Hurt.

Guilt.

“I fucking failed, Dylan!” he shouts, spit flying from his mouth.

“Shut up. You did—”

“I can’t fucking go home, man. I can’t face them.”

I stand up, panic clear in my words. “You can stay—”

“I can’t!” He looks up at me, his tear soaked cheeks reflecting the moon… his childish innocence portrayed in his loud cries. “I don’t know…” he says again.

I take a breath, and then another, my entire body shaking. “Know what?” I whisper.

His shoulders square, his lips pressed tight, he looks right in my eyes.

Then he lifts his gun.

My stomach drops.

My hands reach out.

And I don’t know what’s louder—my shout of his name or the gun going off—but I’ll never, ever, forget the sound that follows.

Silence.

Part II

The Breaking

Forty

Riley

“I feel like my face is on fire!” I yell.

Heidi laughs, continuing to apply whatever the hell concoction she just made up. A face peel, apparently. Which, by the way, just seems like the dumbest name for a beauty product in the history of the world.

“It stops burning after a few seconds,” Mikayla says.

I open my eyes to try to look at her, only to be told to keep them shut by Heidi. “You’re twenty-one, Ry. Surely this isn’t the first time you’ve had one. Didn’t your mom own a salon that did all this stuff?” She hasn’t stopped laughing since I laid down on the floor in front of her surrounded by pizza boxes, wine, and enough fruity smelling products to give me an asthma attack. I don’t even have asthma.

“My mom and I are of a different breed. Obviously.”

Lucy adds, “My mom was a real homey type mom. You know, the one who had everything organized, drove all of us to our activities, never forgot an important date. The house was always clean and dinner was on the table at the same time every night. I think that’s why I try to cook and stuff—because I want to be like her. I don’t know how she did it—raised seven kids plus Dad. I can’t even take care of Cameron.”

Mikayla laughs. “Cam’s the equivalent of ten children sometimes.”

“I just want to make you pretty for when Dylan comes home next week,” Heidi says.

“Are you excited?” Amanda asks.

“Excited and nervous and I don’t know.”

“Nervous?” Amanda says.

I smile. “When he came home for R&R, I had all these butterflies and I was so nervous. Dylan’s so…”

“Intimidating?” Lucy asks.

I nod.

“So fucking hot,” she responds.

We all laugh, then stop when we hear the key turn in the front door.

“We’re all going to die,” Amanda whispers, grabbing the item closest to her—a cushion.

“This is how all scary movies start,” Mikayla says, eyes wide.

“And hot as fuck pornos,” Lucy retorts.

I’d laugh, but I’m too busy wondering what the hell Amanda plans on doing with the cushion. Smother an intruder to death?

It’s not until I hear Lucy gasp, her eyes on the entryway that I finally follow her gaze. With my face still burning, my eyes widen when I see Dylan standing in the doorway—his lips pressed tight, his shoulders rigid, and his eyes on all of us. He looks down.

“Hi,” I whisper, a smile forming, cracking the peel on my face. “I thought…” I use Heidi’s shoulders to help me stand. “I thought you weren’t coming home for a week.”

I pick at my shirt, wondering a: what he’s doing here and b: how much of an ass I look like.

He doesn’t respond though, he just walks further into the house, down the hallway and toward our bedroom.

“We should go,” Heidi says, and I nod, too confused to give any other reaction.

I don’t wait for them to leave before going to the bedroom and knocking. I don’t know why I knock but I have this feeling in my gut that something’s off. Really off.

There’s no response so I quietly open the door and peek inside. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze distant. It’s so different to the last time I did this. There’s no happiness to see me, no lust filled eyes welcoming me. There’s nothing. Not a single emotion on his face that lets me know he can even see me. “You came early,” I say, moving inside just a step and leaning against the wall. My body’s telling me to run to him, to kiss him, to hug him, to show him how much I’ve missed him. But my mind? My mind is telling me to stay put. And I have no idea why.

He bends down and slowly unlaces his boots.

I swallow nervously. “Did something happen or…”

He licks his lips as he looks up. Not at me, but through me. He still doesn’t speak.

I try to fake a smile, and when I do, I’m reminded of the gunk on my face. “I’m going to shower,” I tell him. “Then maybe I can heat up some food?”

He drops his gaze again and continues with his task of removing his shoes.

I take a breath. A loud one. One that has his eyes snapping to mine. And even though I know he can see me, he still doesn’t speak. His eyes follow me as I move across the room and to the bathroom. I leave the door open as I switch on the shower and undress, letting him know he’s welcome to join me. It’s not until I’m in the shower, my face clear of the peel that I finally see him move. He kicks off his shoes, then removes his pants, and finally his shirts. It’s all slow movements, like he’s in no rush to join me. Then he just sits there, his head lowered again. When he must hear the shower switch off, he gazes up at me. With my naked body on full display, I step out from the fog of the shower. He stands, his footsteps slow as he approaches. Then he leans against the counter, watching me dry myself. He waits until the towel is wrapped around me before taking my hand. My eyes drift shut at the contact. I’ve missed him. But the man in front of me is not the man I’ve been looking forward to seeing. His eyes—so blue—once full of hope and humor… they’ve changed. In the few weeks since I’d spoken to him—he’s changed.

Gently, he pulls me to him until my chest is flush against his, his breath warm on my forehead but his hand cold on my cheek as he tilts my head up, forcing me to look into his empty eyes. “Hey baby,” he finally says, his voice weak.

With a shaky exhale, I lean up and kiss him. Slow and gentle, just like his touch. “I’ve missed you,” I tell him.

He looks away. “Me too.”

He holds me to him, his arms around my waist and his chin resting on my head.

“Why are you home early?” I manage to ask.

He doesn’t respond, just holds me tighter.

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m tired, Ry,” he says, releasing me. “I’m so fucking tired.”

I take his hand and lead him to bed, my mind racing with so many thoughts I can’t focus on one. He climbs on the bed and gets under the covers, his hands behind his head as he looks up at the ceiling. I remove the towel and stand still, just for a moment, trying to gauge his response. Again, there is none. His eyes, his body, his everything remain still. I walk over to the bedroom door, switch on the hallway light, and turn off the bedroom one, before making my way back to the bed, wondering the entire time what the right thing to do is. It’s obvious his mind is elsewhere. It’s also obvious he’s not interested in me. I lie next to him, my arm around his waist and my leg over his while I rest my head on his chest. I wait for his hands to move, to touch me, even if it’s not for sex but we’ve always, always fallen asleep in each other’s arms but tonight… nothing.