Chapter 5
chapter
five
Izabel
I woke before the sun came up. The relative success of my date with Kyle gave me hope I could finally find happiness again. It might not be with Kyle; it might be with someone else. But this weekend would be about starting over—beginning by getting rid of Drake’s things.
When I’d sold our house, I hadn’t given away his stuff. I couldn’t bring myself to part with pieces of him. His gun safe was in my office. The guns were an extension of Drake. He took utmost care of every single one of them.
Some of Drake’s work tools I’d given to Hank. Others I’d given to Marcus.
Drake’s commander needed help more than I did. I’d tried dragging him to some grief counseling sessions, but it wasn’t only grief that was eating at Marcus. Guilt was involved, too. If only he could talk to someone.
I headed to the attic and stood at the entrance with a feeling like I was about to enter a mausoleum.
Sighing, I flicked on the switch, illuminating the room in a ghastly incandescent glow.
The smell of stale air, mildew, and old books permeated the space.
Boxes labeled clothes, garage , and library were stacked on top of each other.
I walked over to the window and stared outside.
The first rays of the sun peeked through the horizon.
It was a bit late to start my morning run, but I’d wanted to wait for more sunlight.
The cold air passing over the warm waters of the James River created foggy mornings.
I loved running at this time of the year and I’d better get started, because it was going to be a long day.
Taking one long look at the boxes, I hardened my resolve that they would be taken care of later.
Definitely today.
By the time I reached the kitchen, the pot of coffee was ready. I poured myself a cup and checked emails and messages.
Fully caffeinated, I changed into running gear and put on my reflectors.
It was a cool forty-nine degrees, but I’d warm up after the first mile.
The fog was coming in low and the sun’s golden rays fighting to break through increased my excitement.
It was going to be a gorgeous morning with the patches of fog hovering over the wetlands along the trail behind my house.
I was looking forward to the serene view of the sunrise on the arch bridge over the James River.
I picked a playlist and started with a brisk jog, waving to my neighbor, who’d just come off the trail.
There were several routes around the park, and since I planned to run five miles today, I’d probably do two passes by the river, where the bridge allowed me to cross over the water to make a loop.
I reached the bridge and observed the foggy scenery.
The park was unusually empty this Saturday morning.
Movement in my peripheral vision made me turn.
The contour of a man broke through the swirling fog rising from under the bridge.
An achingly familiar form clad in track pants and a hoodie that shadowed the top half of his face.
A thick beard hid the rest. I forced myself to look away.
My heart edged up my throat. No, it was because I was thinking about him.
For months after Drake was killed, I saw him everywhere.
I couldn’t go back to that again. Limbo.
Barely existing. Sucked out of joy and wishing I’d died along with him.
My breathing quickened and it had nothing to do with the run. The burning despair in my heart switched to alarm when the man didn’t pass behind me but, instead, stopped a couple of feet away on my right.
He was looking at the sunrise same as I was.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the man’s gravelly voice reached me.
That voice.
But what triggered my fight or flight had nothing to do with Drake, but my survival instinct due to the overwhelmingly lethal vibe exuded by this stranger.
Goose bumps raced across the top of my shoulders and crawled up my scalp.
I slanted my gaze to him, keeping my face forward while my hand slowly rested on the pepper spray, thankful I always carried it on my runner’s belt.
The park was generally safe, but one couldn’t be too sure, and neither was I letting any sicko frighten me into avoiding the one activity that gave me peace.
“Baby, you attack me with that pepper spray, I guarantee we won’t be spending time talking in the pickup.”
I gasped. All thoughts of survival disintegrating as I spun to face the stranger.
The man dragged the hood from his face.
Drake.
He looked a lot like Drake. Broader in shoulders, arms a bit more muscular. I’d seen my husband with a beard, but never one this long. And yet the eyes, the slash of brows, and the slightly crooked nose were unmistakably Drake’s.
“Iza…”
My mouth fell open, but shock prevented any words from forming. Thoughts clashed in my head.
Is this a dream?
A sick joke?
Am I losing my mind?
None of this could be real, and yet he uttered my name in the special way Drake did.
In the only way that had ever touched my soul.
He was a magnet drawing me in and I stumbled forward, body shaking, chest heaving, lifting a trembling hand and wanting to touch his face.
“Drake?” I whispered the name full of hope, yet disbelief, still struggling to make sense of the man before me.
A flash of white teeth. His oh-so-familiar smile.
My legs buckled, but before I hit the wooden planks, strong arms swooped around me.
They held me up as I was crushed against a chest. I sobbed—my body not knowing whether to breathe or cry. My mind not knowing how to process thoughts spiraling in a chaotic trajectory, trying to find logic amidst the soothing words murmured against my ear.
“I missed you, Iza. God, how I missed you.”
I froze.
He missed me?
I went to hell when he died.
Fury, rejection, and betrayal coalesced and squashed the yearnings of my heart. I struggled to get out of his embrace.
“Let me go!” I screamed when he refused to comply.
“Let me go!” I repeated, almost hysterical.
His arms unlocked and I staggered back. “You missed me?” I was panting hard, glaring at the stranger who claimed to be my husband. Well, he could be the stand-in for anger, so explosive that words couldn’t even define the agony I went through in the last three years.
If all “ghost Drake” could say was he missed me, then fuck him.
“I stood in that airfield waiting for the plane to bring my husband home. I wept over your flag-draped casket,” I inhaled raggedly.
His face blurring as the onslaught of tears streamed down my cheeks.
“I buried you. I mourned you, Drake, but that’s what I signed up for when I married a SEAL, knowing that could happen to us.
But this…” I waved my arm up and down in front of me.
“I didn’t sign up for this. For three years of living hell believing I’d lost the love of my life… ”
My words trailed off because logic dictated if this was Drake, then I’d been lied to.
He visibly flinched as he took a step forward. “I can explain, Iza.”
I laughed. A scornful laugh, borne out of pain. Everything inside me rebelled against this version of Drake. Because even if this man was Drake, he was not my husband. Not anymore.
“Oh, I’m sure you can,” I said between bouts of wracking sobs. I backed away from him because my heart was shattering all over again. “But I don’t know if I can forgive you.”
I ran.
Drake
Fuck!
Her anguish hit me like a wave slamming my body against a jagged rock. The devastation of her words sent me reeling, realization dawning on me that I was going to have the fight of my life on my hands. In the past three years, I had imagined our reunion so many times, but damn, was I way off point.
Izabel disappeared into the mist. I had been the envy of my teammates, especially the married ones.
Izabel accepted my sudden deployments as my duty. She never complained.
Missed anniversaries.
Leaving her birthday party because I got called in.
Missed Christmases.
Did I see disappointment in her eyes? Sure I did, but she knew what she signed up for.
I didn’t sign up for this.
Her words echoed in my ears. Panic sent me running after her. She was racing through the trails as if the devil himself were after her.
In this case, I was the devil.
I slowed my pace, gave her a twenty-foot distance, but that was all the space she was getting. We’d lost three years and, though it had been entirely my decision that put us in this situation, I couldn’t say I wouldn’t have made the same choice.
Where Izabel lived.
I can live in a world where she hates me, but I can’t live in a world where she doesn’t exist.
As we neared her house, a spark of resentment ignited inside me. We had a home. She sold it. Now she was living in a house where there were no memories of us. The first pinprick of fear stabbed my chest that my faked death had broken us beyond repair.
But she left the door open.
Did that mean she was willing to talk? I was prepared to camp out on her steps until she talked to me.
I went up the steps, stopped, massaged the area over my diaphragm, feeling like I had an oncoming heartburn. Venting an exhalation, I moved through the open door, closing it quietly behind me.
Izabel was pacing in front of the table between the kitchen and the living room.
She stopped when she saw me enter and speared me a glare before crossing her arms over her chest. That was her defensive posture.
The area around her eyes was splotchy and her nose was red.
I fought against the instinct to hug and kiss her, but unlike me, who had three years of pent-up longing to return to my wife, she had three years of trying to move on from me.
“Tell me, Drake. Did you think you could simply waltz back into my life after three years? Three years of me thinking you were dead?”
“I never believed it would be easy, Izabel.”
“You died. What if I’d moved on?”
“Have you?” I challenged.
“Not yet.”