81
Ryan
The sensory assault of the stadium was finally a distant memory. Today, the noise was different—it was the bright, chaotic sound of children. Anna had driven out with Cory, and Logan had arrived with Willow. Standing in the kitchen, watching the two of them in the living room, I felt a strange, shaky kind of peace. Since their first meeting at the arena, seeing them together, watching them continue the bond they’d formed, felt like the real beginning of the healing.
Cory, wearing a slightly oversized Tidal Teals jersey with Brody’s old unit number pinned to the shoulder, was cautiously holding one of Jackson’s spare hockey sticks. Willow, in a neon yellow tutu that clashed spectacularly with the rug, was circling him like a tiny, determined drill sergeant. “You have to hold it like this,” she commanded, adjusting his grip with her sticky hands. “Jackson says you have to be the boss of the puck.” Cory looked up at her, wide-eyed, then back down at the stick. “Mydad was a soldier,” he whispered, a small, fragile declaration of pride. Willow didn’t miss a beat. “My dad says soldiers are superheroes. And my Uncle Ryan draws the best ducks. Do you want to see?” Hearing her call me Uncle Ryan, I want that so much.
I watched them from the doorway, my throat tight. Cory finally smiled, a genuine, toothy grin that mirrored Brody’s so perfectly it made my heart ache. Continuing the friendship they started at the game, they sat on the rug, the hockey stick abandoned for a box of crayons, and began to draw. Willow passed Cory a crayon, “You can use my green crayon if you like.” Watching Brody’s son find a friend in Willow, hearing their laughter bubble up over the quiet hum of the refrigerator, I felt the sharp, jagged edges of the trauma begin to dull. The soldier in me was still there, but he was standing down. I wasn’t just surviving anymore; I was watching the future take root in the middle of Jackson’s living room. I reached for Anna’s hand, squeezing it as we both watched.
We arrived at the stadium, Cory and Willow completely unfazed by the noise, leaned against me, their small weights a perfect, solid anchor. Willow pointed a sticky finger at the ice. “Jackson is doing the zoomies!” she yelled over the crowd, her innocent joy cutting through the anxiety. Anna leaned in, her voice low and steady against my ear. “He’s safe, Ryan. We’re safe. We’re watching them play. Just listen to the kids, not the crowd.” The noise became less of a threat and more of a rhythm. I focused on the gentle press of Anna’s hand in mine and the absolute, total calm emanating from the six-year-old next to me, whose entire attention was devoted to the glowing puck. The stadium erupted. Jackson skated toward the glass right below our box, found my eyes, and tapped his chest twice, then pointed at me. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve Jackson Hayes, but I’m so fucking in love with him.
82
Ryan
I stood by the kitchen island, staring at the empty coffee canister as if it were an unexploded device. The house was too quiet, and the thought of just sitting here waiting for the walls to close in was becoming unbearable. I needed a mission, even a small one.
“We’re out of coffee,” I said, my voice sounding rough even to my own ears.
Jackson looked up from his phone, that fucking backward cap taunting like always, his brow furrowing instantly.
“I can go, Ryan. You don’t have to push yourself to do these things so soon. Just go at your pace, I need you to take care of yourself now.” I shook my head, grabbing his keys from the counter.
“No. I need to do it. I need to see if I can handle the noise.” Jackson stood up slowly, his eyes scanning my face with that familiar, steady concern.
“It’s a big store, Ryan. It’s Saturday morning. It’s going to be loud, crowded, and chaotic.” He stepped closer, not quite touching me, but creating a perimeter of safety.
“Are you sure you’re ok to go alone? I can come with you on this one.” I tightened my grip on the keys, the metal biting into my palm.
“I have to try, Jackson. If I can’t buy a bag of coffee without you, then I’m never getting out of this house alone.” He didn’t look convinced, but he nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of my need for autonomy.
“Ok. Just focus on the list. If it gets too loud, you walk out. It isn’t worth the noise.” I walked toward the door, the weight of his gaze following me, wondering if I was actually ready to face the civilian world without my anchor today.
83
Jackson
I was pacing the living room when Ryan finally returned, pale and shaking, slamming the truck door outside. He didn’t speak, just dropped the keys on the counter and locked himself in the bedroom. I knew better than to ask, but my heart sank for him. We had such good days, and then a bad moment seemed to set him back.
That evening, trying to restore some normalcy, I suggested a movie. “Something light,” I said, putting on a superhero blockbuster that was mostly CGI noise. Ryan was curled up on the couch, wrapped tight in a blanket, his head resting on my chest, a small, safe weight. For a few minutes, he was just Ryan, quiet and peaceful.
Then, a scene flashed onto the screen, a close-up of a soldier in full gear, his face streaked with dirt and blood, screaming into a radio as a building exploded behind him. Ryan’s body went instantly rigid. His breathing hitched, and he was gone.He shot off the couch, his back immediately hitting the wall, his eyes wide and unfocused, scanning the dark corners of the room for the threat on the screen. “Ryan, it’s a movie,” I whispered, holding my hands out, not moving. “It’s fake, Ryan. It’s not real.” He didn’t hear me. He was breathing in shallow, ragged gasps, his fists clenched tight. The man who drew ducks was gone, replaced by the soldier. “They’re still out there,” he choked out, his voice raw with panic. “I left them. I have to go back.”
I didn’t argue. I just moved slowly, carefully, pulling the blanket from the couch and laying it gently over his shoulders. I turned off the TV, plunging the room into quiet darkness. I sat down on the floor in front of him, keeping my distance, letting him see my hands were empty.
“You’re here with me,” I insisted, my voice low and steady, pulling the soldier back to my reality one word at a time. “Look at the plush dinosaur, Ryan. Look at the duck on the shelf. You’re home. Brody is resting. You are safe.”
It took twenty minutes before the tension finally drained from his shoulders, and he slid down the wall to collapse into my lap, the soldier dissolving back into the man who just needed to be held.
84
Jackson
The routine of a Sunday morning felt heavy with unspoken perfection. I was trying, and failing, to teach Ryan how to use my espresso machine—a ridiculously complicated Italian beast he was approaching with the precision of a bomb technician. He held the small metal portafilter, brow furrowed in concentration. “So, the tamp pressure is roughly equivalent to a standard M4 trigger pull?” he asked, completely serious. I laughed, leaning against the counter. “Less lethal, Soldier. Just make sure the grounds are even.”
I noticed the way Ryan’s jaw remained tight, his shoulders slightly hunched, even while doing something as simple as making coffee. The silence of the house felt too heavy today, like a thick fog that made every small creak of the floorboards sound like a warning. I stepped away from the counter and tapped a button on the speaker system, filling the room with the soft, low hum of some instrumental relaxation music. It wasn’t much, justa slow, steady rhythm of piano and strings, but it cut through the oppressive stillness, offering a layer of noise that didn’t demand a reaction. I saw Ryan’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch as the first notes settled into the air, the tension in his grip starting to ease. Seeing him here, in my kitchen, wearing one of my old, faded t-shirts, felt like a constant, quiet miracle. It broke my heart that he couldn’t just exist in the stillness without bracing for a collision.
I walked over and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, resting my chin on his shoulder. “You’re safe,” I whispered into his ear. “Just coffee, Ryan. No collateral damage.” He let out a low, shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “It’s the quiet, Jackson. It’s so fucking loud when nothing’s happening.” He turned in my arms, resting his forehead against mine. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Coffee shouldn’t be this stressful.”
