“Can I see?” the kid asks, and I'm still feeling stunned. She's a mother? When the hell did this happen? “Mommy, I wanna see!”
Lindsey nods and picks him up, and I see that it's a little boy, with blond hair like his mother. “Lance, this is A . . . Lieutenant Simpson,” Lindsey says. “We knew each other before you were born.”
“Hi, El Tee!” Lance says, waving. He's cute, maybe a big three or a small four, and he grins cheekily. “You gotta check your lanes!”
“Check your lane, huh?” I ask, smiling at the military speak. “I see you've been studying your lingo. Know any running cadences? I could use some new ones.”
“Nope, Mommy won't let me learn those yet,” Lance says, smiling. He turns to Lindsey and gives her a hug. “Can I go look at the popcorn?”
“Stay on this aisle,” Lindsey says, setting her son down. Lance waddles his way down and squats in front of something, intent on his choices. Content in her son's safety, Lindsey turns and looks at me, still looking surprised.
“Hi . . .”
“Hi,” I return, still feeling like I'm back in plebe boxing and just caught a blindside shot to the head. She's still so beautiful, and it feels like my heart is beating a thousand times a minute. “When did you get to Bragg?”
“Just about a month ago,” Lindsey says, self-consciously tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. It looks like she still wears it long. It's pulled back into a regulation bun, for the most part, except for the one strand that escaped when she hugged Lance.
I clamp down hard on the handle of my cart in order to not reach out and grab her and pull her close. My hands twitch, my heart aches, and I’ve never hated the uniform more than I do right this second. “Lindsey . . .”
“I know,” Lindsey says, smiling a little. There's so much I want to say, but the bar on my uniform is stopping me, just like the chevrons on hers are stopping her. “By the way, you broke my eggs.”
I look in her cart and see the dripping carton, and I feel heat fill my neck. “Sorry. I was thinking about Monday. I've got a training exercise to do. I wasn't really looking where I was going.”
“No, probably my fault,” Lindsey demurs, her smile still dazzling. “I was listening to Lance. He was telling me about his new friends at the post daycare center.”
“Well, can I help you replace your eggs at least?” I ask. “It's been a long time, Lindsey.”
She looks like she's about to say no, biting her lip, and I understand. The damn Blue Line. It's stronger than even the Gray Line. “Come on. It's been almost four years.”
“It has, hasn't it?” she muses, and I see in her eyes the same feeling I have. I feel like I'm coming home after a long break, that something that's been missing is now here, and that I'm almost complete again.
Lance comes over, holding a box of microwave popcorn. “Can I, Mommy?”
Lindsey takes a look, then nods. “Okay. But we share.”
“Okay,” Lance says. “Can I walk now?”
“Stick next to the cart,” Lindsey says, and he dutifully grabs hold of the side of the cart, wrapping his fingers through the wire in a tight grip. We start off, circling to my left, heading back toward the eggs. She notices my uniform and nods in appreciation. “Air Assault and Ranger. You've got the full stack now.”
“When half my battalion is running around with a Combat Infantry Badge, my chest feels awfully empty,” I answer, realizing I'm talking about more than just my badges. Still, I'm in uniform. I have to change the subject. “How was Lewis?”
“The falls are a lot better than Bragg,” Lindsey says with a chuckle. “So do you still ride?”
I nod, understanding what she's doing. Bikes were always our safe zone. We could talk about them for hours. Gears, shifters, pedal arrangement and geometry—we could geek out safely about that no matter what. “You'd be proud of me. I'm riding a Specialized now too. Since I stopped doing tris, it's a bit of an expensive toy now, but I still get out and ride on weekends when I can. What about you?”
“She rides a lot!” Lance interjects, looking up at me. I look down at him and feel a wave of disbelief hit me again. His eyes . . . they're hazel. Like mine. And while it's a bit blurred with his little kid chubbiness, he's got a cleft chin. Like mine. “I get to ride on back.”
“Well that's gotta be good for the workout. Do you cheer your Mom on?” I ask, struggling to hold back the question that suddenly pops in my mind, and he nods. “Good. It's always better when you have a partner to ride with.”
I look up to Lindsey, who is smiling strangely, and I smile back, even though I want to say more. “He's well spoken.”
“Smart as a whip,” Lindsey says, ruffling his blond hair, so like his mother's. “Aren't you?”
“She says I’m named after Lancelot,” Lance declares proudly. “The knight.”
“I see. And how old are you, Sir Lancelot?”