hurt, for running, for wanting to take my own life.
I don’t know how long we hugged, or at what point Dad gathered Mom close and gripped my shoulder.
Thankfully, Eli didn’t understand the mess he found, clapping the red cup on my head.
“Bah!” he announced, which I chose to believe meant he wanted to play—or maybe, he was saying that he loved his Uncle Tyler.
Marcus knocked on the door. “Hey,” he greeted everyone, then locked his gaze on me. “Room for one more?”
Given she was closer, Jess got to hug him first, but I stood and grabbed his hand. “This is Doctor Marcus Stirling, my boyfriend.” I was so damn proud, but part of me wondered what my parents would see first—the pink streaks in his hair, the tattoos on his arms? Or the warmth in his eyes. Would they see past all the things that might make them uneasy? Would they see him the way I saw him? For his heart and for how much I loved him?
I didn’t need to worry—they were up off the sofa in an instant. My dad extended his hand, hisvoice steady and respectful. “Doctor Stirling,” he said with quiet sincerity.
Marcus smiled, shaking Dad’s hand. “Please, call me Marcus.”
Without hesitation, my mom pulled him into a hug, surprising even Marcus for a moment. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for loving my son.”
Marcus glanced over at me, his expression soft. “It’s kind of easy.”
Then, Marcus settled with me on the carpet, his shoulder brushing mine as we worked together to rebuild the tower Eli had knocked over.
The air felt lighter then, and I exhaled, feeling hopeful for my family, for my connection to Marcus.
Pure, quiet hope.
NINETEEN
Marcus
Today wasour firstrealsession of music therapy. The instruments had been arranged in a loose circle: guitars, a small drum, the piano, a new keyboard, and a few stools. I’d left the door open on purpose because although I’d told all of our residents that I was running a session, that didn’t meananyonewas going to turn up.
Still, when the first person slipped in, it made me smile.
Cal had been with us for almost eight months now, working hard every day to quiet the ghosts of his time as a Navy explosives tech. His hands, large and calloused, still bore faint scars from a blast that had nearly taken his life, but he’d found some peacein music, letting the guitar steady his nerves. Then, someone else arrived. DeShawn was newer, barely two months in, a former Army medic who’d seen too much in too little time. He carried his anxiety close to the surface, always masking it with humor.
Tyler stood just inside the room, hesitating.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said. “But you can.”
His gaze flicked over my shoulder at the two men already seated. Cal was tuning a guitar with slow, deliberate movements, his heavy hands sure even after everything he’d lost. DeShawn was half-slouched on a stool, catching Tyler’s eye, giving a small, easy up-nod of hello.
“I’ll just observe today,” Tyler said, voice low, holding up his notebook. “If that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
He moved to a chair by the wall, folding his arms, his body rigid. But he stayed to make his notes, and that was enough.
I closed the door, making sure theknock for entrysign was visible in case of late arrivals, then clapped my hands to start. “Welcome to the music group. This is nothing fancy, just a place to chill, play around, talk if you want, or not. Up to you.”
“Good,” Cal muttered, curling his fingers into aG major shape, letting the open chords ring out. “Jesus, my fingers are already making up their own damn chords.” He shifted into C, then D, letting the simple progression flow. Ending with a flourish and a surprised smile as if he couldn’t believe he was able to make music.
DeShawn chuckled. “Ain’t nobody here judging your jazz, man.” He picked up a guitar, contemplated it, then placed it back, and instead hummed along with whatever we were playing: Cal with his guitar, and me on the piano.
I kept an eye on Tyler. His posture didn’t change much, but his eyes tracked every movement, absorbing it all. When DeShawn’s voice cracked, Tyler’s hand twitched against his thigh, as if to reach out, then stilled again.
