By the end, I kiss the boys goodbye and drive straight for the Soldiers’ Home. George was hoping to be able to go to his daughter’s house for their big family meal, but a bout of pneumonia at the beginning of the month has made that impossible. I promised Marion and him that I’d stop over after dinner. I’m happy for Eric, I really am. He worked really hard to be able to afford that house . . . all right, it stings. It stings a lot that he gets to have it all—the Ph.D., the fancy house, the great job.
Stopping my train of thought in its tracks, I have to remind myself that I haven’t lost anything—I get to have my sanity. Without that, I’d just be a sad, sick person sitting inside an expensive brick house, lonely out of my mind while sleeping next to a man I resent.
Trying to stay focused on the present is a harder task some days than others, especially when I’d really like to sit around and be miserable that Eric gets a fancy house. However, as I pull into the Soldiers’ Home parking lot, I set my sights on the sweet elderly couple that’s taken me in as one of their grandchildren over the last couple of months. Marion has tried to coordinate her visiting times with mine, and George teases her that I’m his friend and she needs to go away.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I say, setting two pieces of pumpkin pie I smuggled in down on the table between them.
“Amen!” George coughs as he laughs. I shoot a concerned look to Marion, who seems to be watching him carefully. Aside from the pneumonia, George’s emphysema seems to be getting worse. I never ask, though. He’d hate it.
As we eat our pie, George and Marion talk about their best Thanksgivings, including one while George was in Korea. They didn’t piece this together until a few letters later, but Marion received George’s “Happy Thanksgiving” letter exactly on Thanksgiving. Further, George’s brother, Mitch, was stationed in Korea, as well, about twenty-five miles away. George’s commander tossed him the keys to the truck and told him to go enjoy Thanksgiving with his brother, and to be back by dark. As far as wartime Thanksgivings go, that one sounds near perfect.
“How’s Ryker doing?” Marion asks as she sips her tea.
She never asks about Eric. It’s always “how are the boys” and “have you spoken to Ryker.” The answers are always “great” and “no.” She seems to be growing impatient with me.
“I haven’t spoken to him.” I shrug.
“At all?” George’s mouth forms a small “o” under his wife’s tone.
“He hasn’t called me, either, Marion—”
“Get up,” she commands.
“What?”
“Get up and get out. Go to the boy, Natalie.” She stands and starts shooing me with her hand.
“Marion, he hasn’t called me.” I add the emphasis in case she didn’t hear me properly.
“And he won’t. I tell you that young man is a gentleman, and he knows what you’ve been going through. Just show him you’re okay.”
George pipes in, “Men sometimes just need to see that their girl’s doing okay, Bug.”
“I’m not his girl, guys. Wait . . . this is foolish,” I shake my head, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Natalie,” Marion’s voice turns serious. “There’s still a sadness in your eyes. I know you’re doing well getting on with your boys and your divorce, but don’t avoid him. There’s a history there. Ignoring it will do more harm than good. Now, I don’t know if you two will end up together, but I do know that your story isn’t over, as I’ve said. So. Go.”
I’m not allowed to say another word before I grab my bag and head back out of the Soldiers’ Home and text Ryker.
Me: Happy Thanksgiving
Ry: You too
Me: Are you at your dad’s?
Ry: No, just got back home. Why?
Me: Can I come over?
Worst 45-second silence.
Ry: Sure. Remember where it is?
I text back that I do, leaving out the part that I had his address in my brain long before he drove my sorry, drunk butt to his house.
A half hour later, I’m knocking on Ryker’s door. When he answers, I fight the urge to throw my arms around his neck and kiss him. That’s my knee-jerk reaction to seeing Ryker Manning. Every time. He’s clearly still in his Thanksgiving clothes—dark khakis and a maroon button-down shirt, no tie.
“Happy Thanksgiving, can I come in?”
“Of course.” He steps aside, letting me in. His features seem a little cold.
“I’m sorry I haven’t really called or anything,” I start, “I’ve been—”
“No, it’s okay,” he cuts in, “I’ve been busy, too.”
I notice two suitcases by his couch. “Going somewhere?”
“Jackson Hole. Want something to drink?” Ryker walks to the kitchen.
“Uh, sure.” Something’s off in his tone. “How long will you be gone?”
Ryker shrugs. “Close to three months, I think.”
“What?” Heat instantly hits my cheeks.
“I do it every winter, Nat.” He hands me a glass of water. “I help out at the camp I used to work at, spend time with my mom, you know . . .”
Actually, I don’t know. Though, I suppose that I would have had I taken some time to spend with Ryker over the last several months. Instead, I’m left feeling panicked that he’ll be gone for three months. He was gone for a decade, and suddenly three months seems impossible, even if we haven’t been spending time together.
That’s because it’s not over.