Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ELLIOT
Four years after Selection
The chapel was too warm, the air thick with the scent of lilies and furniture polish. Elliot stood in the front row of Arlington National Cemetery's memorial chapel, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the flag-draped casket twenty feet away.
His mother wouldn’t have wanted a military funeral.
But she'd been a General's wife for twenty-three years, an officer's wife for ten years before that, and she'd worn the role like a uniform—pressed, proper, never a thread out of place.
So what Elliot’s mother had wanted didn’t matter.
The chaplain rambled about service and sacrifice, about a life lived in devotion to duty and family.
The words washed over Elliot. He'd heard this speech more than once.
His mother hadn't died in combat. She'd died of pancreatic cancer in a hospital bed at Walter Reed, morphine drip keeping the pain at bay while her body slowly gave up.
Six months from terminal diagnosis to death.
Not enough time to say everything that needed to be said.
More than enough time to watch her fade away.
His father was beside him, ramrod straight in his dress blues, jaw set, eyes forward. The General hadn't cried, which surprised no one. He did nothing that might suggest he was human underneath all that brass and ribbon.
Elliot had no idea what his father was actually feeling. Regret? Sadness? Did he wish he’d spend more time with her? Elliot couldn’t know.
The General had made the arrangements with military efficiency, selected the casket, approved the program, and delivered the eulogy without his voice wavering once.
Elliot had planned on saying something too. Three pages, edited down to one, then down to half a page he’d finally decided were enough. He’d read it over this morning in his hotel room and knew immediately he wasn’t going to use it.
Not here. Not in front of two hundred people who’d known his mother as The General’s wife and nothing else.
When the service ended, people filed past offering condolences. Elliot shook hands, accepted sympathies, said "thank you" so many times the words lost meaning.
His father accepted condolences like he accepted reports from subordinates. When someone tried to offer comfort, to say something personal about his wife, The General redirected to logistics. The reception. What time people should arrive. Next steps.
Elliot watched him do it and felt an icy chill spread through his veins before settling in his chest.
His family was now reduced to this. The General and himself.
Three weeks ago, the hospital room had been dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. The machines beeped steadily—heart rate, oxygen levels, and an IV drip delivering medication Elliot couldn't pronounce. His mother appeared smaller than he remembered, her skin papery and pale.
She had asked his father to give them a few minutes alone. The General appeared surprised—maybe even suspicious—but he left. Standing guard outside the door like he was securing a perimeter.
"Mon chéri.” Her voice was thin, worn down by pain and medication. "Come sit."
He sat in the chair beside her bed. She reached for his hand, her grip weak and cold.
"I need to tell you something," she said. "Before—" She stopped, swallowing. "I need you to know that I know."
Elliot stilled.
She squeezed his hand. "I've known since you were sixteen. Maybe earlier. Mothers know these things."
He didn’t know what to say.
"I saw the way you looked at that boy—what was his name? Michael? Matthew? The one from the base in Germany." She smiled slightly. "You were so careful. So controlled. Even then. But I saw it."
All these years. She had known.
"I should have said something," she continued. "Told you it was all right. That nothing could change how much I love you." Her eyes filled. "But your father—"
"I know."
"No. You don't." She took a breath, wincing. "He's not a méchant, Eliot. Bad, you know. But he doesn’t see the world like we do." She stopped. "He loves you. In his way."
Elliot said nothing.
His mother studied his face. "You've been so good. Never disappointed him, never stepped out of line." Her grip tightened. "But you're not living, mon c?ur. You're... existing."
Elliot's vision blurred. He blinked hard.
"I want you to promise me something," she said. "When I'm gone—I want you to live your life. Not his. Yours. Do you understand?"
"Maman—"
"Promets-le-moi, Eliot."
"I promise."
She smiled, tears on her cheeks. "There's someone, isn't there? Someone you care about?"
His breath caught. "Maybe.”
"Don’t wait too long." Her fingers stroked the top of his hand. "My only regret is waiting."
"Maman—"
"I’m tired of waiting, Eliot. Promise me you won’t."
She died six days later.
The reception was held at the officers' club. People stood in small clusters talking in hushed tones. White tablecloths draped over tables, plates with finger foods and drinks scattered across them. The bar was doing steady business for a Monday afternoon.
Elliot moved through the room on autopilot, accepting more condolences and sympathies, more well-meaning comments about what a remarkable woman his mother had been.
His father held court near the bar, surrounded by other senior officers. Discussing infrastructure, policy, the state of the military. Business as usual.
Elliot observed him from across the room.
His father caught his eye and gestured him over. He went, because that was what he did. Obeyed.
"General Shaw," he heard one of the men say as he approached. "We were discussing the situation in—" He stopped when he saw Elliot, and offered a respectful nod. "Captain Shaw. My condolences again."
"Thank you, sir."
The conversation resumed. Elliot listened to them discuss troop movements and strategic positioning like his mother hadn't just been buried.
His father's hand landed on his shoulder, startling him. "My son. Following in his father’s footsteps. Already a captain at his age. He'll be a major before he's thirty-five."
Elliot kept his expression neutral. His father had his career mapped out to the year.
"Impressive," one of the men said. "You must be very proud, General."
"I am." His father's grip tightened slightly on Elliot's shoulder. "He knows what's important."
Elliot wanted to ask: do you? Do you know what’s important?
But he didn't. He let his father display him like a trophy as he had done many times before.
The reception dragged on for another two hours. More expressions of sympathy and ‘sorry for your loss.’ More small talk. By the time he escaped, his shoulders sagged. He dragged a hand down his face as if it could wipe the day away.
He got in his car and drove back to Arlington.
With the earlier crowds long gone, the cemetery settled with a calmness that matched what his mother would’ve wanted. Wet grass muffled his footsteps as he trudged through rows of white headstones, identical and precisely spaced.
He found her grave easily. Freshly turned dark earth jutted against the surrounding grass. No headstone yet, just a small marker with her name.
Isabelle Marie Shaw.
His head bent forward. The sky had gone gray while he was at the reception. A light drizzle cooled the back of his neck.
Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, he pulled out the folded paper. Half a page. He'd read it so many times he had it memorized.
He unfolded it. Dragged his eyes over the words.
Then he folded it back up and put it away.
"I don't know why I wrote that," he said. His voice came out strange in the open air, too loud and too quiet at the same time. "You would have hated it. Very official. Very proper." He paused. "Very him."
The drizzle thickened slightly.
"I don't know how to do this without you.
" The words came out before he'd decided to say them.
"I've been standing in that room all day smiling at people I don't know. You should’ve been there to tell me which ones to avoid and which ones actually matter.
" His throat tightened. "You should be here. "
A crow cawed somewhere in the trees. The rain sloshed down steadily now, darkening his shoulders.
"I don’t know how to keep my promise," he mumbled. The rain soaked through his jacket, but he was not ready to leave yet.
A hand landed on his shoulder.
Elliot went still.
"Je savais que tu serais là." The voice was soft, accented, unmistakably familiar. I knew you'd be here.
He turned.
Aunt Marguerite was shorter than he remembered, grays shot through her dark hair. Her eyes were his mother's eyes—same shape, same shade of brown. She was holding a small umbrella that wasn't doing much against the heavy rain.
"I was at the service," she said. "In the back. I didn't think your father would—" She stopped. "I didn't want to cause any trouble."
Elliot opened his mouth to say something. Nothing came.
His aunt stepped forward and put her arms around him, and Elliot—who had shaken two hundred hands today without flinching, who had remained beside his father and accepted condolences for six hours, who had not cried once—broke completely.
It was sudden and total, like something structural giving way. He couldn't stop it. Didn't try.
Marguerite held him and said only, "je suis là, je suis là." I'm here, I'm here, as the rain enveloped them.
Elliot got back to his house at 2030 hours.
Shadows filled the room. He didn’t turn on the lights immediately, just stayed in the hallway for a moment letting his eyes adjust, jacket still on, keys in his hand.
He and Marguerite had found a small restaurant near the cemetery, a corner booth where they’d stayed for four hours without either of them suggesting they should leave.
She’d talked about his mother as a girl—stubborn, funny, the one who climbed trees and came home with scraped knees while Marguerite stood at the bottom worrying.
His mother in Paris at eighteen, falling in love with a Spanish University student who was all kinds of wrong for her.
The summers in Lyon. The way she’d laughed.
Elliot had listened and tried to hold onto every word.
When they finally said goodbye outside the restaurant, Marguerite had held his face in both hands and looked at him. “Tu lui ressembles,” she’d said. You look like her.
He’d driven home feeling equal parts lighter and hollowed out.
Now he sat on his bed in the dark, jacket finally off, tie loosened, still in his dress blues. He should shower. Sleep.
Instead he pulled out his phone.
He'd asked Reed for Hale's number three months after the wedding. He had stared at his phone for ten minutes before finally typing out the message:
Elliot: Need a favor. Can I get Hale's number?
Reed's response came back almost immediately.
Reed: Finally! thought you two were going to dance around this forever
Elliot: It's not like that.
Reed: Sure it's not. hold on
A minute later, a contact card had come through. Mr. Slhuddy. A US number with an international prefix. Elliot snorted and renamed him to Hale immediately.
Reed: He's deployed right now so he might not answer right away but he'll be happy to hear from you. seriously
Elliot: Thank you.
Reed: Try not to fuck this up, will ya
Elliot had stared at Hale’s number for another twenty minutes before typing.
Elliot: Hey. It's Shaw. Reed gave me your number. Hope that's okay
The response came six hours later.
Hale: Shaw who?
Elliot stared at the screen deadpan.
Hale: Kidding. Probably okay. Let me think about it
Hale: Okay, thought about it. Yeah it’s fine I guess
Elliot: You’re an ass.
They'd been texting ever since. Nothing too serious or personal. Just... contact. Proof they still existed to each other.
Now, as he lay in bed, Elliot opened their conversation.
Elliot: You awake?
He responded almost instantly.
Hale: Yeah. What's up?
He stared at the screen. Unsure what to say exactly.
Elliot: My mother died
Hale: What? When?
Elliot: Three weeks ago. Funeral was today
Hale: Jesus. Why didn't you tell me?
He didn’t know exactly. Maybe because he wanted to avoid all the mixed emotions talking to Hale would bring.
Elliot: I don't know
Hale: I'm calling you
Elliot: Please don't
Hale: Why not?
His hands were shaking again. He typed the truth before he could stop himself.
Elliot: Because I can’t hear your voice right now
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Hale: Would that be so bad?
Elliot: Yes
He closed his eyes. There was a long pause.
Hale: I'm sorry about your mom.
Elliot: Yeah. Me too
Hale: Get some sleep, okay? Text me tomorrow?
His phone buzzed one more time.
Hale: I’m here if you need me
Elliot read the last message three times before he could breathe properly again.
He didn't respond. Didn't know how to. He just held the phone against his chest and let himself believe it might be true.