I didn’t talk to Dani all week. I’d pulled out my phone a few times to text her, but each time I’d lost my nerve. Friday night had been weird. The whole time I’d been talking to those girls, I’d felt guilty, as though I’d done something wrong, and when I’d caught up with her walking out of the bar, the expression on her face had been wounded—like I’d hurt her feelings. And then in the parking lot . . . I hadn’t meant to touch her, honestly I hadn’t, but as always, all it had taken was one look and I hadn’t been able to resist. I’d spent thirty minutes with a group of gorgeous women who’d flirted with me and felt nothing; I touched Dani’s cheek and I felt too much.
The image of her in that dress, her hair flowing in the breeze, entered my mind.
I kicked up the speed on the treadmill, my legs pumping, body aching, sweat dripping down my face as I pushed myself harder than normal. I hadn’t gotten laid in what . . . three months? Four? My hand wasn’t cutting it anymore.
The treadmill beeped, indicating my time had expired, and I slowed to a walk. My phone pinged with an incoming text message, and I picked it up, grinning at the picture that flashed on my screen. Julie Ann Miller was born on Wednesday morning. She had a full head of dark hair like Noah, Jordan’s eyes, and was easily the cutest kid I’d ever seen. Noah had been texting me photos nonstop since she was born.
My phone pinged again with a message from Noah.
You still coming by the house to meet the baby?
I stopped the treadmill, shooting off a reply.
Yeah, leaving the gym now. I’ll be there in an hour.
I headed to the locker room, taking a quick shower and throwing on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt before grabbing my gym bag and heading to the car. I drove off base, the stuffed animal I’d bought for the baby on the passenger seat next to me. I probably looked like an idiot driving around with a larger-than-life-sized bear next to me, but I didn’t give a fuck. I was looking forward to being Uncle Easy and spoiling the kid rotten.
I couldn’t quite envision myself having kids—getting married was a pipe dream—so my friends’ kids were the closest I’d ever get to the real thing. And considering Noah was more brother than friend, his daughter felt very much like the niece I wouldn’t have otherwise.
I pulled up in front of Jordan and Noah’s place, nostalgia wafting over me. I’d lived here until Noah and Jordan got married, and Noah and I’d had some good times in that house.
We’d become friends our first year at the Air Force Academy, had bonded through basic training, roomed together for three years of college, kept in touch when we both went to pilot training, through our Air Force careers. There was a bond between all of us, forged in combat, solidified by the lives we lived, the understanding of what it took to constantly hover on the edge, a step away from losing control. We walked a tightrope between pushing our limits and taking it too far, and sometimes you needed a bro you could trust to pull you back.
Noah would always be that for me.
I got out of the car, walking around to the passenger side to get the baby’s gift, and my gaze settled on a silver sedan parked in the driveway.
Dani’s car.
My heartbeat kicked up a notch, a kind of nervous energy pulsing through me.
I shifted the bear in my arms, knocking on the door, lips twitching at the note written in Noah’s messy handwriting, taped where the doorbell used to be.
Sleeping baby. Don’t ring the fucking doorbell.
A minute later, Noah swung open the door. His gaze swept over me and he laughed.
“Nice bear.”
“Nice note.”
I crossed over the threshold, giving him a one-armed hug and a pat on the back.
“Congrats, man.”
He fucking beamed back at me. “Thanks.”
“Fatherhood looks good on you. You look grown-up, and responsible and shit.”
He laughed again. “Something like that.”
I shifted the bear on my hip. “Is she awake?”
“Yeah, she’s with Jordan and Dani. Dani brought a bunch of clothes, so they’ve been trying outfits on her.”
I followed him through the house until we reached the bedroom that had been mine and was now a nursery. The dark walls had been repainted a pastel pink, filled with dainty white furniture, pictures of F-16s replaced by paintings of flowers and princesses.
Noah grinned. “No worries, we had it thoroughly disinfected after you moved out.”
I flipped him off.
“Hey, no teaching the baby bad habits,” Jordan teased, turning to greet us.
I started to respond, but the words got clogged in my throat as my gaze settled on Dani sitting in the corner, the baby in her arms.
Dani looked up at me, surprise on her face, her attention obviously utterly consumed by the baby she held. And then her lips curved into a blinding, heart-clenching smile, her eyes shining.
Most beautiful fucking thing I’d ever seen.
I stood there, bathing in her glow, corny as that sounded. And then the words came, pouring out of me, crashing against the barrier that kept them from escaping my lips.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I settled on “hi” instead.
“Hey,” she whispered, her voice lowered as though she didn’t want to wake the baby. “Do you want to hold her?”
I looked to Jordan and Noah for confirmation. The baby was so tiny, her face scrunched up, her little fist moving . . .
“I don’t know,” I confessed. She seemed so fragile, so utterly breakable.
Jordan grinned. “You’ll be fine.”
I hesitated, my gaze on the baby. How did Noah do it? How could he manage to not be utterly terrified all the time? If she were mine, I’d constantly be scared shitless.
“I can see her from over here,” I protested.
Dani grinned. “Come on, don’t be a baby.” She stood, cradling Julie, and walked toward me. She was right in front of me before I realized it, before I even had a moment to react, and then I found myself putting my arms out, taking the baby from her, my heart racing, some part of me recognizing that in some fucked-up, impossible way, we were playing a parody of everything I wanted—Dani, a child, the family I’d never have with the woman I loved.
There was something about this, the baby passing between us, that was as natural as breathing.
“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Dani asked, her voice little more than a whisper, the thread of wonder there audible.
I could barely speak, couldn’t look anywhere but at her, at the glimpse of what she’d be like as a mom. “Yeah, she is.”
I forced myself to avert my gaze to the baby, settling there, registering her features—I didn’t know much about kids, but she had to be one of the cutest ones I’d ever seen—feeling a tug in my chest at the knowledge that my oldest friend was a dad now. I couldn’t be happier for him.
The lump in my throat grew.
I turned my attention toward Jordan and Noah.
“She’s amazing. Congrats, you guys.”
They both looked as though they were about to explode with pride.
Dani stood next to me while I held the baby, her joy a palpable caress, and at the same time, because I knew her as well as I did, had spent so much time picking up on the subtleties of her moods, the lingering sadness hit me. She was genuinely happy for Jordan and Noah, and she did a great job covering it, but I’d been there. I knew. There was nothing she’d wanted more than to be a mom, and I would never forget the look in her eyes or the heartbreaking cry that had escaped her lips when the doctor told her she’d lost the baby. She’d reached out for me in that moment, and I’d wrapped my arms around her while she’d buried her face against my chest, sobs racking her body, my shirt damp from her tears, my own falling down my cheeks.
I’d cried twice in my adult life—that day with Dani, and after, when we lost Joker.
Our gazes locked, Julie between us, and I saw the emotion there, and it was as though an entire conversation passed between us, her eyes answering my unspoken question.
Are you okay?
Yeah, I am.
And then Dani surprised me, wrapping her arm around my waist, leaning into me as though she wanted me to take some of the sadness from her, a burden I’d gladly bear.
We stood still, our bodies fused together, staring down at the baby, until Julie started crying and Jordan swooped in, announcing it was time for a feeding. We said good-bye, following Noah out of the nursery, leaving Jordan with her daughter.
I didn’t even realize it, but somehow my hand found Dani’s, our fingers locking together. She squeezed mine as she tilted her head up to face me, a soft smile playing at her lips. “Nice bear.”
I laughed. “Thanks. Noah already gave me shit about it. If I can’t spoil my honorary niece, who can I spoil?”
“Goddaughter and niece,” Noah corrected.
I froze. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. There’s no one else I’d rather have. Jordan agreed.”
My voice came out rough. “Thanks, man. I’m honored.”
“Us, too.”
He walked us out and we said our good-byes. I let go of her hand, and Dani and I stood in the driveway, staring at each other, keys in hand, lingering there. I didn’t want to go home and eat dinner in front of the TV by myself. I wanted—
“Do you want to come over? We could order dinner or something. Watch a movie.”
She hesitated for a second, and I wondered if I’d misread her mood, and then she nodded, that simple gesture suddenly everything.
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Do you want to follow me to my house?”
“Sure.”
I followed Easy into his house, sidestepping a pair of flight boots in the middle of the entryway.
He grimaced, bending down to pick them up. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“No worries. Believe me, I’m more than used to shoes strewn about.”
For some reason, flight boots never made their way into a closet. It was one of those annoying-but-endearing fighter pilot traits I’d grown used to over the years and now missed.
“What do you want for dinner?” Easy asked, setting his gym bag down on a bar stool in his kitchen.
“I’m up for anything.”
“Pizza?”
“Yeah, pizza sounds good.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed the number from memory.
“Mushroom and sausage, right?”
I nodded, surprised he remembered my favorite pizza. How the hell did he keep all this stuff straight?
He placed the order and then hung up. “Do you want a beer?”
“Sure.”
He gestured toward the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring the drinks.”
I turned down the hall, sitting down on the giant sectional. He had the stereotypical guy living room—sparsely decorated, big-ass couch, bigger TV, expensive stereo system. Various flying plaques and squadron photos sat on different ledges of the mammoth entertainment center, several F-16 signed lithographs from various assignments on the walls.
A minute later he walked in, carrying two beers, and handed one to me.
I took it from him, placing the cool bottle to my lips, talking a long pull. He stayed standing for a moment, almost as though he didn’t know where to sit. Finally, he moved forward, and I shifted to the side, making room for him next to me.
He hesitated for a beat, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake, if it was too weird to assume he’d want to take the same position we had the last time we’d watched TV together, but his big body settled down next to me, his leg pressing against mine. His arm came around my shoulders, gathering me close, and for the first time all day, I relaxed.
Today had been rough. As much as I’d loved spending time with Noah, Jordan, and the baby, I’d ripped the Band-Aid off a wound that would never heal. I didn’t want to be this person, to have this ugliness and anger swirling inside me, and yet, no matter how hard I tried, there was a part of me that couldn’t understand why life worked out the way it did, how some people ended up with their happy endings, and others had everything taken away from them. I didn’t understand what I’d done, what it had been about me and Michael that had tempted fate. And even worse was the baby we’d lost months earlier, the last link I’d had to him, who now lay buried next to his father.
One loss was difficult enough; two were nearly unbearable.
Sometimes I was convinced I’d done this; that we’d been too happy, had too much, that you were only ever entitled to just a sliver of love and then your quota was used up. Other times I saw what happened to Michael as an accident, a matter of timing, a shift in moments that meant the difference between life and death. It was the utter unpredictability of it all that terrified me—the idea that at the exact moment he’d crashed, I could have been in our beautiful home, thinking about how lucky I was, a room full of hope for the baby we’d eventually have, not knowing I was about to lose everything. It was the fear that it didn’t matter how tightly you held on, how hard you prayed, or how badly you yearned, some omnipotent and unseen force could still come in and tear everything away.
What was the point of putting yourself out there, of taking a risk, of rolling the die if you faced such unbeatable odds, if the house always won? Better to play it safe, to hold everything inside, than let love in and end up with a broken heart and a wound that wouldn’t heal.
It was hard being around other people, normal people, people who didn’t walk around with a gaping hole in their chest where their heart used to be. Easy got it. I didn’t have to pretend with him, didn’t have to be someone I wasn’t anymore. He’d seen the flash of pain when we were at Noah and Jordan’s, and I loved him because I didn’t have to explain, he’d just understood, and been there for me when I’d needed it. There were very few people who wanted to be around you when you were at your worst; that was Easy for me. I was never more myself than I was with him.
He grabbed the remote, flipping channels, and told me to tell him to stop whenever I found something I wanted to watch.
We finally settled on the same TV show we’d watched before, the routine of it making me smile, and I wrapped my arm around his waist, leaning my head against his chest. He felt good—solid—his heart beating steadily beneath me. He smelled good, too—like he’d just gotten out of the shower. The rest of the tension simply drained out of me, an overwhelming sense of contentment filling me.
“This is nice,” I murmured, the sound muffled against his shirt-covered pec.
“Mmm hmm.” His fingers stroked my hair, skimming along my scalp.
God, that was amazing. I lay there while he held me tight, playing with my hair, each touch melting me. He was so sweet when he wasn’t the guy who walked around full of swagger, when he was the version of himself he was with me. I liked the other guy—he was fun to hang around with, guaranteed to make you smile and laugh, but this guy was something else entirely. I loved this guy. He was so sweet, I ached.
We watched TV until the food came, and Easy got up to pay the deliveryman. He returned a minute later with paper plates and pizza.
He grinned, his expression sheepish. “Sorry. Single guy. I forgot to run the dishwasher.”
I laughed. “No worries.”
We ate in silence, nursing our beers, the show playing in the background. When we’d finished, he took everything to the kitchen and sat back down next to me on the couch.
We shifted positions, until I was lying across him again, our limbs tangled.
And promptly fell asleep.
* * *
I woke sometime in the middle of the night, sprawled across something big and hard. For a moment I thought I was dreaming, my mind struggling to catch up, and then my eyes adjusted to the dark, a crack of moonlight filtering in through the blinds, and I realized I was lying on top of Easy.
I sat up, gently untangling myself from his body, trying not to wake him, my heart pounding. We’d left the TV on and the glow from the set was enough that I paused, unable to resist staring at the sight that was Easy sleeping before me. He looked softer in sleep, younger . . . more human, less sex god . . . more like the sweet version he was with me.
My breath hitched.
I reached out, my hand hovering in midair, the fog of sleep still covering me, my fingers twitching. Later I told myself it was the hair—lustrous and thick—that practically screamed, “Pet me.” I closed the distance between us, not sure what I was doing, but unable to resist.
My knuckles grazed his skin, and then the tips of my fingers threaded through his hair as my heart skipped and stuttered in my chest.
A voice inside me screamed—
What are you doing?
Easy sighed in his sleep as I stroked his forehead, and something tumbled inside me—a boulder rolling off a cliff. My hand stilled, my entire body frozen as I waited to see if he’d wake up.
He didn’t.
I should go. This felt like a line I was crossing, somewhere outside the bounds of normal friend behavior.
There was that voice again—
What the hell is wrong with you?
Moments passed, but I didn’t move, didn’t get off the couch. Didn’t stop touching him.
I didn’t want to leave.
I wanted to curl back around him and fall asleep again, enjoying the kind of deep sleep that didn’t bring bad dreams and didn’t have me tossing and turning. I wanted the weight of his body next to me, giving me something to hold on to.
And that freaked me the fuck out.
Because I didn’t feel that way about Jordan, or Noah, or Thor, or any of my other friends. They’d been there for me after Michael died, but I hadn’t leaned on them, hadn’t found a place where I wanted to settle.
Easy was different and I wasn’t sure why.
I pulled my hand back, balling my fingers into a fist, sliding off the couch, trying not to wake him, pretty sure I couldn’t handle facing him right now. I felt naked, open, raw, as though I’d let him in somewhere I shouldn’t have, like something had shifted in an already fucked-up world and now when I reached for something—someone—to hold on to, I came up empty. Because suddenly, I didn’t trust Easy—or more accurately, I didn’t trust the way Easy made me feel—the need and the unmistakable ache at the possibility of him being yanked away from me, if one day he took off and didn’t come home.
I wanted to hold on to him, and if life had taught me anything, it was that the things you clutched to your chest were the first things to be ripped away from you.