It hasn’t been easy these last two months, but it has been rewarding. With the help of both Emmy and the doctor I have been seeing a few times a week, I’m ready. Ready to move on and forward. All those baby steps I’ve taken with her at my side have paid off and I feel like we can now run a marathon together.
It’s one fucking amazing high to feel the love of another. To have her wrap that love around me, refusing to let go, and never waver. Indescribable.
Now, it’s time to take the rest of my so-called monsters and toss them where they belong—in the darkest pits of fucking hell.
After making sure Emmy is situated, I laugh when she still doesn’t flinch. I knew she was running on some kind of manic high today with the thought of having the use of her arm again. Even the thought of the physical therapy left to build her strength back up hasn’t weakened her happiness. Being able to move forward and start bearing weight on her leg was even better. It’s going to be harder since her wrist is too weak to support crutches for now, but she can move around now, and that is the important thing to her.
I make the walk over to my dresser and feel my lips twitch when I realize that, for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel the dread of what I’m about to do.
Open that fucking box.
It’s time.
We’ve slowly been removing items together, just as she promised, but this part needs to be done by me alone. I need to know that I can do this one alone.
Popping the lid, I take in the three remaining items. The question is: Which one do I take care of first?
I grab the letter from Johnson’s widow first. One of the hardest things for me to accept was that I wasn’t responsible for their deaths. It would have happened regardless of who was there with me or where my head was. Looking back, even though I was stressed over Mercy, I was on top of my fucking game out there. I’d been trained to be the best of the fucking best, and goddamn it, I was.
Two weeks ago, I called up Johnson’s widow. I was alone at Corps Security and I took a chance. I never fathomed that she would regret this hate-filled letter in my hands. She told me that she had wanted to contact me so many times over the years but just didn’t know how. We talked for two hours that day. Remembering her husband, laughing about the stupid shit we would get into overseas, and finally healing. When I hung up the phone with her and felt that guilt dissipate a little, I started to believe in that hope for a blessed life.
My next call was to Morris’s widow. She was shocked to hear from me but, in the end, glad that I called. Like Mary, she needed that closure that her husband hadn’t suffered and to have some memories I could give her of him.
By the time I finished those calls, I broke.
I sat in my office, surrounded by computers and technical equipment, and I fought with my body to calm down. It was almost as if I hadn’t known how to move on without that guilt. But by the time I left the office, I almost felt whole.
After removing Mary’s letter—and my Medal of Honor—I walk into the kitchen. Then I swipe one of the lighters out of the spare drawer, place my medal on the counter, and hold her letter over the sink. With one flick of my thumb, I watch as flames take over the old paper. Each piece of ash that falls into the sink represents the guilt I’m letting go.
When I’m finished, I grab the medal and walk over to the mantel. I stand there with my legs planted to the ground, my shoulders tight, and take in the pictures Emmy insisted on putting up. Just one of the many home-decorating projects she forced me to do for her during her recovery.
There are five frames in all. The first is a picture of our group of friends from Axel and Izzy’s wedding with Emmy and me standing on opposite ends of the crowd. I am looking—unsmiling—at the camera and she’s looking directly at me. Even though it could hurt to look at this picture, I have to remind myself of what it represents—just how far we’ve come since.
The second is one we had taken when Greg and Melissa had everyone over for a late welcome home for the twins. Melissa hadn’t wanted to do it without Emmy. Emmy is sitting off to the side, one of their girls resting against her good arm and her leg propped up on the couch. She was in so much pain that day but refused to let it stand in the way of going. You would never be able to tell by the look on her face. She’s smiling down at Lillian—or Lila, as we’ve been instructed by her big brother, Cohen, to call her—with a look of pure wonderment. I made a mental promise to myself that day that I would put that look back in her eyes—only, this time, with our own children.
I run my finger over her profile in that picture and move on to the next.
It’s one of all of the guys. Axel has his arm wrapped around Greg’s neck—laughing. Beck is standing with Coop, their heads thrown back hooting, and I’m looking at them all pissed as hell. I let out a laugh when I remember why. Izzy can be seen in the background with Sway, both of them bent at their waists to hold their laughing bodies up. It took me three days until I stopped finding gold flecks of glitter on my skin. Another week until my head stopped shining in places.