“So,” he says casually, “how long you think this one’s gonna take?”
I don’t answer right away. My thoughts keep slipping sideways, back to a supply closet and a laugh cut short, to the way Delilah’s eyes looked when the humor faded and reality rushed back in. To the way my name sounds when she says it. To the way she looked on that hill, flat on her back in the rain because standing felt like falling. To the fact that she was just a hallway away from him and had to hide like a fugitive in her own life.
I take another drag, let the smoke burn, and keep my face neutral. “As long as it takes,” I say finally.
He studies me for a beat, like he’s weighing something. “You’ve always carried things alone,” he says quietly. “Don’t forget you don’t have to.”
If he knew. If he had any idea how deep in it I am, how tangled this has become, how every instinct in me is split down the middle between duty and something I don’t have a name for yet because naming it would make it real. Would make it unforgivable.
I nod once, because it’s safer than speaking. “I won’t,” I lie.
He smiles, satisfied enough, and launches into another story from a mission years back, laughing at a moment that nearly got us killed. I listen, respond where I should, keep the rhythm of an old friendship alive on the surface. I even laugh once or twice where he expects me to. But underneath it all, my mind is elsewhere, caught on the image of his daughter disappearing down a hallway, on the weight of a secret I can’t afford to drop.
I wish I could turn it off.
I wish I could be just a captain again, just a soldier with a mission and a target and nothing else muddying the water. Just a man who can sit across from his best friend without tasting guilt at the back of his throat.
Instead, I stand there with smoke curling around my head, nodding along to memories of a past that feels simpler than it ever really was, wondering how long I can keep all of this from detonating right in front of me.
He keeps talking, drifting the way he always does when he’s comfortable, when the past feels close enough to touch. His voice fills the office, steady and familiar, and I let it, because interrupting him would mean thinking too hard about why my pulse still hasn’t settled.
“My wife’s already planning,” he says with a tired chuckle, shaking his head. “You know how she gets. Birthday’s coming up and suddenly it’s an event. Country club, of course. Reserved the whole damn place.”
I grunt, taking another pull from the cigar. “Of course she did.”
He smiles at that, fond and a little exasperated. “She wanted it special this year. Said Delilah’s always had stars in her eyes when it comes to Greenport. The people, the stories, the legacy of it all. So she worked some favors and got it opened up just for vets and retirees. Families too.”
That gets my attention whether I want it to or not. I shift my weight, ash tapping softly into the tray. “That so.”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. “Figured it might make her feel… closer. Even if she’s not around much anymore.”
The words sit heavy between us. Distance. That’s the polite version of it. The one he uses so he doesn’t have to say lost, or unreachable, or gone in ways that have nothing to do with geography. It’s also the kindest version of what I’ve helped build.
“She’d like it,” I say carefully, because it’s true. I’ve seen that awe up close, seen the way Delilah watches soldiers move, listens to stories like they’re sacred texts, stores the mythology of this place in the same heart she uses to question it. “Means something to her.”
“That’s what I thought.” He brightens a little, then looks at me sideways. “You should come.”
I arch a brow. “Me.”
“Yeah, you,” he says, like it’s obvious. “It’d appease the missus for one. She still thinks you’re a bad influence, by the way.”
I snort. “She’s not wrong.”
He laughs, a real one, the sound easing some of the tightness in my chest even as it makes the guilt worse. “If you show up, she’ll be too busy bragging to be mad at anyone. And I’ll handle getting Delilah there. She won’t argue with me about that.”
My stomach knots before I can stop it. The image of Delilah in that setting flashes through my head uninvited, sharp and bright and completely inappropriate—dressed up, half-smiling, pretending she isn’t carrying a war under her skin, while I stand in the same room trying not to watch her too hard. I keep my face neutral, give him a shrug that costs me more than it should.
“I’ll see if I can slip away for a bit to celebrate,” I say.
“Fair enough, busy man,” he replies, nodding. “God, I miss this damn place.”
I huff a laugh despite myself. “That makes one of us.”
He stands then, finally, straightening his jacket like the conversation hasn’t just cracked something open in me. He steps toward the door, pauses, and turns back, his expression shifting into something quieter, heavier. The amusement drains out of him, leaving behind the version I know too well—the one that sees more than he says.
“Jon,” he says, voice lower now. “I know she doesn’t call. I know she keeps everyone at arm’s length. But… thank you. For keeping an eye on her. Even from a distance.”
The words hit harder than any accusation could have.
