The Soldier's Forever Family

She wondered if it was possible for her chest to hurt any worse than it did at that moment. If this was what a broken heart felt like, she’d been wise to avoid it all these years. And foolish to have let down those defenses with Adam.

Suddenly bone-weary, she said, “I should get back to my suite now.”

He nodded and moved to open the door for her, pausing with his hand on the knob. “I’m glad you came by tonight,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t like the way that meeting ended, either. This is a much better way to say good—to say good night.”

She knew he’d changed his wording at the last moment, but he opened the door before she could try to get clarification. She couldn’t just stand there eyeing him suspiciously. Nor did she want him to see the depths of her disappointment.

“Good night, Adam.”

He caught her arm just as she reached the threshold and lowered his head for one last, lingering kiss. Another mixed signal, she thought even as she was unable to resist responding. Just one last time, she promised herself.

“Sleep well, JoJo,” he murmured, releasing her.

The door closed quietly behind her when she stepped outside and drew a long, shaky breath. The tropical air that had felt so fresh before tasted cloyingly sweet now, reminding her that she didn’t belong here. This was only a vacation resort, a place for fantasies that couldn’t last forever.

* * *

THE RESORT WAS subdued at 1:00 a.m., with few sounds filtering from the outside into Adam’s bedroom, where he sat brooding in a chair by the open window. Maybe a handful of night owls were enjoying last call at the bar or taking moonlit strolls on the beach, but all in all, the place was tucked in for the night. Weekends tended to be livelier even at this hour, but this Thursday night—early Friday morning, technically—was peaceful. Adam doubted anyone would even notice if he carried his bags down to his car and drove away.

Just the way he liked it. No one hanging around to exchange difficult goodbyes.

Maybe he should do just that. Maybe he would take a couple weeks of the vacation time he’d accumulated. Or maybe he’d end up back on the road, looking for a new gig in a fresh setting. He could make a decent living doing construction or landscaping, neither of which should be hindered by the limited mobility of his right arm. He could sell cars or sporting goods, or drive a truck and schlep packages. Anything that didn’t require a degree, but still paid enough for his basic needs and for weekly contributions to his son’s college fund. He wasn’t choosy.

He’d never planned to stay here as long as he had. Never expected to rise to a position of responsibility. Never thought he’d be offered a big promotion with a sizable raise, something Trevor had discussed with him just last week. He’d said he needed time to think about it, and even with all his new venture deadlines looming, Trevor had told him to take the time he needed. Adam had spent the past week trying to figure out why the idea of settling into a management position even here at the resort had brought a tightness to his throat that had felt uncomfortably like panic.

How could he be expected to be a stable presence in a kid’s life when he couldn’t even commit to a job?

His father hadn’t offered much in the way of paternal wisdom during Adam’s youth. Still, something his dad had said to him on one of those brief visits when Adam was maybe fourteen had stuck with him.

“Boy, it’s a big world out there,” Doyle Scott had spouted, raising one tattooed hand to smooth back the salt-and-pepper hair he’d worn in a scraggly, leather-tied ponytail. “Don’t let nobody chain you to one little parcel of it.”

With that old echo whispering in the back of his mind, Adam shifted restlessly in his chair. He couldn’t help wondering if he’d inherited more than gray eyes from his dad. Why else would the thought of making a commitment—to a job, to a child, to a woman—make him break out in cold sweats and doubt his ability to fulfill any promises?

Maybe he’d stay. Maybe he wouldn’t. Whichever choice he made, Joanna and Simon would be gone in a couple of days. A few weeks after that, they’d be on their way to Seattle, as far as they could get from here without falling into the opposite ocean. Joanna co

uld go back to her counseling, or whatever she did, and Simon would excel in school, probably eventually earning an advanced degree well beyond Adam’s hard-earned high school diploma and a few community college classes. They’d be fine without him. Better than fine.

His attention was caught by a crayon drawing on the dresser. He stilled, then stood and moved slowly toward the dresser, where he picked up the map of the resort Simon had made for him and looked down at it somberly.

His stomach clenched. His throat felt as though it had been scalded. Shredded. The old, healed scars on his chest seemed to throb with fresh injury. His eyes burned as if filled again with desert sand. He squeezed them closed, but he could still see the childish writing in his mind.

To Mr. Adam, from Simon Z.

After several deep, lung-filling breaths, he moved across the room, opened a drawer in nightstand, and dug out a worn leather pouch. The pouch had once closed with a leather strip wrapped around a horn button, but he’d lost the button at some point. He opened the flap and withdrew a wallet-size photograph. He’d taken this photo with his phone six years ago and had it printed. It wasn’t of the highest quality or the best artistic arrangement. The glossy photo paper was tattered at the corners and creased down the middle, but all he saw was the smiling face of the subject.

Wearing a bathing suit with a flowered sarong wrapped at the hips, Joanna had stood on the beach, her longer hair whipping around her, her face lit with sun and laughter. Though he wasn’t much of a photographer, he’d captured the moment on impulse. He wasn’t even sure she’d known he’d taken it. This print had gone with him to Afghanistan, had been stashed in his hospital bedside table and had been with him ever since. He’d considered it one of the few mementoes of his life BND, as he thought of it. Before Near Death. He hadn’t looked at the print often, but he’d pulled it out occasionally when he tried to remember what it had been like to be so convinced of his own immortality. A time when he’d remembered how to laugh and have fun with a beautiful woman without thinking about the past or the future.

Very carefully, he folded the crayon drawing and slipped it into the envelope with the photo, stashing the pouch back in the drawer.

* * *

“THERE YOU ARE. I’ve been looking for you.”

Stretched on her stomach on a soft beach towel, letting the sun soak into her skin, Maddie opened her eyes in response to the familiar male voice. The first thing she saw was a pair of brown loafers, their spit-shined surface dusted with sand. She raised her gaze up a pair of creased khakis, past a pale blue, long-sleeve shirt to a face that glistened in the afternoon heat, as if he’d tramped around for a while in his search.

She pushed upward and swiveled to sit up on the big towel, her bare legs bent to one side. Tossing her crimson hair out of her face, she patted the fabric beside her. “I didn’t bring a spare towel, but I’m willing to share.”

Walt tilted his head. “I’m not sure if I can get back up once I’m down there.”