CHAPTER7
~ MILLIE ~
“Off he goes.”
Again, I read the text my sister-in-law sent me a couple hours ago along with a teary-eyed emoji.
As I read it, walking home late from work Saturday night, I’m feeling teary-eyed myself.
I should have been there when Harris left. I wanted to just give him one more hug. I wanted to see his eyes—and search for some kind of reassurance in them that I just didn’t hear from his voice when he told me about his deployment.
But he didn’t want me to come. He wanted to focus on Ava and Nicholas right now. He thought if his family came up to try to squeeze in a quick visit, Ava would just end up worrying more.
And when I remember the last time our family descended upon him before a deployment—the tears and handwringing—yeah, I guess he has a point.
Still, it stung in a weird way. Made me feel this odd mix of helpless and selfish at the same time. Made me feel like my sister and I have been replaced by his wife and stepson.
Which, of course, is the way it should be. But still, I’m human.
“Just got off work.Call me if u r still up,” I tap into my phone to Ava.
Immediately, my phone rings.
“Millie, you’re the only person who I can always count on to be up as late as me.”
“Job requirement,” I say simply. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Not a bit. Only exhausted from keeping a smile on my face for Nicholas.”
“I can’t even imagine that,” I say. “But you know, your son is a crazy-smart kid. He’ll figure out you’re worried. Maybe you don’t really need to fake it.”
I hear her sigh on the other end. “I know. And I should be used to this by now. Harris has always traveled so much in his jobs. But this time just felt different. It’s like I could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice.”
Ugh. Ava noticed it too. And she has a son she’s raising. How difficult this must be for her.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just because he can’t tell me where he’s going this time. Or maybe I was imagining it,” she says at my silence.
She wasn’t imagining it at all. But I let her think that she was. I commit a small, innocuous lie of omission, willing to trade a piece of my integrity just to make my sister-in-law feel a little better. Heck, I’ll trade a lot more for her and her son. They’re a new family together. They shouldn’t be going through this.
But for me, there’s something more inside of me as I think of my brother right now. Not just fear. More like… dread.
And it’s dread that sends the horrifying shudder down my spine. I remember how it felt to get that call from my mom years ago telling me Harris had been injured. If I shut my eyes right now, I’d swear that I was right there again, sitting in my office at Barham, Tanner, and Butler, listening to my mom struggle to say the words that would upend me completely.
I don’t want to go through that again. I don’t want my mom or dad or my sister to go through it either. I don’t want my new sister-in-law or my nephew to feel what we did five years ago.
And I sure as hell don’t want my brother going through it.
We nearly lost him that day. Multiple surgeries and years of rehab got him functioning like a whole person again. But it was three liters of blood that really saved him.
Damn you, Navy. He’s not a SEAL anymore. He’s an intelligence guy. He shouldn’t be going back into the field.
“Look, I really wouldn’t lose any sleep over this. Harris is the best trained intelligence guy they’ve got because of his SEAL experience,” I remind her. “He’s also not going to take any risks.”
“That didn’t stop him from getting injured before.”
And just like that, I’m right back at my old job again, clutching the phone and hearing my mom’s staccato breathing as she forces out words she doesn’t want to say.“Your brother’s been injured. He’s being medevacked to Landstuhl,”she had said—words that honestly didn’t fully sink in until about an hour later at the most inappropriate time possible.
I can’t believe how sharp the memory is right now. I remember the feel of my best suit I wore that day—the silk of the blouse touching my skin, the snug feeling of the skirt on my hips. I remember how the air conditioner in our office was pumped up to high on that hot Atlanta afternoon and the smell of someone’s lunch heating in the microwave—something Italian.