Not often.
Not enough.
But it used to.
And God, how I used to live for those precious few moments when I got to hear him.
My husband. My Benji.
The only man I ever loved.
And the one who ripped the foundations of my very soul right out from under me with one cold phrase.
“I don’t believe you.”
Calls from overseas were never easy.
Bad connections. Time differences. Missions he couldn’t talk about.
I understood that. I signed up for that when I married him.
What I didn’t sign up for was being left alone. Being mistrusted. And having to deal with his best friend.
I know it’s bad to speak ill of the dead, but I owe nothing to Paul Meadows.
As far as I’m concerned, he was a conniving little prick.
My stomach twists just thinking his name.
“I told Benji I’d watch out for you.”
That’s what he said the first time he showed up unannounced, leaning against my doorway like he belonged there.
At first, I thought he was just doing what friends do.
Checking in.
Making sure I wasn’t lonely.
Bringing takeout, fixing things around the house, sitting too close on the couch but—hey—some people don’t have a sense of personal space.
I tried to ignore it.
Tried to tell myself I was imagining things.
But then the looks changed.
The comments got bolder.
The way he watched me started to feel wrong.
I told Benji once.
Just once.
It took everything in me to even say it, to admit something about his best friend made me uncomfortable.
And he shut me down so fast it felt like a slap.
