The knot in my chest loosened. “You’re not upset?” I asked quietly.
Hannah snorted. “Holly McCarthy, if you’re building something meant to protect women and you don’t question every angle, I’ve failed you.”
Maria smiled at me over Jewel’s curls. “You’re thinking like the woman who’s going to run this.”
I grabbed the doorframe, blinking hard. “You did this without telling me,” I managed.
Hannah’s lips twitched. “You would’ve tried to do it alone.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“You’ve got help,” Maria said softly.
I stepped into the room again and touched the bedspread, really feeling it this time. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t the freestanding house with its own porch and quiet street. But it was movement. It was momentum. For the first time since Willow’s Harbor had been scribbles and late-night calls, I didn’t just believe in it.
I believed in us building it right.
Two days later, the envelope showed up.
I still hadn’t figured out how mail worked halfway across the world. Some letters took weeks. Others slipped through faster, like the desert itself had carried them on the wind. I’d stopped trying to guess, but every trip to the mailroom still made my pulse jump.
And then there it was—my name in Jackson’s hand, tucked in the little metal box under the buzz of the fluorescent lights.
This time I didn’t fumble my keys or nearly trip over my own feet. I just grinned like an idiot the whole walk upstairs, the envelope clutched tight in my hand. My bag hit the floor the second I pushed through the door, forgotten. I slid down with my back to the wall, tore it open, and let his words pull me across the miles.
Malibu,
Got your letter. Got the picture. You trying to kill me? I opened it in the squad bay, and now every bastard in here knows I’ve got the prettiest girl in Georgia waiting on me. Half of them asked if you’ve got a sister. I told them no.
That photo wrecked me. I’ve got it taped inside my Kevlar so every time I throw it on, you’re with me. The guys can razz me all they want—I don’t care. I see you, sun in your hair, Sally under you, barefoot like the world can’t touch you. That’s mine. You’re mine.
Life here’s the same. Hump till your legs give out, chow that makes MREs taste five-star, dust everywhere it shouldn’t be. But your letter cut through it.
Don’t stop writing me, Malibu. Don’t stop sending pictures. You’re the only thing keeping me sane.
Love you,
Jackson
I leaned back against the wall, the paper warm from my hands, and read it again. “Humped until your legs give out?” I muttered, rolling my eyes at the page. “What the hell does that even mean?”
I caught myself tracing his words with my thumb, the corner of my mouth tugging up at the way he said “you’re mine” like it was already settled. The ache was still there, sure, but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It was steady. Bearable.
Chapter Twenty-Six
? Jackson ?
Boots crunching gravel and the rasp of my own breath became the soundtrack to my life.
We were posted on the edge of a village, sun beating down so hard it felt like the air itself was pressing me into the dirt. Nothing moved except the heat shimmer, but that didn’t mean nothing was out there. Out here, “nothing” was the best you could hope for.
By the time we rotated back through the wire that evening, my shoulders were screaming and my throat was dust. The squad was too cooked to talk much—just the usual bitching about chow and whether the showers would have water pressure tonight. Black humor kept us alive, but exhaustion kept us quiet.
Then the corporal barked for mail call, and suddenly every one of us was on our feet like kids at Christmas. When my name got shouted, I didn’t even try to hide the way my pulse jumped.
Jackson,
Ok, we need to talk about this “hump until your legs give out” thing. Because I’m pretty sure you know exactly how that sounds, and if you don’t, you better be glad Maria wasn’t standing over my shoulder when I read it. She’d never let you live it down.
