Chapter 17 - The Message He Left for Me
“Hey, Red.”
Nathan's voice filled the quiet apartment.
I sat on the edge of our bed.
The room looked almost the same as it had before he died.
His books still stood on the shelf.
His favorite sweatshirt hung behind the door.
The kitchen cabinet was still crooked.
I hadn't fixed it.
I couldn't explain why.
Maybe because fixing it would mean accepting that he wasn't coming home to do it himself.
The recording continued.
“If you're listening to this, I'm probably in trouble for forgetting something again.”
He laughed.
I covered my mouth.
“I know. I know. You told me to stop making recordings on this ancient phone.”
I smiled through tears.
“But I like it. It still works, mostly.”
A pause.
Then his voice softened.
“Listen, I don't know what the next few months are going to look like. We've both got a lot going on. But I keep thinking about the house.”
I closed my eyes.
Our house.
The little place we'd planned to buy after the wedding.
The one with the front porch.
The one with the ugly green kitchen.
“I know you want the blue one,” Nathan said. “But I still think the green one has potential.”
I laughed.
“You had terrible taste,” I whispered.
He continued.
“And I know you're worried about everything. The wedding. Our assignments. Whether we're going to get enough time together.”
His voice grew quieter.
“But Erin, I don't need everything to be perfect.”
I stopped breathing.
“I just need us to keep choosing each other.”
Tears ran down my face.
“I love you,” he said. “Even when you're stubborn. Especially when you're stubborn.”
He laughed again.
“And if I forget to say it enough, here's proof.”
The recording ended.
I sat motionless.
Then I played it again.
Not because I was searching for evidence.
Not because I needed another clue.
But because I wanted to hear him.
Just Nathan.
The man who left wet towels on the bathroom floor.
The man who sang badly in the car.
The man who remembered exactly how I liked my coffee.
The man who had loved me without needing the world to know.
The following weekend, I drove to Daniel Mercer's rehabilitation center.
He was walking with a cane.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But walking.
When he saw me, he smiled.
“Hey, Corporal.”
“Hey, giraffe.”
He laughed.
“That's going to stick, isn't it?”
“Absolutely.”
We sat outside beneath a tree.
For a while, we talked about ordinary things.
His physical therapy.
His plans.
His younger sister's wedding.
Then he looked at me.
“I've been thinking about Reed.”
“Me too.”
“He told me something that night.”
I waited.
“Before he fell, when he was trying to get me free.”
Daniel looked down.
“He said, ‘We're not leaving anybody behind.’”
My eyes filled.
“That sounds like him.”
Daniel nodded.
“I used to think I owed him my life.”
I looked at him.
“You don't owe him a debt you can never repay.”
He swallowed.
“Then what do I do with it?”
I thought for a moment.
“Live it.”
He looked at me.
“Your life,” I said. “Live it well.”
Daniel began crying.
I took his hand.
For the first time since Nathan's death, I felt something other than anger when I thought about that ridge.
I felt pride.
And grief.
May you like
And love.
All at once.
