Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ELLIOT
Four year after Selection
Three days after the funeral, Elliot had returned to Fort Liberty pretending to work.
He got through the morning briefing. Ate something at lunch he couldn't name afterward. Ran eight miles until his legs gave out. Came back to his apartment, showered, and sat on his bed in the dark.
His phone lit up.
It was an email from his father. He opened it reluctantly.
Your mother's affairs are largely settled. The summer house in Lyon will go on the market in the spring. I've arranged for her personal effects to be boxed and stored until you have a more permanent address. Let me know if there's anything specific you want set aside.
The house in Lyon. The only place Elliot had ever felt at home. There was no greeting. No sign-off. Just logistics, clean and efficient, his mother reduced to personal effects and storage arrangements only days after they'd put her in the ground.
Elliot read it twice.
Set the phone face-down on the nightstand.
Picked it up again.
He opened Hale's messages instead. There were six since the funeral, all unanswered.
His silence wasn’t deliberate, but he didn't know what to say.
Hale kept texting anyway, sending small, stupid, completely inconsequential things as if he understood Elliot didn't need conversation right now. Only proof that someone was there.
The most recent came in an hour ago.
Hale: Sky out here was unreal last night. you'd hate how much you'd like it
A photo followed of the coastline, shot through the open window of what appeared to be a helicopter. The sun dropped toward the water painting the entire sky orange.
Elliot studied it for an embarrassingly long time.
Then he opened the flight booking app.
He had intended to just look, but his mother’s last words, “My only regret is waiting,” kept circling his mind.
Suddenly, he ached for Hale. Deep in his bones. He needed to see him. Even if it was just for a weekend.
Twenty minutes later he had a Friday departure out of Raleigh-Durham. Probably not his smartest move, but he didn’t care.
Elliot: I'll be there tomorrow
Elliot: If that's okay
Elliot stared at the dots signaling that Hale was texting him back. It felt like forever before his phone finally buzzed.
Hale: Wait really?
Hale: Yeah, come
Civilian airports were exactly as bad as Elliot remembered. Too many people moving in too many directions, the air thick with jet exhaust and fast food. It all combined into the desperation of an airport on a Friday afternoon.
Elliot collected his bag from baggage claim and checked his phone.
Hale: outside. black civic. try not to look too military
Elliot’s gaze tracked down his body. Black jeans, gray shirt, camouflage bag over one shoulder. Right.
He found the black Civic idling at the curb with its hazard lights on. Hale had his window down, arguing with a departures officer who was clearly telling him to move. Hale spotted Elliot, held up one finger, then said something that made the officer laugh and wave him off.
Hale could talk his way out of anything.
He threw his bag in the trunk and rounded the car to find a beaming Hale in the driver’s seat. "Hey."
"Hey."
"How was your flight?"
"It was all right."
"You eat?" Hale pulled into traffic without checking his mirror. Elliot's hand twitched toward the dashboard instinctively.
"On the plane."
"That's not eating." Hale glanced over at him, then back to the road. "You look terrible, by the way."
Elliot snorted. "I know."
Hale merged onto the I-5 one-handed, completely unbothered by the bustling traffic. Elliot settled back in the seat and looked out the window at the sprawl of the city, the pale afternoon light, the mountains barely visible in the distance.
"I'm glad you came," Hale said. Casual. Eyes forward.
Elliot swallowed hard. "Yeah. Me too."
Hale’s apartment was in Gig Harbor, on the third floor of a building that had probably been nice once. The elevator was out of service. A handwritten sign on the door said it had been since March, which appeared to be a different March than the current one.
Elliot followed Hale up the stairs with his bag slung over his shoulder.
“It’s not much,” Hale said, unlocking the door.
Elliot stepped inside, set his bag down, and glanced around.
Small living room, galley kitchen, a balcony big enough for two chairs.
Flight manuals stacked on the coffee table.
A photo of two women on the fridge—Taylor and his mother, Elliot assumed.
Clean but sparse, the kind of space that belonged to someone who was never around long enough to accumulate anything.
A mouthwatering aroma of garlic and rosemary filled the space.
“You cooked?” Elliot asked.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Hale dropped his keys on the counter and lifted the lid on a pan. “It’s just pasta.”
Elliot stilled in the middle of the small living room, his chest tightening. This felt… He wasn’t sure. Oddly domestic in a way he wasn’t used to.
“Sit,” Hale said, nodding toward the bar stools at the kitchen counter. “It’s almost ready.”
Elliot sat and watched Hale move around the small kitchen. It was strange seeing him in this environment, so at ease and unhurried. He poured two glasses of water and set one in front of Elliot.
“I thought we could maybe hang out here tonight? No agenda.”
Elliot turned the glass in his hands. Outside, the last of the daylight was fading over the rooftops.
No agenda. Elliot couldn't remember the last time that had been the case. And now he had a whole weekend with Hale, no plans in sight.
Hale served the pasta and sat on the stool beside him, close enough that their arms were almost touching. They ate. Hale talked—something about a training exercise that had gone sideways, a story about Reed that made Elliot smile.
After a while, he set his fork down and gazed at Elliot. "How are you doing?"
"I'm fine."
He nodded slowly, like he was considering that. "Yeah?"
"Yes."
"How did The General handle it?” Hale asked, studying his face.
Elliot stilled.
"The funeral and all," he added. "Did he—was he there for you at all, or—"
"He was very efficient about all of it." Elliot heard how bad that sounded.
He sipped his water, buying himself some time. "He sent me an email last night.” He hadn't planned on saying any of this. "About her personal effects. Her summer house in Lyon. Very organized. Very—"
Turning on his stool, Hale faced him.
Elliot turned too, despite himself, and when Hale's hand landed on his knee, Elliot’s eyes dropped to where it rested.
"You didn't have anyone there," Hale said. Not a question.
Elliot's throat tightened. He didn’t lift his gaze.
"I'm so sorry, Elliot.”
The use of his first name made Elliot's vision blur, but he blinked it back the way he always did.
He needed to feel something other than this—the grief sitting heavy in his sternum, the echo of two hundred handshakes, his father’s voice mapping out his future over his mother’s grave. He needed it gone, even just for a few hours.
He leaned in and kissed Hale softly. When he pulled back, Hale was looking at him, expression open.
“Is this okay?” Elliot asked. “I don’t even know if you’re—if there’s someone—”
“There’s no one,” Hale said. “And yes. It’s okay.”
He kissed Elliot back, slow and deliberate, one hand coming up to rest on the side of his face. Elliot leaned into his touch, his palm warm and solid against his cheek.
They made it to the bedroom without rushing.
Hale undressed him slowly, his movements careful and tender, and Elliot let him. He rarely let anyone else set the pace, relinquishing control, but tonight he didn’t have anything left in him.
Hale was gentle in a way that could have felt condescending but didn’t.
At some point, Elliot stopped thinking entirely. There was just him and Hale and the quiet of the room. He pressed his face into Hale’s shoulder and held on.