Once More Unto the Breach

Introduction

You don't have to know everything that came before to understand where this story begins. But you should know this much: Rick Weston is a man who's already fought more battles than most. Some were in combat zones halfway across the world. The rest were in his own living room, armed with nothing but sarcasm and the occasional bourbon.

A decorated Army Colonel, Rick spent decades leading men, making impossible decisions, and surviving days most people only read about in history books, or more likely skim over in high school before falling asleep. But when the deployments ended, a different kind of war began. One fought not with rifles and strategy, but with silent dinners, unspoken resentments, and arguments that somehow managed to start with "Do you want takeout?"

His marriage, once the anchor that kept him steady, buckled under years of distance, silence, and choices neither he nor his wife could take back--though both gave it a hell of a shot. By the end, "happily ever after" looked more like "barely hanging on until the next PTA meeting."

At the close of the original story Just Once... If You Don't Mind? by Kalimaxos, Rick found himself staring at a letter from his wife, Marcy. In it, she confessed she'd taken a "free pass" during her humanitarian trip abroad. Not to be outdone, she thoughtfully arranged a matching "opportunity" for Rick with the younger neighbor, because nothing says romantic reconciliation like outsourcing adultery. Rick knew then that their marriage wasn't just cracked. It was about as finished as a two‑day‑old cup of Army coffee: bitter, cold, and only technically still liquid.

----------

Chapter -- "The Paper Airplane"

(Rick POV)

I unfolded the letter Leslie handed me, her eyes doing that twitchy little dance like she already knew what was in it. My wife, halfway across the world playing saint in some jungle clinic, had scribbled out a few lines of sunshine and good deeds before slipping in her real message: she was planning to cheat. Thought she deserved it. And, in an act of warped generosity, said I had her blessing to sleep with Leslie, who was sitting right next to me, practically holding her breath.

I didn't even flinch. Just folded the letter into a paper airplane, gave it a flick, and watched it smack the wall like a drunk pigeon.

"I'd always been better with rotary aircraft anyway," I muttered.

Leslie blinked. Mouth open. No words.

I stood, calm as ever. "Leslie, I think we're done here. You're sweet, really. Like a sugar cube melting in tequila. But I don't drink from community glasses."

She reached for the letter. I beat her to it, crumpling it like it was a gas station receipt. No ceremony. No weight. Just another disappointment.

She hesitated in the doorway, trying to say something. I gave her a smile that didn't reach my eyes. Combat taught me a lot, but civilian life? Turns out betrayal doesn't come from behind. It sits on your porch and brings the damn mail.

"Door's that way," I said. "And please, watch the water. Seems to be something in it lately."

I watched Leslie leave, her perfume curling through the doorway like a final insult. She didn't even look back, just gave me that half-smile before disappearing into the night. Good. One less conversation to endure.

I stood there, staring at the closed door, feeling the quiet settle over me like an old, dirty blanket. My wife thought she was being generous, gifting me Leslie like a participation trophy after twenty-four years of marriage. "Here, honey, since I'm off screwing my coworker, you can screw the neighbor. Fair is fair."

I almost laughed. Almost. But my jaw hurt from clenching too tight.

Walking into the kitchen, I grabbed the bottle of bourbon I'd been saving for some special occasion. Well, Marcy, congratulations -- you finally gave me one. I twisted off the cap, not even bothering with a glass, and took a long pull. It burned all the way down, a cleansing fire that settled in my gut like truth.

"To us," I muttered, raising the bottle to the empty room. "May we both get what we deserve."

I sat down at the table, bottle in hand, staring at the wall until it blurred into nothing. Every sip felt like spitting in her face from a thousand miles away. I pictured her in Trey's bed, thinking she was so enlightened, so evolved, giving me permission like I was a damn child needing her blessing.

She wanted freedom. She wanted dignity. Hell, she wanted to feel "alive," whatever the hell that meant. And she thought giving me Leslie would square the ledger. How thoughtful. How... Marcy.

I don't remember finishing the bottle. Just flashes of the room spinning, my boots still on, the TV flickering infomercials to no one.

The next morning, the pit in my stomach hadn't moved. Coffee tasted like burnt mud, the silence of the house pressed down like body armor, and the only thing that felt right was the decision I'd made: this was over.

I sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand, staring at the contact list until my thumb finally moved. The number came from a buddy, "best damn divorce lawyer in the county." Two rings. Then a brisk, no‑nonsense voice.

"Weston," I said. "Looking for someone who can help me close a very long, very bad chapter."

The lawyer gave a dry chuckle, the kind that said they'd heard this story a hundred times. "You called the right office. We'll need details, affairs, financials, anything you can back up."

I leaned back, watching the ceiling fan drag lazy circles. "Not a problem. She practically gift‑wrapped me evidence."

"Good. We'll draw up arrangements. We'll push for you to get the house. She loves it, right?"

A bitter smirk tugged at my mouth. "Yeah. Which is exactly why I want it. Not to live in, just to make sure she doesn't."

No reaction, just a promise the paperwork would be ready by week's end. When I hung up, the first flicker of control in months settled in my chest.

My eyes drifted to the trash can. On top sat the crumpled ball of Marcy's letter. I pulled it out, smoothed the stubborn creases like the words themselves didn't want to be read again. I already knew every line.

For a second, I thought about filing it as evidence. Then I realized I didn't need proof. I needed a reminder.

A reminder that some things can't be glued back together.

I folded it flat and slid it into a folder marked Case File.

Time to move forward.

The folder sat on the table where I'd left it, the edges of Marcy's letter peeking out like it was daring me to look again. I didn't. Not yet.

The lawyer's words still rattled in my head. The paperwork speaks for itself. Maybe it did. But paperwork didn't bleed. It didn't ache at two in the morning when you couldn't sleep because every quiet corner of the house felt like it still belonged to someone who wasn't there anymore.

I leaned back in the chair, the ceiling fan dragging its slow circles overhead, and thought about how many times Marcy and I had filled out paperwork together--mortgage forms, school registrations, base housing requests. Always signatures side by side. Now mine would stand alone, and the silence around it felt louder than any fight we'd ever had.

That's when I knew the lawyer was wrong. The papers weren't enough. Not for me.

She'd had her say, hidden between pleasantries and justifications. I wasn't about to let her be the only one who left words on the record.

I pushed back from the table, grabbed a pen, and sat down at my desk. For once, I wouldn't lace it with jokes or venom. No clever lines. No sarcasm. Just truth.

Time to put it in black and white.

The lawyer told me I didn't need to include a personal note in the divorce packet. "The paperwork speaks for itself," he said. Maybe it did, but I wasn't interested in legal clarity. I wanted personal finality.

Marcy had her say in that letter, dressed up in excuses and wrapped with a hall pass like it was some twisted anniversary gift. Fine. She'd have my say, too.

I sat at my desk, pen in hand, staring at the blank sheet. My first instinct was to lace it with sarcasm, God knows she'd expect it, but for once, I decided to keep the jokes holstered. No sugar, no venom. Just the truth.

________

Marcy,

I read your letter. Twice. It didn't surprise me, nothing in it did. Not the justifications. Not the attempt to turn betrayal into charity. Not the offer of a hall pass, as if that could patch over years of damage.

So let me be clear: as husband and wife, we are finished. There's no repairing what we broke. No going back to who we were. And I don't want to try. Too much has been said, and more importantly, too much has been done.

That doesn't erase the years we shared. I won't pretend they were all bad, because they weren't. We built a life, raised two kids I'm proud of, and survived things that should have torn us apart long before now. For that, I'll always be grateful. But gratitude isn't love, and it sure as hell isn't enough to build a future on.

I don't hate you, Marcy. Hate would mean I still had something left to give you. I don't. What I have now is honesty, the kind we never had enough of when it mattered.

From this point forward, my focus is on moving ahead with my life and being the father our kids deserve. You and I will always be tied through them, and for their sake, I'll treat you with the respect their mother deserves. But that is all I owe you.

So this letter is the last of it. Not revenge. Not bitterness. Just truth. We're over, not in anger, but in finality.

Rick

________

I read it once, slid it into the folder with the divorce packet, and left it untouched. No edits. No hesitation. Just done.

When I sealed the envelope, it felt less like mailing a document and more like shutting a door I should've closed years ago.

The letter sat in the folder, the ink still fresh, the words already heavier than any round I'd ever carried in combat. I stared at it for a long time, wondering if I'd gone too far, or not far enough.

The house was silent, the kind of silence that didn't comfort, only accused. I thought about all the times Marcy and I had written notes to each other--sticky reminders on the fridge, quick I‑love‑yous before deployments. This wasn't that. This was the last note.

I slid the folder into my bag, the way I used to pack orders before a mission. Clean, deliberate, final.

When she returns in six weeks, I'd hand it to her. Not with anger. Not with pleading. Just with the certainty of a man who finally understood there was no going back.

For the first time in years, I felt the kind of calm that comes right before a firefight. The calm that says the decision's already made.

The next six weeks were a masterclass in monotony. Wake up. Make coffee strong enough to take paint off a Humvee. Go to work. Come home. Pretend the TV was worth watching. Sleep, sort of. Repeat. If you'd filmed it, you could've sold it as a government training video called How to Survive the Collapse of Your Marriage Without Any Actual Plot Development.

I told myself I'd use the time wisely. Maybe finally start that woodworking hobby. Maybe dust off the fishing rod. Hell, maybe even read one of those books Marcy used to stack on the coffee table to impress guests. Spoiler alert: none of that happened. The fishing rod stayed in the garage, the books collected dust, and the only thing I built was an impressive track record of eating frozen dinners straight from the tray.

My Army buddies called a couple of times. "How you holding up, Weston?" they'd ask. I gave them the standard, "Fine," which is military code for don't ask again unless you're bringing whiskey. They didn't. Smart men.

The truth was, I wasn't falling apart--I just had no idea what the hell came next. Post‑Marcy life wasn't a plan; it was a blank page. And I've never been much of a poet.

So when the day of her return finally arrived I didn't hesitate. Closure, confrontation, whatever you wanted to call it, at least it was something other than staring at the ceiling fan trying to decide if I should repaint the damn living room.

And that's how I found myself straightening my collar, walking into the Ambassador Hotel exactly ten minutes early, because old habits die hard Marcy was already there--no surprise. She'd always liked to be early, liked to control the pace of a situation before anyone else got to set the tone. She looked good, in that distant, polished way she always did when she was playing the part of a professional woman on a mission. When she smiled, it was tight-lipped, practiced--almost clinical. I returned the smile with the warmth of a polar ice cap.

"Glad you came," she said, standing up from the lounge sofa like we were meeting for cocktails. Her voice was casual, almost... eager. Eager for what, I wondered. The smug tilt of her head told me she thought she'd be walking into some clumsy post-trip apology, maybe an awkward make-up dinner, followed by even more awkward hotel sex where we pretended nothing had happened. I kept my hands in my pockets and shrugged. "Didn't want to leave things unsaid," I replied, watching her brow lift slightly at the deliberate detachment.

She ordered us both a glass of the house wine before I could decline, already scripting the evening in her head. "You look good," she said, eyeing me like a man she could still handle. I leaned back, swirling the untouched drink in my hand, and gave her a noncommittal grunt. I could see her start to shift in her seat, the edges of her confidence fraying just a bit, her flirtation routine stalling in midair. She thought this would be a conversation to smooth things over--a performance. I was about to change the script.

I pulled the envelope from my jacket and placed it on the table. Her smile faltered. "What's that?" Her tone dipped into irritation, as if I'd forgotten my role in the little theater production she'd staged. I let the silence stretch a few seconds longer than was comfortable, savoring the growing crack in her polished mask. "Divorce papers," I said calmly, placing both palms flat on the table. "Already signed. Filed this morning." Her cheeks flushed, her posture stiffened, and I could practically hear the gears grinding behind those professionally whitened teeth.

Marcy laughed--too loud, too forced. "Rick, don't be dramatic," she scoffed, reaching for the envelope like she could just brush it aside. "You're upset, I get it. Let's go upstairs, have dinner, and then--" I cut her off with a slow shake of my head. "No, Marcy. We're not going upstairs. Not for dinner, not for drinks, not for one last pathetic round of makeup sex." I leaned forward, locking eyes with her. "This... this is closure."

Inside, I felt something sharp and clean. Not relief, not yet, but a strange calmness. Like the way the body goes numb after too much cold. For the first time in years, I didn't feel like I was dancing on a minefield of mutual resentment, or tiptoeing around unspoken accusations. The game was over. The referee had blown the whistle. The match was done.

Marcy's expression wavered, her practiced cool cracking just enough for me to catch it. She leaned back, shoulders squaring, her jaw tightening in that way she did when she realized control had slipped through her fingers. She opened her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to plead, but I stood up before she could make the decision. I tossed a few bills on the table to cover her untouched wine, adjusted my jacket, and turned toward the door without looking back.

This wasn't vengeance. This was a final salute to something long dead.

------

Chapter -- "The Paper Cuts Deep"

(Marcy POV)

The envelope sat on the table long after Rick walked out, the untouched wine glass sweating a lonely ring onto the wood. For a moment, I couldn't move. I'd seen Rick leave for war zones calmer than the way he'd just left me.

When I finally tore the flap open, my hands shook so badly I almost ripped the papers inside. Cold legal jargon spilled out first, "Petition for Dissolution," "irretrievable breakdown", words designed to sterilize what they really meant: You're finished.

Then I saw it. The folded note tucked between the pages. His handwriting. My breath caught.

I unfolded it slowly, praying the words might soften if I gave them time. They didn't. They cut. Clean. Final.

So let me be clear: as husband and wife, we are finished. There's no repairing what we broke. No going back to who we were. And I don't want to try.

By the time I reached gratitude isn't love, and it sure as hell isn't enough to build a future on, I was shaking. He hadn't raged. Hadn't cursed. Hadn't even left room for a fight. Just the truth. Brutal, sharp, unflinching.

And somehow, that hurt worse than venom would have. Because venom meant heat. Heat meant life. This was cold. Dead.

I pressed the letter flat on the table, my palms damp. My chest heaved like I'd sprinted miles, but the only sound in the room was the hum of the AC and the faint clink of ice melting in the wine I couldn't bring myself to touch.

I told myself he'd understand. That's what the hall pass was supposed to mean, that after all the lonely nights, the endless deployments, the years of me keeping the house and the kids stitched together while he was halfway across the world, maybe I deserved something too. I thought if I confessed up front, if I offered him Leslie, it would make it fair. That he'd see it as balance, not betrayal.

My mistake was forgetting Rick Weston never played fair when it came to loyalty. He'd rather burn the whole damn bridge than share a scrap of dignity.

The truth? I was terrified of becoming invisible. For years, I hadn't been Marcy. I'd been Rick's wife. Kyle and Rhonda's mom. The dependable nurse who picked up extra shifts. I stopped being someone people looked at and started being someone they leaned on. Trey had looked at me differently. Not like a role. Not like a fixture. Like a woman. I'd been so hungry for that, I told myself it wasn't betrayal. I told myself it was mercy, for me, if not for him.

Now, staring at Rick's letter, that illusion felt cheap. Pathetic. But I still clung to it, because the alternative was admitting I'd thrown away the only man who ever really saw me.

I folded the letter carefully, tucking it back into the envelope as though that might undo its finality. "You don't mean this," I whispered into the silence. My voice cracked, desperate. "You can't mean this."

The silence didn't argue.

Still, I refused to believe this was the end. Rick had walked away angry before, but he always came back. He had to. Because twenty‑four years couldn't just dissolve with a signature and a few lines of ink. He'd cool off. He'd remember the kids. He'd remember me.

He had to.

Because if he didn't... then I'd gambled everything, and lost.

------

Chapter -- "What Comes After"

(Rick POV)

The house felt different the second I walked in. Colder. Not because the thermostat was off, but because the last string tying me to that life had finally snapped. I dropped my keys on the counter and looked around at the walls that once echoed with family dinners, weekend bickering, and Marcy's rushed footsteps heading to the hospital. Now it felt like a museum exhibits from a life I'd already outlived.

I sat at the kitchen table, the same spot where I used to sip coffee before deployment flights, where Marcy would kiss my cheek, no words needed, just a quiet acceptance I hadn't realized I depended on. We'd survived so much: Rhonda's sleepless nights, the pride of Kyle's graduation, money fights, even stupid dance parties in the living room when the kids were small. Marcy had been there through all of it, war zones and homecomings, my jagged attempts at being a father and a husband after years of being a soldier. She'd been the bridge that carried me back to something resembling normal. And I'd just burned it down.

Should I have forgiven her? Maybe. Maybe loyalty should've outweighed betrayal. Maybe the mother of my kids deserved more grace than I gave. But every time I let that thought breathe, I saw her whispering to another man. Calculated. Deliberate. You don't come back from a wound that deep. You just stop bleeding and learn to limp.

The doorbell broke the spiral. For half a second, I braced for Marcy storming back. Instead, Leslie. Perfect hair, perfect smile, bottle of wine like it was a trophy.

"I heard things didn't go well," she said sweetly. "If you want... the offer still stands, Rick. You deserve to feel good tonight."

I laughed, short, hard, cynical. It made her blink. "That's thoughtful of you," I said, stepping aside just enough to show the empty living room. "But if I wanted hollow, meaningless sex, I could've just stayed married."

Her smile cracked. She muttered something I didn't bother catching and stormed off, her stilettos hammering the concrete like they were as pissed as she was. I didn't close the door until her taillights were gone.

Standing there, I realized I wasn't angry at Leslie. She was just playing her game, and I wasn't the man for it. What gnawed at me was the silence that followed, the realization I didn't know what came next. I'd been a soldier, a father, a husband. Always defined by a role, by duty, by expectations. Now? Just... Rick Weston. Man in a too‑big house full of ghosts.

I shut the door, locked it out of habit more than need.

Maybe it was time to stop figuring this out alone.

Maybe it was time to talk to someone before this... whatever this was... ate me alive.

The house stayed quiet long after Leslie's taillights vanished. I sat at the kitchen table, staring at nothing, the silence pressing harder with every tick of the clock. Soldier. Husband. Father. Every title I'd carried felt stripped away, leaving me with nothing but the echo of boots in an empty hallway.

For years, I'd followed orders. Some written. Some unspoken. But now there were none, and that scared me more than any firefight ever had.

That's when I remembered Mercer's name, scrawled on a card I'd shoved in a drawer weeks ago. I'd told myself I didn't need therapy. That I'd gut it out, like always. But gutting it out wasn't working.

The next morning, I dug out the card, turning it over in my hand like it might explode. Maybe, in a way, it already had.

I picked up the phone.

Time to see if talking to a stranger could hurt less than talking to no one at all.

I hated the idea of therapy before I even walked through the door. Twenty-four years of marriage, three combat deployments, a chest full of medals, and a lifetime of suppressing the worst of humanity, and now I was expected to spill my guts to a stranger who probably never spent a day outside air-conditioned civilian comfort? Yeah, I wasn't feeling optimistic. I told myself it was a box to check, a formality before moving on. Maybe they'd call it "transition counseling" and I'd be done in a week.

The therapist was nothing like I expected. Colonel June Mercer, retired. Silver hair cut close, steely eyes that scanned me like a rifle barrel, and a handshake that nearly crushed my knuckles. She wore a simple sweater, slacks, and a pair of boots that still looked parade-ground polished. Her office was filled with dusty books, military plaques, and photos of younger versions of herself in desert camouflage. I had to admit, it rattled me a little. She wasn't one of those yoga-quotes-on-the-wall types. She'd been in it. Seen it. Lived it.

The first session was a psychological ambush. Every time I cracked a joke, she stared me down. Every time I brushed something off, she called me on it. "Projection, Weston," she said more than once. "Deflection. Textbook crap. You can hide behind sarcasm, but you forget, you're sitting across from someone who learned to shoot back." I found myself almost respecting her, even as my jaw clenched from the forced introspection. I didn't like being dissected, but for the first time since I walked out of that hotel restaurant, someone wasn't bullshitting me.

She gave me a task at the end of the hour, like a superior officer assigning punishment detail. "Write," she said flatly. "Not a diary. Not a memoir. No censoring yourself. You write the ugliest, most honest shit that crosses your mind. Think of it as mental reconnaissance, you're mapping out enemy territory. I don't care if you burn the pages after. But you will see yourself in black and white before you open your mouth in here again." I stood up, thinking I wouldn't bother. That I'd fake it, hand her three pages of fluff, and be done.

But the house was too damn quiet when I got home. The silence scraped at me like a dull knife. I poured a glass of whiskey after midnight, stared at the blank legal pad like it had personally insulted me, and told myself this was stupid. Only, the pen didn't stay idle for long. At three in the morning, I realized I'd filled five pages without stopping, stories I hadn't told anyone, memories I'd buried under duty and pride. My handwriting was jagged, like the words couldn't spill out fast enough.

I sat there in the low kitchen light, glass half-empty, staring at what I'd written. Maybe Mercer was right. Maybe I needed this. Not for them. For me.

The house was dark when I got home from Mercer's office, the kind of dark that made you feel like even the walls were holding their breath. I dropped my keys on the counter and sat at the table, the legal pad in front of me like an enemy I wasn't sure I could face.

Write, she'd said. As if bleeding on paper was going to make the wounds any smaller.

I poured a glass of water, not bourbon this time, and stared at the blank lines. For twenty minutes, nothing moved but the ceiling fan. My hand hovered, pen ready, but the words stayed locked up, pounding in my head like rounds in a chamber I couldn't fire.

Finally, I scribbled a single line. Then another. Ugly, jagged, too honest to take back once the ink dried.

By midnight, I'd filled half a page. By two a. m., the pad looked like it had taken shrapnel.

Maybe Mercer was right. Maybe the only way forward was straight through the wreckage.

The pages piled up faster than I expected. Mornings started with coffee, ended with bourbon, and somewhere in between I bled ink like a gut‑shot man. It wasn't pretty. Wasn't meant to be. No "woe is me" bullshit, no poetic victimhood. I wrote about my failures, my cowardice, my petty vindictiveness. About Marcy's laugh lines turning into frown lines. About the moment I knew we'd broken but still pretended we were fine. About the lies we told the world, and ourselves. No heroes in these pages. Just two people clinging to a corpse of a marriage because we didn't know how to bury it.

It got worse before it got better. Memories surfaced like rotting fish. Seoul, me counting the days in that cramped apartment, then watching days turn to weeks, weeks into bitter silences over the phone. The first time I hugged Marcy after deployment and felt her pull away. Diedre in Iraq, the half‑thing we did, the guilt I shoved into a dark corner and called survival. The times I almost confessed, but didn't, because selfishness dressed itself up as pragmatism. I wrote about betrayal on both ends of the rope, how neither of us had the guts to cut it until it strangled us.

When I handed Mercer the first stack of pages, she flipped through them like a battle report. No comments, just raised eyebrows and a clenched jaw that made me wonder if I'd crossed a line. I braced for the lecture, forgiveness, growth, whatever psychobabble was supposed to make me sleep easier.

Instead, she looked up with something close to respect.

"You have no idea how rare this is."

I crossed my arms, instinct kicking in. "What's that? Being a bitter asshole?"

Her lips curved into a grin. "Being honest. Brutally, unapologetically honest." She tapped the stack. "Most people lie to themselves when they write. Wrap their garbage in flowery language and call it healing. You set your garbage on fire and roast yourself in the flames." She held the pages like a relic. "You need to publish this."

I laughed, short and dry. "Right. World's just begging for another washed‑up Army colonel to air his dirty laundry."

But the idea wouldn't let go. Mercer's words lodged somewhere in the back of my mind, pressing against the part of me that always believed truth was the sharpest weapon a man could carry. Out loud, I brushed it off. Inside, the seed was already taking root.

------

Chapter -- "Fractured Son"

(Kyle POV)

I drove the familiar road back to the house I grew up in, but this time it felt like I was headed to a stranger's doorstep. I kept checking the rearview mirror, half-expecting some version of my old life to tailgate me. My parents had been my version of "stable" in a world where half my friends had divorced parents before high school. Sure, they had their quirks, my dad's silence, my mom's over-the-top energy, but they stuck it out. That meant something. At least it used to.

When Dad opened the door, I saw the tired version of him I remembered from deployment returns, rugged, stoic, but older now, like something inside had shattered and there wasn't enough glue to put it back together. He didn't hug me, didn't smile much, just nodded toward the living room. I followed, biting down on the anger churning in my chest because I wanted to keep it civil, at least for the first five minutes.

It didn't last. The second I saw the messy stack of papers on the dining table, something snapped. "So it's true," I blurted out. "You're writing a book. About Mom. About... all of it?" He didn't flinch. Just sat there, arms crossed, watching me like I was a puzzle he'd already solved. "You think putting all this crap into a book makes it okay? To just... throw our family into public view like a goddamn TV drama?"

Dad leaned forward, elbows on the table, calm like he was waiting for the storm to blow over. "I'm not writing a book about your mother, Kyle. I'm writing a book about my life. My mistakes. My failures." He paused, voice low but clear. "You grew up thinking your parents were solid because we lied to you, son. Lied to ourselves, too. It doesn't make the good years less real, but it sure as hell makes the end honest."

I wanted to scream, to throw something, to tell him how much this felt like betrayal. Instead, I paced the living room, fists clenched. "You didn't even try to fix it... you just lit the whole thing on fire and sold the matches," I muttered. He stood, steady as a rock, and when I met his eyes, I knew I wasn't going to get the fatherly comfort I thought I deserved.

"I'd rather be hated for truth than loved for lies," Dad said. Simple. Final. And it stung more than if he'd raised his voice.

I grabbed my keys, needing distance, needing air. "You always taught me to handle things quietly," I said at the door, not turning around. "Guess that didn't apply to you." He didn't answer. Just stood there, probably counting down the seconds until I was gone.

Driving away, I felt more lost than angry, but I wasn't ready to admit it. All I knew was I wasn't ready to forgive either of them. Maybe not for a long while. And back in that house, I knew Dad would keep writing, colder but more convinced than ever that burning it all down was the only way forward.

------

Chapter -- "Echoes Between Calls"

(Rick POV)

The house was quiet again after Kyle left, but it wasn't the kind of quiet that offered peace. It was the ringing silence after a blast, ears buzzing, body braced, knowing the shockwave had done its damage even if you were still standing.

I sat at the dining table staring at the stack of pages Mercer kept pushing me to write, Kyle's words still replaying in my head. Cashing in. Making Mom the villain. Burning it all down. I'd told myself I was ready for the blowback, but hearing it from my own son? That was a different kind of shrapnel.

I thought about pouring a drink, but the bottle stayed on the counter. Instead, I grabbed my old running shoes, the ones still stained from too many miles pounded out in the dark, and laced them tight. If the truth was going to cost me my kids for a while, I wasn't going to drown it, I was going to outrun it, at least for a few miles.

The night air hit cold against my lungs as I pushed down the empty streets. No route, no destination, just the rhythm of my breath and the slap of my running shoes on asphalt. Every step felt like an argument I couldn't win, every exhale a reminder that silence weighs more than words sometimes.

By the time I looped back, sweat dripping down my spine, the house was still quiet. Rhonda hadn't called yet. Maybe she hadn't seen Kyle's email. Maybe she was too busy. Or maybe she was waiting, watching, deciding which side of the line to stand on. I didn't blame her. Not anymore.

I dropped into the chair again, chest still heaving, staring at the ceiling fan dragging lazy circles overhead.

"Give her time," I muttered to no one. "She deserves at least that much."

The fan kept turning. The silence kept pressing. And I waited, knowing the next hit was coming, and I'd take it just the same.

The run took the edge off, but not the weight. That stayed strapped to my chest like old body armor I couldn't shed. By the time I showered and tried to sleep, the silence had already crawled back in, heavier than before.

Kyle's words kept replaying. Cashing in. Making Mom the villain. Every mile I'd pounded into the pavement hadn't shaken them loose.

In the morning, I found myself back in Mercer's waiting room. Didn't remember making the decision to come. Just knew the alternative was sitting in that house until the walls closed in.

I rubbed at the stiffness in my knee, pretending I wasn't restless. Pretending I wasn't dreading what Mercer would see in my face the second I sat down.

When the door opened and she called my name, I stood like a man headed into another debrief I didn't want but couldn't avoid.

Mercer didn't even look up when I dropped into the chair across from her. She just kept writing in that leather‑bound notebook of hers, the scratch of her pen louder than the clock ticking on her office wall.

Finally, she capped the pen, folded her hands, and gave me that level stare. The kind that makes you feel like she's already read the report you haven't written yet.

"You look like a man who ran five miles to outpace something that kept right up," she said.

I smirked, rubbing at my knee where the run had left its mark. "Sharp as ever, Colonel."

Her lips twitched, half amusement, half warning. "Don't butter me, Weston. Tell me what happened."

"Kyle stopped by," I said, keeping my tone even. "Didn't exactly bring flowers."

"Did he swing or just shout?"

"Neither. Just left me feeling like I'd kicked my own son in the teeth."

Mercer leaned back, crossing her arms. "And you? Did you tell him the truth?"

"I told him the book wasn't about revenge. That it was about honesty. He didn't buy it."

"Of course he didn't. He's still bleeding. People rarely admire the surgeon while the stitches are fresh."

I let out a dry laugh. "You've got a hell of a bedside manner."

She didn't blink. "You didn't write that book for Kyle. You wrote it for you. Stop expecting applause from an audience you didn't invite."

I sat there, chewing on that. The silence stretched long enough for me to notice the dust motes floating in a shaft of light across her office.

Finally, I muttered, "Rhonda hasn't called yet."

"She will," Mercer said. "And when she does, she'll test you the same way he did. The question isn't whether they like what you wrote. The question is whether you keep telling it when their disapproval cuts you open."

Her eyes narrowed, sharp as any officer I'd ever served under. "So, Weston... you gonna keep writing? Or are you gonna fold because it hurts?"

I met her stare, feeling the answer settle in my chest before I said it. "I'll keep writing."

She nodded once, satisfied, like she'd just confirmed something she already knew. "Good. Then maybe you'll finally stop trying to win a war you already lost and start fighting the one that matters."

-------

Chapter -- "Rhonda's Silence"

(Rhonda POV)

The email hit between shifts, buried under admin reports and cleaning duty. One line from Kyle:

Dad served Mom divorce papers. Writing some tell‑all book. Thought you should know.

No details. No comfort. Just a sentence that detonated whatever shaky foundation I thought was still standing. I sat on my bunk staring at the screen like the words might rearrange themselves into something less pathetic. They didn't.

I closed my laptop, stood, adjusted my uniform, and walked out without replying. That was the Navy way, compartmentalize, move forward. My CO didn't care about my parents' implosion, and the mission sure as hell didn't. But in the back of my mind, it itched. The irony of growing up in a house where Dad drilled honor and Mom preached commitment, only to watch them torch it from opposite ends, made me want to puke.

I didn't call. Didn't want the spin, the excuses, the carefully rehearsed justifications. Out here, you handled things without drama. You followed chain of command, held the line, owned your mistakes. Whatever the hell they were doing, it wasn't that. Dad writing a book like some reality‑show burnout, Mom screwing around behind his back, they looked small from the other side of the world. And they used to be giants.

Still... I knew better than to see things in black and white. I remembered Mom crying alone in the kitchen. Remembered Dad's silences that lasted longer than some deployments. But I also remembered the steel in his eyes when he coached me through basic training nerves, the pride in his voice when I got pinned. I hated what they'd done. Couldn't excuse it. But I couldn't pretend they hadn't built me, either.

The one thing I couldn't ignore? Dad's honesty. The divorce, the book, he wasn't hiding behind polite lies anymore. He was dragging everything into daylight. It pissed me off. And, damn it, I respected it. Brutal, raw, ugly truth. Like a debrief after a mission gone sideways. You didn't sugarcoat. You didn't pretend. You owned it and moved on.

I'd deal with them when I got back. Face to face. No emails, no calls. For now, I snapped my cover back on, squared my shoulders, and headed to muster. They could break apart however they wanted, I had a uniform to wear and a standard to keep.

-------

Chapter -- "Manuscript Rejected"

(Rick POV)

Rejection was supposed to get easier after the fifth or sixth try. It didn't. The emails came in like artillery fire, precise and impersonal. "Not quite the right fit for our current market." "Too aggressive in tone." "Difficult to connect with broader audiences." Translation: too raw, too angry, too honest. One editor even wrote it out bluntly--"reads like a toxic masculinity manifesto." That one made me laugh out loud, then pour myself two fingers of bourbon. Guess honesty was only marketable when it came with apologies and softened edges.

I stacked the rejection printouts on the kitchen counter, each one another notch in my new post-divorce hobby: apparently writing a book no one wanted to touch. Funny how people love to chant "speak your truth" until your truth doesn't fit the script they want to hear. Marcy had gone off to screw around while playing humanitarian, I had written the ugliest sides of both of us on paper, and the publishing world wanted to pretend none of it was palatable enough for public consumption.

Therapy day came, and Mercer read the latest round of rejection letters like she was reviewing a performance report. I expected her to sympathize, maybe call the industry shallow, but she just smiled that tight, knowing grin. "Bothered, Weston?" she asked casually. I shrugged and muttered something about "expected it", but it landed hollow even to my own ears. The truth was, yeah, it bothered me. Not because I needed fame, but because after everything, I thought maybe someone would appreciate straight talk for once.

"Your problem," she said, folding her arms, "is you're looking in the wrong places. You're trying to make your voice fit into their spaces, but you never asked yourself who your audience really is." I frowned, half listening, half sulking. "Your people aren't behind mahogany desks in New York," she continued. "They're in back rooms of VFW posts. They're on worn couches nursing busted marriages. They're in hospital beds wondering if it was all worth it."

I leaned back, arms crossed, waiting for the point.

Mercer's grin sharpened. "There's a vet center a few miles from here. Friday night, open mic. You're gonna read your ugly little confessions out loud to people who won't clutch their pearls. You want honest feedback? Go earn it." She stood up like the session was already over. "And Weston... I'll bet you half your pension someone in that room tells you they've never felt more seen."

I laughed, more out of habit than humor. Public speaking wasn't the problem--I'd briefed generals and foreign dignitaries, but reading my own failures to a room full of strangers? That felt... different. But as I stood to leave, I realized the idea didn't feel like punishment. It felt like a challenge. And that, I could live with.

The rejection letters were still spread across the counter, each one a neat little obituary for the book nobody wanted. I should've tossed them in the trash, but I left them there, a reminder that the world didn't care about my kind of truth.

Mercer's voice kept circling in my head. They're not your audience. Go where their scars match yours.

That's how I ended up in the parking lot of a beat‑up community center on a Friday night, staring through my windshield like the building might swallow me whole. A dented pickup pulled in beside me, two vets climbing out, laughing like the war hadn't taken a damn thing from them. I gripped my notebook tighter.

I wasn't afraid of talking. I'd briefed brass, testified in hearings, chewed out men who'd screwed up on the field. But this was different. This was me, stripped down to the bone, with no uniform, no rank, no shield. Just words and whatever they left behind.

I muttered to myself, "She's betting half my pension on this. Guess I'd better not make her regret it."

Then I opened the door and stepped inside, not sure if I was about to humiliate myself... or finally find out if honesty could still matter.

I thought it would be a dozen people in a dingy rec room swapping old war stories over warm beer. I wasn't far off, except there were closer to thirty people, most of them veterans, a few spouses who looked like they carried as many scars as the men in uniform. I sat in the back, notebook in hand, debating if this was just another self-inflicted humiliation. Mercer had practically dared me to show up, and my pride wouldn't let me back out. That's the only reason I stood up when they called my name.

I started reading with my usual dry, don't-give-a-shit delivery. Figured I'd get a few polite nods, maybe a chuckle if I was lucky. But as I tore through the pages about betrayal, regret, and the mess people make when they think they're being noble, the room got quiet. Real quiet. Like the air thickened and everyone forgot how to breathe. I didn't sugarcoat it, talked about the nights spent lying awake knowing my marriage was dead, about watching your life crumble after thinking you'd done everything right. When I finished, there was a second of dead silence before a young vet in the corner muttered, "Holy shit."

Turns out, that young vet had his phone out the entire time. Didn't realize it until two days later when Kyle texted me a link with no words, just the video. Me, standing in front of a fraying American flag, reading a section about Marcy's affair and my own moral failures, clipped into ninety seconds and slapped on TikTok. I clicked the link expecting embarrassment, but instead... half a million views. And counting.

Within a week, it hit YouTube. Then Facebook. Then some blogger wrote a piece titled "The Brutal Honesty of Rick Weston: When Men Stop Pretending." Emails started rolling in, not from the big boys who sent those copy-paste rejections, but from small publishing outfits who smelled something different. Authenticity, they called it. "Unfiltered masculinity." "The real cost of service." One guy even wrote, "Finally, a book that doesn't pretend everyone's a saint after retirement."

I took a call from a no-name independent publisher based out of Spokane. No fancy offices, just a blunt editor who told me, "You don't need fixing, you need printing." I wasn't sure if it was wisdom or a sales pitch, but it didn't matter. By the end of the week, I was signing the contract.

Sitting alone at the kitchen table, I stared at the signed deal, a half-smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

"Maybe honesty paid for something after all."

The kitchen table had never looked so cluttered. Emails piled up on my laptop, social media messages pinging faster than I could delete them. Strangers thanking me. Vets saying they finally felt seen. A few calling me an asshole. I read them all, not sure which stung worse.

Half a million views. Then a million. The video kept spreading like wildfire I hadn't meant to light.

I stared at my notebook, the same one I'd carried into that dingy community center, now sitting like evidence on the table. I hadn't read it for applause. Hell, I hadn't read it expecting anyone to listen. But now... the world had barged into my living room, uninvited.

Mercer texted me once. Just three words: Told you so.

I almost laughed. Almost.

For the first time since Marcy's letter hit my doorstep, the silence in the house felt different. Not peaceful, never that, but less like a tomb. Like maybe the walls weren't closing in anymore.

Then the phone rang again, another editor I didn't recognize. This one didn't talk about "market fit." They talked about possibility.

I rubbed a hand over my face and muttered, "Guess we're not done yet."

When the publisher called and said the words "book tour," I had to swallow back a laugh. Me? Book tour? Felt like a goddamn prank. I hadn't been more than a few counties over in years unless you counted funeral trips or awkward reunions. Now they wanted me to parade across state lines, sign books, answer questions, and shake hands with strangers who thought they knew me after watching a ninety-second clip. Civilian life really knew how to throw curveballs.

The tour route came in by email, twelve stops, six states, crisscrossing the Pacific Northwest with a few dives into California. The publisher highlighted a small bookstore in Bellingham called Fairhaven Books, emphasizing it was one of their most intimate stops. "Great turnout, loyal literary crowd," they wrote. I grunted. Sounded like a room full of people who thought they were too smart to be impressed by an old war dog like me.

In my next session, Mercer studied the tour schedule like she was planning a campaign assault. "You ready for this?" she asked, tilting her head. I shrugged. "Ready to sit behind tables and scribble my name? Sure." She smiled, the kind that made me uneasy. "You're not going out there to play author, Weston. You're going to face every version of yourself staring back at you, people who'll admire you, people who'll resent you, people who'll see themselves in your words and others who'll hate you for it." Her eyes narrowed. "You're about to see the good, the bad, and the ugly of your own reflection."

The truth of that sat heavier than I expected. I could handle critics, I'd had enemies before. What I wasn't sure about was seeing the weight of my choices mirrored in other people's reactions. The applause, the bitterness, the awkward questions about marriage and loyalty. I'd written the book to get free, but freedom, it seemed, came with a PR campaign.

Still, I packed my bag like it was a deployment, efficient, practical, no frills. Old instincts kicked in, mapping routes, mentally preparing for hotel rooms, late-night flights, strange cities. But this time, no one was handing me orders. I'd signed them myself.

I zipped the bag shut, glanced around the house that suddenly felt a little less like a prison and a little more like a halfway point. First stop: Bellingham, Washington. No wife waiting back home. No salutes to chase. Just me, my words, and the consequences of finally telling the truth.

Bellingham was too damn pretty for a man like me. Rolling hills, crisp air, sailboats bobbing on the bay like some watercolor painting come to life. I pulled up to Fairhaven Books, nestled between a coffee shop that smelled like roasted hazelnuts and a tiny art gallery with pastel seascapes in the window. Small-town charm on steroids. I already felt like the bull in a very well-decorated china shop.

Inside the bookstore, the shock doubled. Warm lighting, wood-paneled shelves, and people who looked like they belonged in indie films: scarves in July, horn-rimmed glasses, and soft voices that never seemed to break conversational volume. Poetry readings were advertised on the bulletin board, and I swore someone mentioned a local haiku club meeting next week. I took a breath, feeling the odd mix of curiosity and dread you get before a colonoscopy.

The event coordinator, a perky grad student type, herded me to a little table surrounded by folding chairs. She ran through the plan, practically bouncing with excitement about the "raw authenticity" of my book. Meanwhile, I scanned the room, feeling my shoulders tense. I was used to VFW halls and military reunions, not yoga enthusiasts who probably journaled about their chakras.

And then I saw her.

Near the philosophy section, tucked in a leather chair with a well-worn poetry anthology in hand. She had dark blonde hair in a messy ponytail, light blue eyes that didn't flicker once when they landed on me. She didn't whisper or point like the others, didn't stare wide-eyed at the "Rick Weston, viral sensation." She just nodded politely before returning to her book, like I was a passerby on a quiet street.

There was something about her posture, balanced and composed, like a woman who didn't need to fill empty space with noise. I wasn't sure why it unsettled me so much. Maybe because, for the first time since this ridiculous book circus started, I wasn't the center of gravity. I was just another guy in a room full of strangers. And I realized I hadn't felt that small in a long, long time.

------

Chapter -- "A Bookstore Observation"

(Claire Taylor - POV)

I noticed him the second he walked in. Broad shoulders, weathered face, boots that didn't quite fit the polished floors of Fairhaven Books. Rick Weston. I'd seen the viral clip, skimmed a headline or two, and instantly filed him away in the "another retired tough guy peddling sad war stories for internet glory" folder. Bookstores were full of them these days, men who found redemption through bestselling confessions, riding waves of public sympathy until the next scandal rolled in.

So I stayed tucked in my corner chair, flipping through The Essential Poems of Rilke, occasionally glancing up to confirm every expectation I had. He looked like exactly what I expected: gruff, weathered, a walking cliché of midlife reinvention. The young store manager was practically vibrating with excitement, setting up his table with stacks of his book, some promotional printouts boasting #BrutalHonesty hashtags. I rolled my eyes. This wasn't my scene.

But I didn't leave. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe curiosity. Maybe because it was easier to sit and judge than head home to my own half-finished poetry manuscript that had been gathering dust for months. So I listened. I watched him stand there, sign books, shake hands with people whose expressions shifted from admiration to gratitude, sometimes even quiet tears.

And then he started reading.

I expected the usual veteran-turned-influencer shtick: self-righteousness, cheap punchlines, maybe a sprinkle of sentimental garbage to sell copies. But it wasn't that. It was raw. It was ugly. It was uncomfortable. There was no glorifying, no preaching, just a man dissecting his own worst decisions with a scalpel, not caring who squirmed in the audience, including himself. His voice didn't tremble, didn't seek forgiveness. He just told the truth.

Somewhere between cynicism and curiosity, I walked to the counter and bought a copy of his book. The woman at the register smiled like I'd joined a club. I didn't smile back. I told myself it was a professional curiosity. Research. A peek into another broken human trying to turn chaos into prose. But as I tucked the book into my bag, I knew better. Something about Rick Weston didn't fit the neat little box I'd assigned him to, and I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about that.

------

Chapter -- "The Lonely Tour"

(Rick POV)

The rest of the tour felt like a blur wrapped in bad coffee and awkward small talk. I shook hands, signed books, took photos I didn't care about, and sat through introductions that exaggerated my story into something noble when all I'd done was tell the truth. Some stops drew quiet, appreciative crowds, mostly veterans, a few people who'd been cheated on, or just folks tired of sugarcoated bullshit. Other stops... not so much.

One woman stood up in Sacramento, pointed her finger, and accused me of "glorifying male toxicity while dragging your wife through the dirt." I let her talk. Let her get it out, because people needed villains to point at, and I was an easy target. I didn't explain, didn't defend. Just told her she could leave any time she wanted, and she did. Most people stayed. Some clapped louder after. Still, every time I got back to my hotel room, the walls closed in like they always did. Different zip codes, same goddamn silence.

Somewhere between Oregon and Idaho, my mind kept drifting back to the bookstore in Bellingham. That woman in the corner, quiet, confident, reading her poetry while the rest of the world craned their necks for signatures. She hadn't fawned over me, hadn't tried to get a selfie or a story to tell her book club. She'd looked me over like a questionable chapter in a book she wasn't sure was worth finishing. I respected that, and it pissed me off that I hadn't even asked for her name.

I tried searching online, Rick Weston, master of modern sleuthing. Looked up Fairhaven Books' tagged posts, local blogs, even that bookstore's event recap. Nothing. No photos, no mentions. Like she was some ghost who just wandered in off the bay and evaporated after I left. No Instagram tags, no Facebook check-ins. Who the hell was unplugged these days? It bugged me more than I cared to admit.

Then came the Seattle radio interview. They spun my words, clipped my sentences, turned me into clickbait. The headline made me sound like I was proud of every failure, and by the time I got back to my hotel, the flood of nasty comments had already started. I stared out the hotel window, city lights bleeding into a gray sky, and realized I was sick of my own damn voice.

I opened my laptop, stared at my itinerary, and then, with no plan, no excuse, I clicked the flight app. Booked a ticket to Bellingham. No public event, no signing, no publisher involvement.

"Just a layover... or whatever," I muttered, leaning back in the hotel chair. Maybe I wasn't done with that little bookstore just yet.

------

Chapter -- "The All-Nighter"

(Claire POV)

I told myself I'd just skim it, get a feel for Rick Weston's style, confirm my assumptions, and toss it onto the growing pile of pseudo-self-help garbage lining my living room floor. But one chapter turned into two, two turned into five, and before I knew it, the clock blinked 2:43 a. m. and I hadn't moved from my chair. My tea sat cold on the end table, forgotten. Every light in the house stayed on because, somehow, turning them off felt like shutting the door on something raw and honest.

The man on the page wasn't the caricature I'd built in my head. He wasn't selling some redemption arc or performing for sympathy. He wrote with the edge of someone who had spent a lifetime cutting himself down before anyone else could. There were no saints in his story, no heroes, not even himself. Just failures, heartbreak, resentment, and a brutal admission of responsibility I wasn't used to seeing from anyone, least of all men like him.

I read about his marriage falling apart in slow motion, the moments he could have been a better husband but chose selfishness instead. The coldness, the distance, the easy temptations when deployment pulled him away from home and responsibility. And then, the flip side, his wife's betrayals, the calculated nature of her choices, the casual cruelty of it all. It felt like watching a slow-moving train wreck where no one bothered to hit the brakes because everyone figured the other person would.

Somewhere in the middle, I found myself shifting in my chair, the knot in my chest familiar but unwelcome. Don't make this personal, I warned myself. But the pages dredged up things I thought I'd buried, long nights staring at a bathroom mirror wondering why my marriage had become a performance, the quiet, aching humiliation of realizing I could never have children and my husband wanted something I could never give him. The hollow apologies. The eventual silence. The way love sometimes died, not in explosions, but in slow, suffocating quiet.

By 4 a. m., I'd finished the last chapter, Rick's final words looping in my mind: "There's no glory in survival, only the stubborn will to keep moving when everything else wants you to stay broken." I closed the book, exhaling for the first time in hours. My chest felt tight, my eyes burned, and I hated how much of it resonated.

The next morning, I sat on my porch with strong black coffee and stared out at the gray morning sky. I didn't make excuses for him. Rick Weston was still rough, still flawed, but maybe not every sharp edge was a sign of arrogance. Maybe some people were just bleeding beneath their armor and too stubborn to ask for a bandage.

"Maybe there's more to this old soldier than a sharp tongue," I whispered to no one, and for the first time in months, I felt something stir beneath the weight I'd been carrying.

------

Chapter -- "Awkward Coffee"

(Rick POV)

Walking back into Fairhaven Books felt like storming the wrong beachhead. Wrong uniform, wrong mission, but charging in anyway. I stood in the back of the small poetry reading, hands jammed in my pockets, feeling like a linebacker crammed into a ballet recital. My boots squeaked too loud, my shoulders felt too square, and the knot in my stomach tightened when I spotted her.

Claire sat in the corner again, legs crossed, book balanced effortlessly in her hand. This time, when her eyes lifted, she didn't look through me. She looked straight at me. Calm, collected, unshaken. I gave a tight nod. She returned it with all the enthusiasm of a librarian dealing with a late fee.

When the last reader finished, I didn't give myself time to think. I cut through the soft-spoken crowd, clearing my throat as I approached her by the new arrivals shelf.

"Look," I blurted before I could talk myself out of it, "I don't know shit about poetry, but I can spot real people. You're one of them."

Her head tilted, the corner of her mouth tugging up in amusement. "That's refreshingly honest," she said, closing her book softly. "Most men try to fake it for at least five minutes."

"Faking's what got me into trouble most of my life," I said with a shrug. "Figure I'd try brutal honesty instead. So... coffee?"

Her brow arched. "You sure you won't get bored talking to a poetry nerd over overpriced espresso?"

I smiled. "Lady, I've sat through congressional briefings that could put statues to sleep. I'll be fine."

She laughed, something light and genuine, before nodding. "Alright, Weston. Let's see how you do without a script."

At the café across the street, I found myself staring down at a mug of something that tasted like regret mixed with cinnamon. "You people drink this on purpose?" I asked after the first sip.

Claire chuckled, stirring her tea. "You're the one who walked into my world. I don't force anyone to suffer through oat milk lattes."

"Well," I said, leaning back, "I figured if I was going to make a complete ass of myself, I might as well go all in."

Her smile widened, but her eyes stayed sharp, measuring. "You know, I looked you up after your reading."

"Uh-oh." I smirked. "That explains the polite icicle stare when I walked in."

She shrugged, unfazed. "I expected another loudmouth war story author. One of those guys who builds a second career off battle scars and bitter ex-wife stories." She set her cup down and met my gaze directly. "Then I read your book. You don't hide your faults. You practically parade them."

"Cheaper than therapy," I deadpanned. "And occasionally pays better."

Claire shook her head, bemused. "You're rough around the edges, Weston."

"I'm practically sandpaper," I replied. "But at least I'm not pretending to be velvet."

A laugh burst out of her then, genuine and unguarded. "You're going to be interesting, if nothing else."

"Interesting I can live with," I said, taking another swig of the god-awful coffee. "Barely."

I wasn't carrying the weight of repair. I was free to just be.

------

Chapter -- "Tentative Truce"

(Claire POV)

When Rick texted, "Alright, I've survived poetry in small doses. What's next?" I surprised myself by inviting him to Blue Sky Reading Night, our once-a-month local gathering at the community center. I fully expected him to politely decline. Instead, he replied within five minutes, "What time do I show up?" followed by, "And am I allowed to wear jeans, or is this a beret crowd?"

I told him jeans were fine, but Rick being Rick, he arrived in a button-down shirt, stiff leather shoes, and a jacket like he was reporting for a corporate interview. The moment he stepped inside, three regulars paused mid-conversation, eyebrows arching in amusement. My friend Elena leaned over and whispered, "Is he lost, or is he your guest?" I grinned, because for once, I wasn't embarrassed. I was entertained.

Rick caught my eye, smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles from his shirt, and muttered under his breath, "This is what I get for trying to be respectable." His discomfort wasn't defensive, just charmingly out of place. I realized right then how few men were willing to voluntarily walk into a room where they were completely out of their element, and even fewer could laugh at themselves for it.

During the first reading, a raw piece from a teenager about losing her father, Rick shifted in his seat, arms crossed, eyes fixed forward. He didn't roll his eyes, didn't check his phone, didn't lean away like half the men I'd dragged to readings before. He listened, really listened, even if his posture screamed I have no clue what's happening. When the applause broke out, he clapped too, glancing at me with a half-smile like, "I'm here, I'm surviving. What's next?"

At intermission, I brought him herbal tea instead of coffee. He sniffed it like it might be spiked with poison. "It smells like someone boiled a garden," he muttered. "That's kind of the point," I shot back, and to my surprise, he laughed and actually took a sip without gagging.

By the end of the evening, after awkward small talk with a few poets and a lot of sideways glances from the regulars, Rick leaned in and whispered, "I'm not sure I understood half of what was said tonight, but you seem to like it, so I'm counting this as a win." And just like that, I felt something lift in my chest, something I hadn't felt in months. Genuine amusement, quiet joy, the ease of being around someone without needing to explain every part of myself.

As we walked out into the cool night air, I realized I was smiling without forcing it, and for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel like I was dragging someone into my world. Rick had walked in willingly and left with both dignity and a few well-earned laughs.

Perhaps this wasn't a mistake after all.

------

Chapter -- "Old Scars, New Threads"

(Rick POV)

A week on the road was enough to remind me why I hated hotels and small talk. Every stop started to blur together, same awkward introductions, same questions about betrayal, same handshakes from people who wanted to dump their own stories at my feet like I was some veteran confessional booth. I smiled, signed books, gave rehearsed answers. But every night, my mind drifted back to that night in Bellingham, bad herbal tea, warm laughter, and Claire's effortless way of making me feel human without even trying.

By the fourth night, somewhere in a sad Holiday Inn off the I-5, I stopped pretending. Scrolled through my phone, thumb hovering over her contact. I wasn't chasing some rebound, wasn't looking for band-aids or revenge sex. Claire wasn't offering any of that. She offered peace. Honesty. And hell, maybe something resembling a fresh start. So, I sent the text before my common sense could intervene.

"Next time I'm back through, I'm heading into the woods for a few days. Tent, bad coffee, worse cooking. You in?"

Her reply came two hours later. "Are you sure you're ready for someone who can out-hike you and laugh about it?"

I grinned, stretched back on the worn-out mattress, and tapped back, "I'll take my chances."

Later that night, I sat at the tiny hotel desk and reread Marcy's letter, yeah, that one. The so-called hall pass, the cheap justifications, the laundry list of years we wasted pretending not to bleed. I thought it would stir up the usual cocktail of anger and regret, but it didn't. Not this time. The sharpness dulled, replaced by something quieter, something I hadn't felt since the first time I held Rhonda in the hospital room. A sense of this is bigger than the mess we made.

Marcy's chapter was done. Leslie's offer was a sideshow I never wanted. Claire? Claire felt uncharted. Something built from honesty forward, not from guilt backward.

"It's not about what she did, it's about what I build next," I muttered, folding the letter and tucking it into my bag.

Yeah, maybe it was time I started building something real. Even if I had no damn clue where it would lead.

------

Chapter -- "Crossing Lines"

(Claire POV)

I stood in my garage, staring at my camping gear like it was a pile of emotional baggage. I told myself this was just a weekend trip, fresh air, good views, and bad campfire coffee, but part of me knew better. I hadn't agreed to this because I needed a getaway. I said yes because Rick Weston was different. Awkward. Blunt. Disarmingly real. He didn't try to charm me, didn't hide his scars, and maybe that's what hooked me.

I ran my hand over the straps of my pack, checking the fastenings like it could somehow fasten my own tangled feelings. It had been years since I'd let anyone into this part of my life. No quick dinners, no polite text exchanges. Actually doing life with someone. My ex-husband couldn't be bothered to enjoy the woods unless it came with catered lodges and phone service. The men after him were worse, either casual flings or polite disasters that left me exhausted. Rick was neither of those things, and that scared me more than I wanted to admit.

I packed methodically, letting muscle memory take over while my brain swirled. I thought about Rick's book, the raw, brutal honesty of it, and how, for the first time in a long time, someone put into words the messy complexity of relationships without trying to sell a redemption arc. I thought about the pages where he admitted failure, not with shame, but with accountability. The ugly truths he didn't flinch from. Somehow, it made me feel less isolated, like maybe I wasn't broken. Just human.

Slinging my pack over my shoulder, I checked the last details, extra socks, instant coffee, and a battered notebook. Maybe I wasn't ready to say this out loud yet, but Rick's presence had cracked open something I thought I'd locked away for good. I didn't know if this was a date, a friendship, or just two people helping each other survive the tail end of divorce and regret. All I knew was I wasn't walking away from it.

I paused by my bookshelf, fingers brushing over the spine of Rick's book, then the dog-eared copy of Adrienne Rich's Diving into the Wreck. Both told stories of wreckage. Both spoke of survival, but also rebuilding.

By the time I zipped the last compartment on my pack, I felt lighter. Not fixed. Not healed. But willing. Willing to show up, willing to see where this might lead without scripting the ending.

Maybe broken people make the best companions, not because they're whole, but because they remember what it takes to heal.

------

Chapter -- "The Campfire Shift"

(Rick POV)

I always figured my survival training would make camping a breeze. Turns out, recreational camping and military survival are two completely different beasts. Out here, I didn't have a pack list issued by command or a supply sergeant to complain to when something didn't work. I had Claire, grinning from behind her perfectly pitched tent while I stood there fighting a coil of high-tech rope that had a vendetta against me.

"Need a hand, soldier?" Claire called out, raising an eyebrow as I muttered something unrepeatable under my breath.

"I've survived ambushes, aircraft malfunctions, and three separate near-starvations in the Middle East," I shot back, yanking at a loop that refused to tighten. "But apparently, setting up a goddamn weekend tent in the Cascades is where I meet my match."

Claire sauntered over, crouching beside me, her hands moving deftly over the knots. "That's because you've been trained to survive," she teased, glancing up at me, "not to relax." She untangled my mess in under a minute, making it look effortless. "Recreational camping's not about just making it through the night. It's about slowing down enough to notice the good parts."

I shook my head with a reluctant grin. "Right now the only good part is watching you rescue me from my own stupidity."

Later, with the fire crackling and the cool mountain air settling around us, the sarcasm drifted into something quieter. I stared into the flames, feeling their warmth in my bones, and before I could stop myself, the words came. "I used to think deployments were the reason my marriage got screwed up," I admitted. "But it wasn't just the distance. It was the lying. Lying about being okay. Lying to myself that it was all for something." My throat tightened. "I see it every time Kyle looks through me. Every time Rhonda sends a short text instead of a call."

Claire wrapped her hands around her cup, her gaze thoughtful. "You know, when my ex left, everyone told me it wasn't my fault. Said I deserved better, that I was strong, capable. But none of it helped." She exhaled, looking into the stars. "Because I knew the truth. I was half of the problem too. I shut down after the infertility diagnosis. Stopped letting him in. Built walls so high, I didn't realize when he stopped trying to climb over."

"That why you avoid relationships now?" I asked, voice low.

"Yeah," she said simply, no sugar-coating it. "It's easier to be alone than to wonder if you'll be someone's second-best option again."

I nodded slowly. "Hell, sounds familiar."

She smiled softly, tilting her head. "Guess we've both been trying to survive life like it's a battlefield."

I chuckled, the sound quiet but real. "Maybe it's time we try something different. Less survival... more living."

Her smile lingered, warmer this time. "Not a bad idea, Weston."

Just like that, the air felt lighter, the fire brighter. No pretenses. No performances. Just two people, and maybe a beginning.

------

Chapter -- "Claire's Walls Crumble"

(Claire POV)

I hadn't touched my notebook in over a year. It sat on my desk like a silent witness to all my unfinished attempts, every abandoned stanza a reminder of why I'd stopped trying. But after getting home from that camping trip, with my muscles sore and my hair smelling like smoke, I opened it without hesitation. Words spilled out faster than I could filter them, honest, raw, jagged things about broken people finding comfort in awkward moments and firelight. About laughter that wasn't forced and quiet company that didn't come with strings attached.

I reread the pages, stunned at how easily it came back. Not polished, not perfect, just real. Rick had done that without even trying. The same man who couldn't set up a tent without swearing like a sailor had managed to kickstart something in me I thought had flatlined. It scared me how quickly it happened, how easily my walls cracked with one camping trip and a few honest conversations.

Pacing my living room, I tried to rationalize it away. Rick wasn't my type. Not even close. I dated the intellectuals, the sensitive types who read poetry without flinching, men who could quote Rumi and bake gluten-free bread. Rick Weston was blunt. Rough-edged. The complete antithesis of the men I'd told myself were "safe." Maybe that was the problem. Safe hadn't worked. Predictable had left me lonelier than ever.

I kept replaying his voice in my head, the way he admitted to being a screw-up, to failing, to hurting people without pretending it was noble. There was a quiet strength in that kind of vulnerability I wasn't used to. He didn't chase approval. He didn't wear a mask. And maybe, just maybe, I needed someone who didn't pretend life was all perfectly composed stanzas.

My phone buzzed, and his name popped up. "Passing through town again next week. Dinner?" Straightforward, no pretense. I bit my lip, debating it for a second before my fingers moved on their own.

"Sure. Text me the time."

I sat back, notebook resting against my knee, realizing something both terrifying and exhilarating. My walls hadn't just cracked. They were starting to come down. And I wasn't sure if I should be scared or relieved.

------

Chapter -- "The Price of Honesty"

(Kyle POV)

I hadn't planned on coming. I'd sworn off the circus, written it off as another chapter where my parents made everything about themselves. But when I saw the poster in downtown Phoenix, Dad's face plastered on a book cover titled Betrayal Doesn't Come from Behind, something in me snapped. By the time I walked into the venue, I was already pissed.

The place was packed with vets, middle-aged couples, and people who looked way too eager to watch someone else's dirty laundry get aired. Dad sat onstage like he was briefing a room of officers: calm, rigid, eyes steady. I waited until the Q&A, because if I was going to confront him, it wasn't going to be in private.

"Yeah, I've got a question." I stood, my voice sharper than I'd planned. "How's it feel to make a paycheck off gutting your family?" Murmurs rippled through the room, but I locked eyes with him, daring him to brush me off.

His jaw tightened, but his tone didn't change. "I wrote about my failures, Kyle. No one else's. Go ahead, say what you need to say."

After the event, I half expected him to disappear, like he always did when things got hard. Instead, he found me outside, hands in his pockets, that quiet, maddening composure still in place.

"You done throwing punches?" he asked.

"You didn't have to make it public," I snapped. "Mom's wrecked. Rhonda's furious. And you're cashing in."

He nodded, eyes on the pavement. "I didn't write to shame your mother. I wrote because I was drowning in the lies we all lived with. Pretending we were fine. Pretending I was the husband I wasn't. I wrote it to stop lying to myself."

I wanted to stay angry. Hell, I'd built a home in that anger. But hearing him lay it out so simply, without excuses or theatrics, took the wind out of me. And what made it worse? Rhonda had already said the same thing weeks ago. She'd defended him. She'd said she respected his honesty. Like she'd somehow seen past all of this before I had.

It burned, the idea that my little sister, who used to come to me for everything, could accept what I still couldn't. That she was the strong one now, while I stood here clutching anger like a security blanket. I hated her for being ahead of me. I hated myself more for knowing she was probably right.

"So this is therapy?" I asked finally, softer than I wanted.

"Maybe." He finally looked at me, eyes clearer than I'd seen in years. "But I'd rather live honest and hated than fake and adored."

We walked in silence until we found a bench near a quiet park. He sipped his coffee before speaking again. "Your mom wasn't a bad wife at the start. We had good years. But we both broke it, me with my distance, her with her choices. Neither of us knew how to fix it."

I stayed quiet. For once, I didn't have the counterargument ready on my tongue. Maybe I was finally listening.

"So why now? Why write it all down?"

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Because carrying the weight didn't make me strong. It made me numb. Writing was the only way to be honest with myself. If people read it, fine. If they hate me, fine. But I needed it out."

It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. But I understood. For the first time, I saw it wasn't about revenge or profit. He hadn't burned the house down for show. He'd walked out because staying inside was suffocating him.

And maybe I could respect that. Even if admitting it meant Rhonda had been right before me.

------

Chapter -- "A Message Across the Distance"

(Rick POV)

The cursor blinked back at me like it was daring me to get this wrong. I'd written combat reports, end-of-tour briefings, and mission debriefs that carried less weight than this damn email. Rhonda hadn't exactly been chatty since the divorce. She kept things professional, holiday check-ins, a few updates about duty stations, but the warmth between us had cooled. I couldn't blame her. Watching your parents' marriage explode didn't exactly foster casual conversation.

Still, she deserved to hear it from me. The truth. All of it.

I cracked my knuckles and started typing.

________

Subject: Quick Update (Nothing Dramatic, I Promise)

Hey kid,

I know it's been a while since we had a proper conversation. Things have been complicated. You've probably seen the headlines, maybe caught a few stories floating around. I don't want to rehash any of that. Lord knows you've had your fill of family drama. This isn't about Mom, or the book, or all the mess I dragged into public view.

This is about something quieter.

I met someone. Not in the "I'm running off into the sunset" kind of way, but I met someone who makes me stop and think. Her name's Claire. She's not interested in the whole internet circus, doesn't give a damn about viral clips or angry book reviews. She reads poetry, camps for fun, and makes me laugh when I least expect it. She calls me out when I act like a jackass, which you'll probably enjoy hearing happens more than I thought.

I don't know what this is yet. I don't even know if it's anything. But for the first time in years, I want to find out. And I thought you should know. Because no matter how sideways things have gone, you and Kyle are still my center of gravity. Always have been.

Whenever you have time, no pressure, drop me a note back. Tell me how the world looks from your side of it. I'd like to hear about your life, not just mine for a change.

Proud of you, always.

Dad

________

I read it over twice, resisted the urge to add anything, then hit send before I could chicken out. Maybe it was a small step, but it was one I needed to take. And maybe, just maybe, it would start mending something that hadn't been broken overnight, but didn't have to stay broken forever.

------

Chapter -- "Rhonda's Reckoning"

(Rhonda POV)

Being home on leave felt like walking through a hollowed-out version of my childhood. The house still smelled like Mom's coffee and cinnamon candles, but every room felt emptier, like the walls themselves didn't know where to stand. Mom smiled too much, talked too much, about anything but the divorce. I played along for two days, biting my tongue while she pretended everything was normal.

By day three, the cracks were showing. I caught the looks from the neighbors when we went grocery shopping, the way people who used to chat her ear off now made up excuses to move along. I saw the tight smiles from the nurses when we ran into them at the pharmacy. And when we got home, Mom's mask finally slipped.

She threw her keys on the counter, sighed dramatically, and muttered, "Guess your father's loving all this attention. Hero of brutal honesty. Book signings, tours... must be nice reinventing yourself while I get whispered about in checkout lines."

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You want honesty, Mom? Fine. You broke Dad. Then you handed him off to another woman because you didn't want to fix what you destroyed. And now you hate him for healing."

Her head snapped up, jaw tightening. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," I said, stepping forward, heat rising in my chest. "You broke him down over years of silence, of choices you won't even own. And now you can't handle the fact that someone else saw something in him you stopped seeing."

Her voice sharpened. "Don't pretend your father was some perfect victim, Rhonda. You didn't see the whole picture. You didn't live in this house every day."

I cut her off, voice sharper. "And you didn't have to pack a rucksack and fly halfway across the world every other year, wondering if he'd come home alive. But he always came home. He didn't run off into some doctor's bed or pass me and Kyle off to the neighbors because he was feeling unappreciated."

Her lip trembled, the color rising in her face. "I gave up everything for this family."

"And so did he," I shot back. "Difference is, he's the only one standing here admitting it."

She swallowed hard, blinking fast, but I wasn't done.

"You know what burns?" I continued, tone quieter but sharper. "I've read his book. He doesn't make excuses. He doesn't play the victim. He says exactly where he failed. You? You're still pretending it was all justified. That it's his fault you cheated. That it's his fault you fell out of love."

She shook her head, voice cracking. "I didn't... I didn't plan for it to happen that way."

"But it did," I said simply, grabbing my keys from the counter. "And you can't stand that he's finding peace without you. You can't stand that the world doesn't see you as the martyr anymore."

I paused at the door, turning one last time. "You didn't just lose your husband, Mom. You lost our respect. And until you stop blaming everyone else, you won't get it back."

The only sound in the kitchen was her uneven breathing. No comebacks. No fake excuses. Just silence.

As I closed the door behind me, all I felt was clarity. Not peace, not forgiveness. Those would come later, if at all. But clarity?

Yeah, I had plenty of that.

------

Chapter -- "The Letter She Couldn't Burn"

(Marcy POV)

The front door clicked shut and the silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was suffocating. Rhonda's words still rang in my ears, sharp and unforgiving, slicing through the walls I had spent months carefully rebuilding. I sat there for a while, frozen, staring at the spot where she had stood, where her disappointment had landed like a sledgehammer across my chest. Then, on autopilot, I stood and walked to the bedroom.

The closet was immaculate, everything arranged perfectly, my little shrine of order in a life that had spiraled into chaos. I bent down, pushed aside the neatly aligned heels, and pulled out the worn blue shoebox I thought I wouldn't open again. But of course, I always knew I would. I placed it gently on the bed, the lid lighter than it had ever felt, like it was waiting for this moment.

Inside, beneath old photos I couldn't bring myself to throw away, underneath the last card Rick had ever written me for an anniversary we both pretended meant something, was the letter. The one he included with the divorce paperwork. Not the legal jargon. The handwritten note on simple stationery, tucked between the pages like a final heartbeat before our marriage flatlined.

My fingers trembled as I unfolded it. I didn't need to read it. I knew every line by heart. "I won't pretend they were all bad, because they weren't. We built a life, raised two kids I'm proud of, and survived things that should have torn us apart long before now. For that, I'll always be grateful. But gratitude isn't love, and it sure as hell isn't enough to build a future on" It hadn't been cruel. It had been final. Honest in a way I had never been brave enough to be.

The tears came harder than I expected, spilling before I could stop them. I sat on the edge of the bed clutching the letter like it was the last thread holding me together. My pride had built this wall, my stubbornness had fortified it, but this letter, this damn letter, was the crack that wouldn't heal.

"I didn't fall completely out of love with you," I whispered, the truth tasting bitter on my tongue. "I just forgot how to love you right."

The words went nowhere. No one was here to hear them. Rick was gone, moved on to whatever fresh start he'd found. And me? I was left in a house full of empty rooms and echoing mistakes, clutching a letter I couldn't burn, because it was the only proof that once, we had something real.

------

Chapter -- "The Cliffside Confession"

(Rick POV)

The air was thin up here, not just from the altitude but from the quiet that stretched out over the ridgeline. Below us, pine trees sprawled in every direction, rivers slicing through the valley like silver threads. Claire stood a few paces ahead, eyes on the horizon, face calm. I was used to landscapes like this. Had landed helicopters in worse terrain. But this? This was different. This wasn't survival training or a mission. This was peace. And I didn't trust it.

"Feels like the kind of place where people are supposed to have life epiphanies," I muttered, adjusting my pack straps, trying to shake off the tension that settled in my chest.

Claire glanced back, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Or a place where people decide to stop running from themselves."

I swallowed, throat dry. "That too."

We found a spot near the edge, sitting on a rocky outcrop where you could see forever. It should've been relaxing, but my stomach churned. "You ever just wait for something good to go sideways?" I asked after a while. "Like it's too quiet, too steady, and you start counting down when the explosion's coming?"

Claire looked at me, her face open but firm. "Every day after my divorce. Every time someone was nice, every time life got calm, I flinched. Like happiness had an expiration date."

I scrubbed a hand down my face, words spilling out before I could filter them. "I don't know if I know how to be happy, Claire. I know how to push through, how to endure, how to sit in anger like it's an old friend. But this? You? It feels like I'm one wrong step away from screwing it up."

Her expression didn't soften. It sharpened, clear and steady. "You survived deployments, Rick. You survived betrayal, disappointment. Hell, you survived yourself." She shifted closer, eyes locked on mine. "You can survive happiness too. It's allowed."

I huffed out a breath that sounded too close to a laugh. "Is it? Because it feels like I've spent my whole life bracing for things to fall apart."

Claire's voice dropped, steady as stone. "Then maybe it's time you stopped bracing and started leaning in."

We sat in the quiet again, the wind brushing against us, the mountains standing like silent witnesses. I turned to her, hesitant but pulled forward by something I hadn't felt in years, hope maybe. She didn't lean away. She stayed still, waiting, letting me figure it out on my own.

So I did. I leaned in, kissed her. Not perfect, not practiced, but real. Her lips were soft, sure, meeting mine halfway.

When we pulled back, Claire whispered, "Not bad, soldier. We'll get you there."

Longer than I could remember, I smiled like it didn't cost me anything.

------

Chapter -- "The Moment of Choice"

(Claire POV)

The bookstore was packed, the energy buzzing the way it always did when someone famous came to town. Rick didn't seem to notice it, standing near the signing table like the world's most reluctant celebrity, but I noticed. I noticed the way women leaned in a little too close when they handed over their books, the way their fingers lingered when they shook his hand, the way they smiled a little wider and laughed a little too loud. I'd seen it before, after my divorce, with the first guy I tried to trust, and the second. The pattern was familiar. I should have felt that cold twinge of jealousy creeping up my spine.

But I didn't.

I stayed in the back, arms crossed, listening to him speak. Same Rick. Brutal, blunt, unscripted. Owning every mistake, every scar, refusing to dress it up for applause. The more he talked, the more I saw it, the way his eyes scanned the crowd but always circled back to me. A quiet check-in, a silent tether across the room that said, "I see you." Not the woman in line with the fake laugh. Not the eager fan with the bedroom eyes. Me.

After the Q&A, a blonde in designer jeans practically draped herself over the signing table, leaning in like they were in a bar instead of a bookstore. I could have walked out then, slipped away before the familiar bitterness crept in. But I didn't. I stayed, steady. Because this time, the old ghosts didn't get a say.

Rick caught my eye just as he was handing back her signed copy. He smiled, not the public grin he gave everyone else, but something softer, private, meant for me. He winked like he knew exactly what I was thinking, like he knew exactly what he was choosing.

By the end of the night, when he walked over to me with a quiet "Ready to get out of here?" I didn't hesitate. I slipped my hand into his and felt it, certainty. Strength.

I used to feel like a footnote in someone else's story. A temporary character. An interlude before someone moved on. But as we walked out of that crowded bookstore, I realized...

This time, I wasn't just another chapter.

I was his future.

------

Chapter -- "Closing Old Doors"

(Rick POV)

It felt strange pulling into the old cul-de-sac for what I knew would be the last time. Same trimmed lawns, same cookie-cutter houses, but everything about it felt smaller. Like the place had shrunk the moment I stopped pretending it was home. The house wasn't mine anymore. Just a few signatures left, a key handoff, and I'd be done with it for good. I stood in the living room one last time, the walls bare, the carpet echoing with footsteps that didn't belong to me anymore. Twenty years of memories, good and bad, boxed up and gone.

Right on cue, Leslie appeared in the doorway like she'd been waiting for this moment. Same flirty grin, same sway in her hips, like she thought I'd finally come to collect on the hall pass Marcy had shoved in my face months ago.

"Guess this is it, huh?" she said, sidling closer. "No more marriage rules, no more guilt trips... just freedom." Her voice dipped suggestively. "If you're still interested... my husband's out of town."

I smiled, slow and sharp. "Leslie, let's be honest. You never cared much about the rules." I stepped back, keeping my distance, arms crossed casually. "But I found something better than a hall pass."

Her smile faltered, brows pinching in confusion, leaving her voice sharp and unsteady "Oh? You mean some road groupie from your book tour?"

I chuckled under my breath. "No. I mean someone who doesn't need me to be broken to want me." I let it hang there a second, watching the frustration flicker across her face before I added, "Someone who actually gives a damn about who I'm becoming, not what she can get away with."

Leslie folded her arms, mouth twisting, but I was already turning away. Whatever I'd thought I wanted from her didn't even register anymore. Not compared to the quiet strength Claire brought into my life.

Before leaving, I pulled out my phone in the quiet kitchen, drafted the email, and hit send like it was an order that had to be carried out. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

Subject: Final Note

Divorce paperwork is finalized. I wish you peace. For the sake of Kyle and Rhonda, we'll stay civil, but beyond parenting, we don't need contact. I'm moving forward now, and for once, I'm not dragging the past with me.

I hit send. No anger. No bitterness. Just closure.

I locked the door, pocketed the key, and walked away with no second thoughts, no backward glance.

I didn't feel like I was walking away from something.

I was walking toward something better.

------

Chapter -- "The Final Blow"

(Marcy POV)

The email popped up just as I was shutting down my laptop after a late shift. I shouldn't have opened it. I knew what it was. I knew the papers had gone through. Still, my fingers moved before my brain could talk me out of it. Subject: Final Note. I skimmed the first few lines and my stomach twisted.

Divorce paperwork is finalized. I wish you peace. For the sake of Kyle and Rhonda, we'll stay civil, but beyond parenting, we don't need contact...

I slammed the laptop shut but it was too late. The words were already burned into my mind. I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to fight off the sting, but it came anyway. Hot, messy, unwanted tears.

After everything. After two decades of marriage, two kids, deployments, sleepless nights waiting for him to come home alive. This was it? A cold, sterile email? No attempt to fix it. No "let's talk it through." No "let's see if we can salvage this." Just done.

I used to think Rick would always come back. He always did. From war zones, from distant assignments, from fights that seemed like the end of the world. I thought after all the mistakes, after the anger, we'd eventually find a way back like we always had. He was the one who told me quitting wasn't in our DNA. Guess that didn't apply to marriage anymore.

Now here he was, riding off into his next chapter while I was stuck living in the ruins of the old one. Worse, he sounded peaceful. Like he'd already found his footing while I was still picking through the debris.

I sat there in the dim kitchen, bitterness coiling in my chest.

He didn't even want to try.

That's what stung the most.

He didn't want to save us.

------

Chapter -- "A Different Kind of Quiet"

(Rick POV)

Two months gone since I left the cul-de-sac behind. Two months since I dumped the old life in a moving truck and pointed myself north, toward some place I never expected to call home. Now, I wake up in a quiet little apartment three blocks from the bookstore, just above a coffee shop that smells like cinnamon and roasted beans every morning. No big house to maintain, no perfect lawn, no suburban echo chamber. Just me, a smaller space, and something that finally feels like breathing.

Every day starts the same way, an early walk down to the bay, a stop by Fairhaven Books, and if it's after ten, Claire is usually there with that half-smirk and the sharp eyes that see through all my bullshit before I even open my mouth. We've been seeing each other nearly every day, like clockwork. Not because we have to, but because we want to. She drags me to poetry nights I wouldn't be caught dead in a year ago, hikes that kick my ass, and local spots that remind me how much of life I spent ignoring places like this.

Our dates aren't anything fancy. Sometimes it's a food truck picnic on the pier, sometimes it's book browsing that turns into hours of people-watching at some tucked-away café. She talks about poems and characters, about her students, about life in a way that makes me forget about the wreckage I left behind. I take her to hole-in-the-wall diners and tell her stories from deployments, things I never shared with Marcy, not because I couldn't, but because I didn't want to. Funny how easily the words come around Claire.

I've never felt this kind of quiet. Not the lonely kind. Not the dead silence of an empty house with a marriage rotting inside it. This is the good kind, the peaceful kind, where the air doesn't weigh you down, where conversation doesn't feel like a chore, where just sitting next to her while she reads feels like enough.

Some days, I catch myself just watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear while she flips through a book. The way she snorts when she laughs. How her nose crinkles when she calls me out for saying something ridiculous. And it hits me, how fast this happened. How easy it was to fall for her. Like my heart didn't need a slow rebuild. It just needed truth. Simplicity. Someone who wanted me without the medals, without the uniform, without the scars needing to be polished over.

I meet Claire's eyes, the truth settles in my chest. She is home.

Two months in, life had settled into a rhythm I didn't think I'd ever find again. Quiet mornings by the bay, evenings in the studio with Claire scribbling in her notebook while I tapped at the keys. It wasn't flashy, but it was real.

Still, there was something between us--unspoken, steady, waiting. Every laugh we shared, every hike, every late-night conversation seemed to bring it closer, like a line we both saw but hadn't dared to cross yet.

One evening, as the sun slid down over the water and Claire's hand slipped into mine on the walk back from dinner, I realized I didn't want to wait any longer.

It was time.

The bay was calm that night, the water reflecting the last slivers of golden light as the sun dipped behind the hills. Claire's hand fit easily in mine as we walked along the quiet waterfront, the kind of easy silence that didn't feel awkward, just comfortable. We'd finished dinner at that little seafood shack she loved, shared a bottle of wine, and now we were just soaking up the evening like neither of us wanted it to end.

For once, my head wasn't chewing on the past or bracing for the next hit. All I felt was her hand in mine and the steady calm that came with it. Simple. Solid. Like maybe, after all the wreckage, I'd finally stopped running.

Claire gave my hand a squeeze and shot me a sidelong look, her smile tugging up, playful. "You know," she said lightly, "for a guy with a reputation for blunt honesty... you've been awfully gentlemanly."

I glanced over, confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She bumped her shoulder into mine, eyes twinkling. "It's been weeks of late-night talks, hikes, dinners, and not once have you tried to sleep with me." Her head tilted, grin widening. "What gives, Weston? You going soft on me?"

I blinked, genuinely thrown for a second. "Wait, you noticed that?"

Her laugh was soft, warm. "Hard to miss. I was starting to think maybe you weren't interested."

I stopped walking, turned toward her, watching her grin grow when she saw the look on my face. "Claire, you have no idea how badly I've wanted you. I've just been trying not to screw this up. Trying to get it right for once." My voice dropped, more serious. "With you, I didn't want it to be a rush to the bedroom. I didn't want to make it transactional."

Her expression softened, but her eyes stayed teasing. "That's sweet," she murmured, then leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But we've done the slow burn. Don't you think it's time to take the next step before we combust?"

I felt something shift in my chest, something primal, something sure. I squeezed her hand, pulling her gently toward me. "Your place is closer," I said, tone firmer, already walking us toward her Jeep. "And I'm not letting you distract me with poetry readings on the way."

Her laugh rang out, light and happy, as she quickened her steps to keep up with me.

That night in her home, we didn't rush. We didn't pretend it was about need or habit. It was slow, it was real. Hands learning, kisses deepening, clothes coming off without awkwardness, only intent. For the first time in years, I wasn't chasing a distraction or trying to fill a void. I was choosing someone who made me feel alive, steady, wanted.

And judging by the way Claire clung to me, gasping my name between quiet laughs and soft moans, she was choosing me right back.

------

Chapter -- "Morning After Truth"

(Claire POV)

Morning light filtered through the bedroom curtains, casting soft gold streaks across the sheets. I stretched, sore in all the best ways, and smiled before my eyes even opened. Rick's side of the bed was still warm, faint sounds of coffee brewing drifting in from the kitchen. My body felt deliciously spent, every muscle loose, every nerve humming from a night that had been exactly what I'd hoped for.

I rolled onto my side, letting my fingers trail over the empty pillow where he'd been. No regrets. No second thoughts. Just contentment. It had been a long time since I'd woken up without that gnawing ache in my chest, that tight coil of disappointment after letting someone too close. But last night wasn't that. Last night was exactly what it should have been: real, raw, slow when it mattered, and unfiltered when it didn't.

The way he'd touched me, steady and focused, like every inch of me was something to be memorized and explored. The way he looked at me, like I wasn't a rebound or a fling, but a woman he wanted in his world. Every kiss, every quiet laugh in between the heat. It was better than I'd built up in my head. And I'd built it up plenty.

I propped myself up on one elbow, biting back a grin. It was as good as I thought it was going to be, I admitted to myself. Actually, better. The slow burn had been worth every minute.

In the distance, I heard the familiar low murmur of Rick cursing at the French press, followed by a muttered, "Claire's fancy coffee contraption," and I laughed quietly to myself.

Yeah.

This was going to be a problem in the best way possible.

The smell of burnt coffee drifted in from the kitchen, followed by Rick muttering something under his breath that made me laugh into the pillow. Morning light painted the room gold, and for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel the urge to guard myself.

Last night had been real, no masks, no defenses, no pretending. And as I listened to the clatter of mugs and the low rumble of his voice cursing again my French press, I knew this wasn't just a night to remember. It was the start of something I hadn't let myself believe in for years. Hope. Color. A future.

By the time he came back with two steaming cups and that crooked grin, I was ready to admit it to myself: I wanted more. Not just mornings like this, but a life built on the kind of honesty we'd found in each other.

We stayed in bed longer than either of us expected, coffee mugs abandoned on the nightstand, window cracked open letting in the soft sounds of the bay. Rick rested on one elbow, tracing lazy circles on my hip, and for the first time since we'd met, the usual teasing silence gave way to something more vulnerable.

"So..." I said, fingers playing with the hem of his T-shirt, "are we going to keep pretending this is casual?"

Rick smiled, that half-cocked grin that always got to me, but his eyes were serious. "Not much point pretending anymore, is there?"

I leaned back against the pillows, studying him. "Then maybe it's time we stop dancing around it."

He shifted, resting his weight on one hand as he looked at me. Not just at me, but into me, the way no one had in a long time. "You know," he said slowly, "the first time I saw you in that bookstore... I didn't know what the hell I was doing there. I felt like a complete outsider. Like everyone in the room was speaking a language I didn't understand." He paused, his thumb brushing along my side. "Except you."

I swallowed, suddenly unsure how to respond, so I stayed quiet. Listening. Hopeful.

"You didn't try to impress me, or stroke my ego, or play any games," Rick continued, voice low but sure. "You just sat there. Calm. Sure of yourself. And it hit me, there's a story in this woman. One I don't know, one I wanted to know. Not some chapter I could breeze through, but something I wanted to be part of. Something I wanted to learn page by page."

My throat tightened, emotion catching me off guard. "Rick..."

He shook his head, eyes soft but steady. "I didn't come here looking to be saved, Claire. I didn't come here chasing a distraction. I came here and I found you. Someone who makes me want to be better. Someone who makes me want to show up, every day, without the armor."

I blinked quickly, fighting the sting in my eyes, then whispered, "And I found someone who makes me believe I don't have to hold everything together by myself anymore."

His smile turned warmer, his hand finding mine and threading our fingers together. "We can hold each other up. Sound like a fair deal?"

"More than fair," I breathed.

And in that quiet, in the steady way his fingers squeezed mine, I realized something simple and undeniable: this wasn't a chapter. This was the start of something real, our story, together.

------

Chapter -- "Proposal on the Ridge"

(Rick POV)

I'll admit it, I'd underestimated how brutal mountain biking could be. Combat conditioning didn't prepare me for Claire's version of "a nice trail." She breezed up the switchbacks like it was a Sunday stroll while I huffed and cursed behind her, legs burning, lungs protesting. Every time I thought I was close to the top, another incline appeared, mocking me.

"Doing okay back there, soldier?" she called over her shoulder, her voice annoyingly cheerful.

"Peachy," I managed between breaths. "Just wondering if you're trying to kill me for the insurance payout."

Her laugh floated back, light and smug. "Don't worry, I'd make sure you had a heroic obituary."

Despite the ache in my legs, I grinned. This was Claire's world, and I was determined not just to survive it, but to embrace it. By the time we reached the ridge, I was sweaty, scraped, and absolutely hooked. I leaned against my bike, chest heaving, staring at the sweep of mountains and valleys below. I'd been in plenty of high places in my life, but this view, this moment, was different.

Claire walked up beside me, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Worth it?" she asked, her smile soft now instead of teasing.

"Yeah," I said quietly, my eyes still on the horizon. Then I turned to her, my heart pounding harder than it had on the climb. "More than worth it."

I reached into my pocket, pulling out the small, understated ring I'd been carrying for weeks. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in shock as I took her hand.

The wind carried every word away except the ones that mattered. I held her hand, the small, understated ring warm between my fingers, and asked, "Claire Taylor... will you marry me?"

Her eyes shimmered, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then she nodded, tears spilling as she whispered, "Yes."

I slipped the ring onto her finger, and when I kissed her, it wasn't tentative. It was steady, fierce, like every battle I'd ever fought had led me here.

When she pulled back, her eyes locked on mine, and I knew that look instantly. Fire, certainty, and something deeper than words. She whispered, "We're not leaving this ridge without making love... right here, right now."

For a second, I just stared, caught between surprise and the raw pull of wanting her. Then I grinned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Been following orders my whole damn life. This one? I'll actually enjoy"

We spread out our jackets on the soft grass, the mountains standing guard while the sky stretched endlessly above. The first touch of her skin under my hands felt like something sacred, something more than need. She gasped softly against my lips, her fingers clutching my shoulders, pulling me closer like she'd been waiting for this moment as long as I had.

Time didn't matter up there. Not the long years behind us, not the broken roads that led us here. All that mattered was the way she whispered my name like a promise, the way our bodies found a rhythm that felt inevitable, like we'd been meant to fit together from the start.

When it was over, she lay against my chest, our breaths mingling, the warmth of her body grounding me more than any battlefield victory ever had. I kissed the top of her head and whispered, "Now and forever."

Her fingers tightened around mine, her voice steady in reply. "Now and forever, Rick Weston."

In that moment, high above the world, I knew there was no turning back. The ridge wasn't just where I asked her to marry me. It was where I gave her every part of myself.

------

Chapter -- "Marcy's Fall"

(Marcy POV)

It started with whispers in the break room. They thought I didn't hear them, but I did. "Did you read the part about the hotel?" "How could she do that to him after all those years?" I kept my chin high, pretended not to notice the glances that slid my way when I walked past. At first, I told myself it would blow over, that people were just nosy, that professionals wouldn't let gossip interfere with respect. But I was wrong.

Trey stopped walking me to the parking lot after shifts. He stopped texting me little jokes during rounds. Then one day, he didn't sit with me in the cafeteria at all. The final nail came in a curt conversation in his office. "We should cool it, Marcy," he'd said, eyes carefully avoiding mine. "Optics. You understand." Optics. Like I was a stain he couldn't afford on his reputation. After everything I'd risked for him, I was reduced to bad optics.

Then came the board meeting. Donors had pulled funding, citing "concerns about public image." Concerns tied directly to Rick's damn book. The same book that was flying off shelves while I watched the career I'd sacrificed for crumble underneath me. I wanted to blame him. God, I wanted to. It was so easy to picture his steady hand signing copies, smiling that stoic smile while I paid the price.

But when I was honest, when the doors were closed and the house was too quiet, I knew better. Rick hadn't lied. He hadn't invented a story. He'd told the truth, ugly as it was. And the truth was, I'd given Trey an opening. I'd let resentment rot me from the inside until I chose the one thing I swore I'd never do. And once I stepped over that line, there was no going back.

The final blow came in the form of a memo slid under my office door. Effective immediately: reassignment. Not a promotion, not even a lateral move. A demotion. Less responsibility, less pay, less respect. The head nurse position I'd clawed my way into was gone, handed to someone younger, cleaner, untainted.

I sat at my desk long after the lights in the building shut off, staring at the memo until the words blurred. For years, I had convinced myself I was the strong one, the glue that held our family together while Rick played soldier. Now he was thriving, and I was unraveling in the place I thought I'd built my sanctuary.

The worst part? I couldn't even tell myself I didn't deserve it.

------

Chapter -- "Claire's Book Blooms"

(Claire POV)

The final line came to me one evening as Rick sat on the porch, tinkering with the old camping stove he insisted he could "improve." I was curled up in the armchair by the window, pen moving furiously across the page. For months, I had been circling the same themes: loss, resilience, finding light in places you'd given up on. But now the words came like a flood. Raw, alive, and unashamed. When I set the pen down, I realized I'd written the last piece I'd been chasing for years.

The Unbroken Horizon. That was the title. Not because life hadn't broken me. It had, many times. But because I'd learned that breaking didn't mean ending. The horizon was always there, steady, waiting. I just had to stop being afraid to look up.

A week later, I nervously read some of the collection aloud at a small local poetry night. Rick sat in the back, pretending not to be proud, but I caught the way he leaned forward, listening harder than anyone else in the room. By the end, a friend snapped a picture, posted a clip online, and within days it spread further than I ever expected. An indie publisher reached out, saying they wanted to bring my collection to print. I laughed when I got the email, thinking it was a scam. Rick just smirked. "Guess brutal honesty works in poetry, too."

When the first proof copy arrived, I ran my fingers over the cover like it was something fragile. Inside, on the dedication page, I wrote it without hesitation:

For Rick: who taught me how to fight for joy.

I didn't show him the page right away. Instead, I left the book on the kitchen table with his coffee mug. When he found it the next morning, I heard him flip the pages in silence, then pause. A long, quiet pause. When I peeked in, he was staring down at the dedication, jaw tight, eyes brighter than he wanted me to notice.

He didn't say much. Just reached for my hand, squeezed it, and whispered, "Guess we're both authors now."

In that moment, I knew this wasn't just a book. It was proof that I had found my horizon, and Rick was standing right there with me.

------

Chapter -- "Rhonda's Acceptance"

(Rhonda POV)

I hadn't known what to expect when Dad invited me up for the weekend before my next deployment. Part of me still pictured him in that big suburban house, the one that smelled like Mom's cooking and felt too perfect on the outside, too hollow on the inside. Instead, I found myself standing in the doorway of a small, tidy apartment above a coffee shop in Bellingham, the kind of place that felt temporary but warm.

Claire opened the door before Dad could. She wasn't what I expected either. Dark blonde hair in a loose ponytail, light blue eyes that seemed to weigh a person without judging them, and this quiet confidence that made me instantly wonder, How is a woman like this single? She smiled and welcomed me in like I wasn't here to decide whether she was good enough for my father.

The first hour was tense. I didn't say much, mostly watching the way Dad hovered around her. He looked different, still steady, still the man who'd raised me to face down the world without flinching, but softer somehow. Not weaker. Not fragile. Softer in the way a man looks when he finally stops carrying the weight of an entire life on his shoulders alone.

We spent the weekend doing simple things: walking along the bay, eating at a little diner Claire swore had the best pie in Washington, and sitting on the porch while they teased each other about bad coffee and who could spot constellations first. I kept waiting for the cracks to show, for the tension or bitterness I'd grown used to in my parents' house. It never came. What I saw instead was a version of my dad I hadn't realized I'd been missing. Still strong. Still Rick Weston. But freer.

On my last night, as I packed up my bag, Claire came into the room to hand me a folded sweater she'd washed for me. I surprised both of us when I stepped forward and hugged her. She stiffened for half a second, then melted into it, her warmth as steady as her presence.

"Thank you," I whispered so Dad wouldn't hear. "For giving him back to us... better."

Her arms tightened just a fraction, and when I pulled back, her eyes were shiny but she smiled.

Not since the divorce, I left my father's side not worried about him. Just proud.

------

Chapter -- "Kyle's Homecoming"

(Kyle POV)

Thanksgiving in Bellingham felt strange from the start. No sprawling dining room, no familiar clatter of the old house, no Mom orchestrating everything with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. Instead, we crammed around Claire's dining table, books stacked neatly in corners, the smell of roasted turkey filling the cozy craftsman home. It wasn't the holiday I grew up with, but maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

Claire's house was different. Warm without being polished, lived-in in a way that made you feel like you could kick your shoes off without asking. I wandered her library before dinner, running my fingers along spines of books stacked three deep, piles spilling onto the floor. It wasn't showy. It was real. And I realized this was the world Dad had stepped into, a place where nothing needed to be perfect to matter.

At the table, I watched the easy way Claire and Dad moved together. The quiet glances, the laughter over who had over-seasoned the stuffing, the playful argument about whether pumpkin pie really beat pecan. It wasn't forced, wasn't rehearsed. For years, I'd watched my parents pretend everything was fine, their smiles stretched thin. But here? Dad looked free. Like he could finally breathe.

Halfway through dessert, I set down my fork, throat tight. "You know," I said, surprising myself as much as them, "I hated you for breaking us, Dad. For airing everything out in that book. I thought you'd ruined what was left of our family."

Dad didn't flinch, just set his glass down and gave me the same steady look I remembered from when I was a kid. "I figured you did," he said quietly.

I swallowed hard, pushing through. "But now I get it. You didn't break us. You just stopped pretending. You rebuilt yourself without hiding the scars." I glanced at Claire, then back at him. "And I can respect that."

For a long moment, he didn't say anything. Then he reached across the table, resting his hand over mine. "I never wanted to lose you, Kyle. But I couldn't keep living a lie. I needed you to see the real me, even if you hated him."

I nodded, realizing the anger wasn't as sharp anymore. I couldn't say I forgave him... but I didn't hate him either.

We didn't hug, not then. But something shifted between us. Not fixed, not perfect, but repaired in the way only raw honesty can. And for the first time in years, I felt like I had my dad back.

------

Chapter -- Building New Ground

(Rick POV)

The paperwork went through on a rainy Tuesday. Just like that, the old house was no longer mine. No more cul-de-sac, no more empty rooms echoing with memories I didn't want. I dropped the keys off with the realtor, got back in my truck, and drove north without a glance in the rearview. When I pulled up to Claire's craftsman home in Bellingham, it didn't feel like moving in with her. It felt like moving forward.

We decided early that I'd need my own space, not a man-cave but a place where the words could flow without bleeding into her world of books and lesson plans. So we gutted her old sunroom, installed shelves and a solid oak desk, and turned it into our writing studio. She stacked poetry anthologies on one side, I lined the other with old Army journals and reference maps. It shouldn't have worked, poetry and military memoirs, but somehow it did.

That's where Reflections from Two Battlefields was born. My stories, raw, sharp, and scarred, paired with Claire's interludes of poetry that softened the edges without dulling the truth. The book wasn't just mine, wasn't just hers. It was ours. The strange, perfect blend of two people who'd fought different wars but carried the same weight.

The quiet domesticity took some getting used to. Hiking trails instead of patrol routes, mountain biking instead of PT runs, camping trips where the only mission was to catch the sunrise before the coffee boiled over. Claire laughed every time I cursed at the steep climbs, and I laughed every time she hid a scraped knee from tumbling on a downhill. We weren't competing. We were building something, brick by brick, mile by mile.

She even started coming with me to veteran charity events. At first, she kept to the background, listening more than talking. But soon, she was volunteering, helping organize fundraisers, connecting with wives and daughters of vets who felt invisible in the noise. Watching her embrace my community, seeing how naturally she fit, it reminded me every day that I hadn't just found a partner. I'd found an ally.

In the evenings, we'd sit in the studio together, me tapping at the keys, her scribbling in her notebook, sometimes in silence, sometimes reading lines aloud to test the rhythm. I'd never imagined I'd end up here, in a craftsman home filled with too many books and laughter that didn't feel forced.

For the first time since I hung up the uniform, I wasn't surviving. I was living. Really living.

------

Chapter -- "The One Left Behind"

(Marcy POV)

I stared at the draft of the message for almost an hour before I hit send. It wasn't long, just a simple line about hoping we could meet and talk, maybe find some common ground after everything. I didn't expect miracles, just a chance. Rick's reply came an hour later, exactly as cold and clipped as the last dozen had been.

Marcy, I've said this before. Unless it concerns Kyle or Rhonda, there's nothing left for us to discuss. I wish you well.

That was it. No warmth, no curiosity, no opening. Just a door slammed shut with polite finality.

I tried through the kids. I called Rhonda first, hoping her leave had softened her enough to listen. "Sweetheart," I started carefully, "don't you think your father should hear me out? After all these years, I deserve at least a conversation."

Rhonda's tone was steel. "Mom, he has heard you. For years. He's finally moving on. And he deserves it."

I bit back the sting, shifting tactics. "Kyle, you know your father. He's stubborn, but Claire doesn't really know him. Not like I do. She hasn't lived through the deployments, the distance, the nights we didn't know if he'd make it back."

Kyle surprised me with the weight in his voice. "Maybe that's the point, Mom. She doesn't need to know his past battles the way you did. She sees the man he is now, and honestly, she understands him better than either of us ever did. Certainly better than you ever let yourself."

The words cut sharper than I wanted to admit. My voice rose before I could stop it. "She hasn't lived with his moods, his silence, his walls! You think a few months with him compares to twenty-four years of marriage?"

Rhonda's reply was cold, firm. "In a few months, she's done more for him than you did in the last decade. She makes him better, Mom. We can see it. And you should know... Dad and Claire are getting married."

The world seemed to tilt sideways. "What?" I hissed, my grip tightening on the phone. "He's marrying her? Already? After everything we built, he's just--"

"Happy," Kyle cut in, his voice final. "And you need to accept that."

I ended the call before the heat in my chest boiled over into something I couldn't take back.

Married. To her. After everything we'd survived, after every sacrifice I'd made, Rick Weston was giving the best of himself to someone who hadn't earned it. Resentment coiled like a snake in my gut, hissing one undeniable truth.

If Claire Taylor thought she knew Rick Weston, she had no idea.

------

Chapter -- "The Public Storm"

(Rick POV)

It didn't take long for someone to forward me the link. A blog post, angry, rambling, bitter, written by none other than Marcy. The headline screamed in bold font: "The Truth Behind Rick Weston's Lies." She'd laid it all out there: accusations of embellishment, claims I'd painted myself as a victim, and a laundry list of reasons why the book was nothing more than an ego trip.

For about two minutes, I considered responding in kind. I could have torn her words apart point by point, dismantled every half-truth she twisted to make herself look better. But the more I read, the clearer it was. She wasn't trying to tell her truth. She was trying to wound me.

Problem was, it backfired. The comments under her post turned ugly quick, not against me, but against her. People weren't buying it. Too defensive, too venomous. Screenshots spread across social media with captions like "Yikes" and "This isn't helping her case." Even some of her colleagues quietly distanced themselves.

My publisher called within the hour. "Best thing you can do is ignore it," they said firmly. "Let it burn itself out. You've got the high ground. Don't throw it away."

But I'd lived long enough to know silence can sometimes scream louder than words. So I sat at my desk in the little studio Claire and I had built together, typed out a short statement, and posted it to my official page.

"Marcy and I shared nearly twenty-five years together. We both made mistakes, and I'll never pretend otherwise. My book was not written out of revenge. It was written out of necessity. To survive my own truth, and to stop living in silence. I wish nothing but the best for Marcy moving forward, and I hope she finds peace in her own journey."

Simple. Direct. Honest.

The response was overwhelming. Messages poured in from veterans, betrayed spouses, people who said they'd never seen a man handle public fire with that much restraint. The narrative shifted instantly: Rick Weston, the soldier who fought his demons with grace.

Claire walked in while I was reading through some of the responses, setting a cup of tea beside me. "You didn't take the bait," she said softly, a hint of pride in her eyes.

I looked up at her and managed a small smile. "I'm done with battles that don't need fighting."

And judging by the warmth in the comments and the calm in my chest, I knew I'd finally made the right call.

The storm online eventually quieted, but the silence that followed wasn't peace, it was the kind that hums with unfinished business. Claire's support kept me steady, yet in the back of my mind I knew the blast radius from Marcy's blog hadn't hit its limit.

I found out how right I was a few nights later when the phone lit up with Kyle's name. And right behind it, Rhonda's. Two calls in one night. That never meant anything good.

I braced myself and answered.

Kyle didn't waste time. "Dad, it's Mom. She's not doing well. The blog post blew up worse than she thought, and now with the news about you and Claire, she's spiraling."

I rubbed a hand over my face. "I told her months ago we were done with this. I'm not--"

Rhonda's voice cut in on speaker. "We're not asking you to fix her, Dad. But maybe... break radio silence. At least once. She's unraveling. And whether you like it or not, she's still our Mom."

Silence stretched for a long moment while I stared at the wall of our little writing studio. I hated the idea. Hated being pulled back into her storm. But they were right about one thing: she was still their mother. And I wasn't going to leave Kyle and Rhonda to carry that weight alone.

"Fine," I said finally, my voice low. "I'll talk to her. In person."

When I hung up, Claire was standing in the doorway, arms folded, her eyes steady on me. She'd heard enough to know.

"So," she said softly, "when you talk to her... we'll go together." The steadiness in her voice left no room for protest. She wasn't asking. She was choosing to stand with me.

I started to shake my head, the old instinct to shield her from the mess kicking in. But she stepped closer, her hand brushing mine. "You don't have to do this alone, Rick. Not anymore."

I let out a slow breath, the fight leaving my shoulders. She was right. She usually was. "Never one to turn down reinforcements," I muttered, managing a faint grin.

She smiled back. "Good. Then we'll face her as a team." Together. Forever.

I didn't dread walking back into a confrontation with Marcy. Because this time, I wasn't walking in alone.

Sleep didn't come easy that night. Even with Claire beside me, the weight of what I'd agreed to pressed down like old armor I thought I'd shed. By morning, the decision was set in stone. Calls were made. A time was arranged.

Now all that was left was to follow through.

The flight to Marcy's city was quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I'd faced war zones with less tension in my chest.

As I pulled the car to a stop outside Marcy's place, the air felt heavier, thicker, like the calm before a storm. Claire's hand rested lightly on mine, steadying me without a word.

It was time.

Marcy's new place sat on a quiet street with neat lawns and trimmed hedges, a little too perfect, like she was trying to rebuild the image she'd lost. Claire and I sat in the truck for a minute before I killed the engine. The silence stretched, both of us knowing this wasn't going to be easy.

Claire glanced at me, her blue eyes steady but questioning. "So... what's the plan?"

I gave a humorless chuckle, tugging at the steering wheel like it owed me something. "With Marcy? I usually wing it. Scripts don't work with her. Never did."

She nodded slowly, not looking away. "I get it. Losing someone you love to another person... it's a pain you don't just walk off." She paused, her voice quieter. "I know what that feels like. But the difference here is, she did this to herself."

Her words hit, clean and sharp. She wasn't wrong. Marcy had cut her own rope, then cursed the fall. Still, I felt the weight of what was coming.

I exhaled through my nose. "She'll probably come at you. That's how she operates. Deflect, aim for the soft spot."

Claire's mouth curved in a faint smile, the kind you give before stepping into a fight you know is worth having. "She can say whatever she wants about me. She doesn't know me from a hole in the ground. I'm not worried about her opinion."

I tilted my head, studying her. "Then what are you worried about?"

She turned her hand, brushing her fingers against mine. "You," she said softly. "What she's going to say to you. Because I've seen it, Rick. She knows where to hit. And I don't want her words dragging you back into a place you don't belong anymore."

I squeezed her hand, steady and sure. "Then she's about to find out I'm not the same man she used to twist up."

Claire gave a small nod, her jaw set. "Good. Because I'm not here to watch you bleed for her again."

We sat in the car for another moment, the engine ticking as it cooled, neither of us speaking. Finally, I drew in a long breath and reached for the door handle. Claire gave my hand one last squeeze before letting go.

The walk up the path didn't mean a damn thing, I'd never set foot here before. But the weight pressing on my chest wasn't about the house. It was about what waited inside: years of silence, unfinished fights, and a storm I wasn't sure I wanted to step into, but damn well had to.

I raised my hand and knocked.

Knocked twice, firm but not loud. The kind of knock that said I'm not here to play games. The door creaked open, and there she was, Marcy. For a second, she just stared, the surprise plain on her face before it smoothed into something else. She smiled, slow and bright, like she'd just won a prize she hadn't earned.

"Well," she said, her eyes moving over me like she was cataloging the years. "You look good, Rick. Better than I expected."

I felt Claire shift slightly beside me. Marcy's gaze finally slid over and landed on her. Just like that, the smile evaporated, her jaw tightening as though she'd bitten into something sour.

From the way her fingers twitched on the doorframe, I knew what she was thinking. Not here. Not in our house. Not with her.

----

(Marcy POV)

He wasn't supposed to bring her. Not here. This was ours. The walls still smelled like my candles, the pictures still lined the hallway from when we were a family. She didn't belong in this doorway. She was a visitor. Temporary. Disposable.

Rick was mine. He'd always been mine. Claire was a phase, she had to be.

I straightened my shoulders, pasting on the kind of smile I used to wear at hospital fundraisers. Calm. Controlled. But when Rick shifted closer to her, my chest tightened like a vise. Twenty-four years together and he had the audacity to stand there holding her hand like we were strangers.

"This is my home," I wanted to snap. Our home. Not yours. Not hers.

Instead, my voice came out sharp, bitter. "What are you doing here?"

----

(Rick POV)

"I'm here to talk," I said evenly, meeting her stare without blinking.

She nodded, stepping back, opening the door wider. "Then come in." Her hand shot out like a gate closing as Claire moved to follow. "Not her. The homewrecker stays outside."

I felt my jaw clench, but before I could speak, Claire tilted her head, her voice calm but edged with steel. "Funny. From where I'm standing, the only homewrecker here is you, Marcy. So unless you're planning to kick yourself out, I'd say we're even."

----

(Marcy POV)

Her words hit like a slap. I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks, my practiced smile curdling. She said it so casually, like I didn't matter, like I wasn't the one who held Rick's life together through deployments, sickness, and nights when he came home broken and silent. She hadn't been there. She hadn't earned this.

I wanted to scream, You don't know him. You don't know his silences, his tempers, the way he disappears inside himself. I wanted to remind Rick that Claire hadn't spent decades keeping the world from eating him alive. I had.

If I could just make him angry, if I could spark something, then maybe it wouldn't be over. Anger meant heat. Heat meant there was still something left between us.

But when he looked at me, calm as ever, I realized with a sharp, sick twist in my gut that the fire was gone. He wasn't even mad. He was done.

And that terrified me more than anything Claire could say.

----

(Rick POV)

"I'm not leaving her outside," I said flatly. "If she's not allowed in, then I'm leaving too. This isn't a negotiation."

Marcy blinked, her nostrils flaring as the false confidence drained out of her. She stepped back with a tight shake of her head. "Fine." Her tone dripped with bitterness, but she motioned stiffly toward the living room. "Both of you. Come in."

Claire brushed past her first, calm and collected, while I followed. And for the first time in years, I felt like I wasn't stepping into Marcy's house on her terms. This time, it was on mine.

Marcy motioned toward the couch with a stiff flick of her wrist, the kind of gesture that carried no warmth. Claire and I sat; I chose the edge of the cushion, posture straight, like I was bracing for a briefing that could go sideways.

"How are you doing, Marcy?" I asked, the words dry but civil.

Her laugh was sharp, humorless. "Oh, just peachy, Rick. Public humiliation, whispers at work, a career circling the drain. What more could a woman want?"

I gave a slow nod. "Fair enough. You're not in the mood for small talk." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, meeting her eyes squarely. "Let's be clear. I didn't come here because I care how you're doing. I came because the kids called and asked me to. For their sake. Not yours."

For a moment, it looked like I'd hit her with a gut punch. Her eyes went wide, her lips parted, and then the color rose fast in her face. Rage bubbled just under the surface, and I knew it was only a matter of time before it boiled over. I decided not to delay it.

"Go on," I said evenly. "Let me have it. Say everything you've been holding back. Get it out."

Her eyes narrowed, and the dam burst. "You son of a bitch," she hissed. "You parade our failures like they're trophies, make me into some villain while you play the wounded hero. Do you have any idea what it's like to walk into work every day and see the pity in people's eyes? To be judged by strangers because you couldn't keep our marriage private?" Her voice rose, sharp with venom. "You think you're noble because you put it all in print? You're not noble, Rick. You're pathetic."

She spun toward Claire, finger jabbing the air. "And you. Sitting there all smug with your little smile. You don't know him. You don't know what it's like to live with his silence, his moods, his goddamn need for control. You're just the flavor of the month, a shiny new thing he'll tire of once he's done playing house."

Claire didn't flinch. She just smiled, calm and unbothered, like Marcy's words bounced off glass. That smile was like gasoline on the fire. Marcy's face twisted, her voice trembling with fury. "Wipe that smug look off your face! You think you've won? You think you know him better than I do? You don't have a clue!"

I leaned back, letting Marcy's rage burn hot while Claire stayed unshaken beside me. Funny thing was, in that moment, it wasn't Claire who looked small. It was Marcy. And for the first time, I didn't feel anger toward her. Just the confirmation I'd made the right call walking away.

Marcy's words finally burned out, leaving only her ragged breathing and the sharp quiet that followed. She sat trembling, eyes blazing, waiting for me to fire back the way I used to.

But I didn't.

Instead, I let the silence stretch, steadying myself before I spoke.

Claire sat rigid beside me, every inch of her coiled steel, her eyes locked on Marcy like she was ready for a fight. I gave her the smallest nod, not to tell her what to do, but to remind her I was right there with her. She didn't blink, didn't break. Just stayed steady, the kind of calm that said Marcy's fire wasn't going to shake her.

I turned my attention back to Marcy, who was still trembling with rage, her jaw tight, her eyes darting between us like she couldn't decide whether to scream or cry.

"Marcy," I started, my tone calm but firm, "I didn't come here to fight with you. I'm not interested in another round of shouting matches. I came here to listen. That's it. You wanted to unload? Fine. You did. Now I've heard you."

She opened her mouth, but I held up a hand, steady, cutting her off.

"And after listening, I'll tell you this. I don't owe you love. I don't owe you reconciliation. What I do owe you is respect for the years you spent raising our kids while I was halfway across the world. That was your sacrifice, and I'll never pretend it didn't matter. So for their sake, and only for their sake, I'm willing to help if you need it. But not because I care to rebuild anything between us. As far as I'm concerned, I'd rather be done with you."

Her face fell, the words hitting harder than I expected, and for a second I thought she might break. But I didn't flinch.

"So here's your choice," I continued. "You can act like the adult I know you're capable of being and figure out a way forward without dragging the kids into your bitterness. Or you can keep throwing tantrums, keep burning bridges, and I'll walk away from this train wreck of yours for good."

Silence hung heavy in the room. Marcy's chest rose and fell fast, like she was still deciding whether to lash out or finally face herself.

I leaned back against the couch, my voice quiet but resolute. "Your call, Marcy. But one way or another, I'm done living in your storm."

Marcy sat there, her breathing uneven, staring at the carpet like it might give her answers. I waited, silent, letting the seconds stretch. She finally looked up, her eyes red, her tone sharp and bitter even through the cracks.

"And what makes you think I need you, Rick?" she snapped, voice trembling.

I exhaled slowly, shaking my head. "So much for acting like an adult," I said, pushing off the couch like I was ready to leave.

"Wait," she blurted, her voice breaking. Her hand twitched like she almost reached for me but thought better of it. She sank back into her chair, and for the first time in years, I saw her walls crumble. Tears slid down her cheeks, unguarded. Claire silently handed her a box of tissues. Marcy took one, eyes darting away from her as if accepting the gesture was some kind of defeat.

Her words came out between shaky breaths. "What can you do, Rick? What..." she swallowed hard, "do you plan to marry me again? Pretend none of this happened?"

I sat back down, steady, my voice calm but final. "No, Marcy. That's not on the table. Not now. Not ever."

Her chin trembled, and I leaned forward, clasping my hands together. "What I can do is help you start over. Help you get out of the mess before it swallows you whole. First, I can connect you with a professional, someone to talk to, someone who won't let you spin circles around yourself. You need that. Second, I'd suggest you change your last name back to your maiden name. Create some distance. Third, move. Start at a new hospital. Because here, your career's dead, and you know it."

She looked like she'd been slapped, but she didn't argue. Just dabbed her eyes with the tissue and kept listening.

"I'll also do what I can to help repair your online reputation. Quietly. Behind the scenes. Make some calls, reach out where I can. And most important," I said, my voice softening just slightly, "I'll help you with the kids. Kyle and Rhonda deserve a mother they can trust again. I can't fix what you did, but I can try to bridge the gap until they see you're trying."

Marcy pressed the tissue to her mouth, nodding reluctantly, like each word was both a lifeline and a blow.

"That's the best I can do for you, Marcy," I finished, steady. "Not because I owe you love, but because it's the right thing to do."

She sniffled, finally whispering, "Fine."

For the first time in a long, long while, I saw her not as the woman who betrayed me, but as someone who'd finally hit the bottom, deciding if she wanted to climb back up.

Marcy finally went quiet, clutching the tissue like it was the only thing keeping her upright. I'd said what needed saying, no more, no less. For the first time in years, I didn't feel pulled into her storm, I felt like I'd stepped out of it for good.

Claire caught my eye, the steady calm in her gaze reminding me what waited beyond this house, beyond the wreckage of the past. I rose to my feet, and she stood with me, our hands brushing before I laced my fingers with hers.

We'd given Marcy what mercy we could. Now it was time to leave.

The door shut behind us with a soft click, leaving Marcy to whatever quiet she could muster. Claire slipped her arm through mine as we walked down the front steps, the cool evening air washing away some of the heaviness I'd carried inside.

She looked up at me with that wry half-smile of hers. "If that's what you call winging it," she said lightly, "I can't imagine what it looks like when you actually plan something."

I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head. "The only plan I want to work on from here on out is wedding plans."

Before she could answer, I leaned down and kissed her right there on Marcy's doorstep. A bold move, maybe even cruel by some standards, but I didn't care. Claire melted into it, her hand pressing against my chest, grounding me in a way no mission or medal ever had.

When we finally broke apart, she whispered, voice steady but soft, "Now and forever, Rick Weston."

I brushed a strand of hair from her face, my chest tightening in the best way possible. "Now and forever," I murmured back, a grin tugging at my lips, "future Claire Weston."

She laughed quietly, eyes shining in the fading light. And as we walked back to the truck, I realized that for the first time in decades, I wasn't just closing doors. I was opening the right one.

------

Chapter -- "The Joint Book Tour"

(Claire POV)

If someone had told me a year ago I'd be standing on a stage beside Rick Weston, former Army colonel, viral author, the man who couldn't tell a sonnet from a shopping list, I would have laughed them out of the room. But there I was, mic in hand, answering questions in front of a packed auditorium, and for once, I wasn't just "Rick's new woman." I was Claire Taylor, poet, teacher, and someone finally living in her own story.

The tour had started small, intimate bookstores and community halls, but the momentum grew. People didn't just want to hear Rick's battlefield confessions anymore. They wanted both of us. They wanted the balance, the give and take, the bluntness of his truths softened by the threads of hope I tried to weave through them. Together, we weren't just talking about pain. We were talking about what came after.

At one stop, a woman in the audience asked, "How do you heal after something like betrayal?" Rick gave his trademark blunt honesty. "You don't wait for permission. You stop pretending it didn't happen, and you build a new life piece by piece." Then he glanced at me, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. I picked up the thread. "And you learn that healing isn't about forgetting. It's about deciding your scars don't get the final word." The applause that followed wasn't for one of us. It was for both.

Each event built on the last. Rick told his stories with unflinching detail, and I shared the poems I'd once been too afraid to read aloud. And when we sat down afterward to sign books, I heard people whisper, not about how lucky Rick was to have found someone new, but about how strong we were together.

I could feel myself standing taller with every stop, not because of the attention, but because I wasn't a shadow anymore. My words mattered. My story mattered. And every time I glanced at Rick, I saw the pride in his eyes that said he believed it too.

By the time we wrapped up a Q&A in Portland, I felt it deep in my bones. I was back. Not just as a partner, not just as someone who'd survived heartbreak, but as a writer, a mentor, a woman whose voice had finally found its place.

That night, when Rick took my hand as we walked off stage, he whispered, "Told you we'd make a hell of a team."

I didn't doubt it. Not for a second.

------

Chapter -- "Under the Same Stars"

(Rick POV)

I used to think I'd never marry again. And if I did, it sure as hell wouldn't be in a bookstore. Yet fate has a sense of humor. There we were in Fairhaven Books, the very place where I first laid eyes on Claire, whose quiet confidence drew me in from the start. The shelves were pushed back to make room for rows of chairs, friends and family filling every seat, with Kyle and Rhonda standing close enough that I could feel their pride in the air.

Claire walked toward me through that narrow aisle, her smile steady and sure, and I swear I forgot how to breathe. No pomp, no pageantry, just us. Two people who'd been broken enough to know what real love costs and still brave enough to say yes anyway. When she reached me, her hand slipped into mine, and it felt like the final piece sliding into place.

We kept it simple. Vows about honesty, respect, and never pretending again. Promises to fight for joy, not just survival. When the officiant finally said the words and Claire became my wife, I kissed her in the very spot where I first realized I wanted to know her story. Only now, it wasn't just her story. It was ours.

For the honeymoon, we didn't fly off to some tropical resort or rent a fancy cabin. We packed up our gear, loaded the bikes, and headed into the Cascades. Our wedding night was under the stars, the fire crackling low, Claire tucked against my chest while the Milky Way stretched across the sky. "Not bad for a second chance," she whispered, and I kissed the top of her head, agreeing with every fiber of my being.

And maybe this is where I close out my story. Not because life stops here, but because the important part's already said. Heartbreak will try to define you. Betrayal will try to hollow you out. But if you're stubborn enough to keep moving, you find that life has second chapters. Sometimes they don't look anything like the first. Sometimes they're quieter, harder, earned through fire and patience.

I found mine with Claire. And if you've been where I've been--alone, broken, convinced you're finished, maybe you'll find yours too.

Because the truth is, it's never about how the story starts.

It's about having the guts to write the next chapter.

"I wasted too much life chasing things that didn't last," I said, my voice steady despite the nerves buzzing under my skin. "But I'm chasing you now, because you make me better."

For a heartbeat, silence hung between us, broken only by the wind rushing across the ridge. Then her eyes filled with tears, and she nodded quickly, laughing softly through them. "Yes, Rick. Of course yes."

I slid the ring onto her finger, and she threw her arms around me, nearly knocking us both off balance. I held her close, the view forgotten, because the only thing that mattered was the woman in my arms.

I wasn't just surviving. I was living. And I was ready for every page of the story we were about to write together.

Because the truth is, it's never about how the story starts.

It's about having the guts to write the next chapter.

And as for "Just once... if you don't mind?" I don't mind. Not anymore. Because that mistake led me here, to Claire. And I wouldn't trade that for anything.

------

Notes from the Wyld:

There's some backstory here. Way back, I wrote the very first chapter of my own take on Just Once... If You Don't Mind? and then dropped it. I wanted to focus on my own stories. Fast forward a couple months ago, Beardog suggested I take up the challenge of finishing my version. It wasn't in the plan, but since I already had an opening chapter, I figured, why not? Just do it! (Nike, please don't sue me for that one. Forget I said anything. waves hand Jedi‑style You will forget about suing.)

Here's the kicker: I didn't have much of an emotional reaction to Just Once... If You Don't Mind? the way I did with February Sucks. I needed an angle, so I pulled in a character from another one of my stories, Claire Taylor. Both she and Rick deserved a happy ending. (Yes, I like happy endings. Sue me. Actually, no, don't sue. Definitely don't sue.)

To bring this unlikely pair together, I had Rick write about his pain. That became the device that led him to meet Claire, a high school English teacher and avid book lover. On the surface, they had very little in common, but it was emotional honesty that drew them together. They learned not just to share their worlds, but to actually live in them together.

Some of you eagle‑eyed readers might wonder if Once More Unto the Breach connects to When the Music Fades. Short answer: yes, it does, though I promise you don't need a PhD in my back catalog to follow this one. At one point, I almost had Claire confide in Rio, which would have made for a sweet moment between them as confidants. In the end, I decided to keep this story standing firmly on its own two feet. Still, if you want the bonus content (no, not a Blu‑ray deleted scene), you can check out Rio and Daniel's journey in When the Music Fades and The Last Note. Consider it "extra credit reading," but don't worry, there won't be a quiz.

Marcy was a tough one to write. My very first instinct was to have Julie dust off her time machine and send Marcy and Trey on a one‑way trip to Bikini Atoll, circa "let's test some nukes." That idea was chef's kiss (in theory), but I figured maybe a little less mushroom‑cloudy approach would fit better. So instead, I put Marcy through an emotional and career spiral. Not as flashy, but hey, radiation poisoning seemed a bit on the nose.

As for Trey? Please. The guy's a Chad without morals (basically a Ken doll if Ken majored in sleaze). Not worth the page space, the typing effort, or the electrons it takes to put his name on a screen.

What's next? Originally, I was planning on jumping straight into the sequel to Unwritten Orders, but I've been writing a lot of heavy, drama‑oriented stuff lately. So instead, I want to work on something fun, a dramedy about a foul‑mouthed auto mechanic inspired by a YouTube mechanic my son showed me, and a pornstar.

Also, a quick heads up: due to some creative differences with the publisher, since they wanted me to make it "more marketable" and I absolutely refused to budge, I'll be dropping my story about Travis, called Unexpected Changes, on Literotica soon. It clocks in at over 80K words, so grab snacks before you dive in.

Before I move on, I want to thank Beardog325. Folks, you can thank him or blame him for this one. Personally, I prefer thanking him, so thanks, Beardog.

Next up, a big thank you to OffRoadDiesel. He helped tighten up my lazy writing and made sure I didn't phone it in. I owe him big time, and we Lansters always repay our debts (in the good way, not the backstabby Red Wedding kind of way).