It had been a long fucking day. Between lack of sleep after I’d escorted Finley home in the middle of the night, to dealing with a tough assignment at work all day, I was ready for a drink. Arriving home, I tossed my keys and cell phone onto the kitchen counter and made my way straight to the dark walnut and leaded glass liquor cabinet. I’d bought this thing from an estate sale and restored it myself, sanding and staining the wood and replacing the old cracked glass. Now it held expensive bottles of various liquors that I rarely indulged in. But days like today? You bet your ass I’d be enjoying at least a few.
Dropping a couple of ice cubes into the bottom of a tumbler, I added a long pour of Glenmorgie. It wasn’t the world’s best Scotch – by far – but it was what my dad used to drink when he was still alive, and something about the golden bottle and the stiff, smoky aroma conjured up pleasant memories.
My house, while it was quiet and tidy, felt lacking. Ignoring the strange feelings stirring inside me, I settled down onto the couch and flipped on the TV just for some background noise. Then I took a calming sip of my drink.
I'd bought this house within a week of retiring from the SEALs. It was too big for just a bachelor, but the two-story brick structure with its wide front porch made a statement. I hadn't put too much thought into it; tired of moving around, I'd just wanted somewhere permanent, so I'd let my gut choose this place for me. At the time, with military life fresh in my memory, this house had felt right. I wasn’t going anywhere, wasn’t going to spend anymore sleepless nights on a cot in the desert with a loaded gun at my side, and there was comfort in that.
But as I sat here now, I realized that my once-refuge was too quiet, even with the TV blaring. It was too big and empty. It was strange how I felt more comfortable in Finley’s tiny apartment filled with laughter and squeals than I was in my own home.
Finley... I took another sip of whiskey, larger this time. I both wanted and didn't want to think about her. The tangle of pain that tied us together.
To all outside appearances, I’d moved on. I'd retired from the military, bought a house in a quiet suburb north of Dallas, started working as a consultant for a private security firm run by my former commander. I had settled into a picture-perfect civilian routine. But actually getting on with my life - forgiving myself for what happened, finding pleasure in my newfound freedom? I wasn’t there yet. And now, knowing how Finley was living, letting go of the past just wasn’t an option.
The memories of her that had been etched into my brain needed to change. All I saw when I looked at her was the way she'd looked at the funeral, screaming and sobbing, the tears of anger and desperation sliding down her cheeks. I wanted to paint over that memory with something more positive. Like watching her with her daughter. Marcus would’ve been wrapped around his little girl’s finger. Didn’t matter that he was a two-hundred pound SEAL—Maple had a way about her.
I could tell then that Finley had been pregnant. Maybe it was a sixth sense. Maybe it was the way her hand absently went to her belly. Whatever it was that cued me in, I'd looked closer, and seen the slight swell under her black wrap dress that had never been there before. She obviously wasn’t telling people yet, so I hadn’t said anything. I figured it was either too early to share the news, or just that the somber occasion wasn’t the place she wanted to do it.
Shit, looking back now, I realized that she'd been just barely pregnant, yet already holding her almost-flat belly. Protectively, fearfully, in a silent show of worry for the difficult life ahead of her. She'd known exactly how hard single motherhood would be. No time to grieve and find closure—her attention had been forced towards the future. I’d never pieced that all together before now. Just another reason why I was determined to make sure she wouldn’t have to go it alone.
I’d tried for years to act like I was immune to her, like I didn’t notice special things about her, but I knew them all. The small, crescent-shaped birthmark at the nape of her neck that only showed when she wore her hair up. The way the gold bangle bracelets she favored hung on her slender wrist. Delicate fingers that she kept painted pink, or red, or something equally girly at all times. Of course I’d noticed the change in her that day. But I’d tried like hell to disappear and stay out of her way, since I was probably the last person she wanted to see – a constant visual reminder of her loss.