Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
It was after midnight and the air outside had dipped into frostbite territory. When they stepped into the apartment, the warmth of it wrapped around Frankie like a hug. Frankie smiled as she kicked off her heels. The shoes by the door weren’t lined up military-style anymore—well, hers weren’t.
She blinked, taking it all in. This wasn’t the sad, monastic bachelor pad she’d first walked into. The IKEA showroom look was fading fast. Folded laundry on the couch waited to be put away. A bowl of apples and oranges sat on the kitchen counter next to a folded receipt and a pair of her sunglasses. The red-and-white checkered tablecloth was still on the table, now with a half-burned pumpkin-spice candle sitting in the middle of it. That French restaurant was never getting that tablecloth back.
Frankie shrugged off Waylon’s coat, pausing before she hung it up. It smelled like him—warm, familiar, steady. She wanted to bury her face in it, just for a second. Instead, she made herself slip it onto the hanger.
Snoopy was spending the night at Wren and Elias’s place, getting to know their dogs—Penny, the criminally clever Jack Russell, and Chuck, her beefy partner in crime. The apartment felt quieter without him. Less...bouncy.
It’s not quite home without Snoopy here.
Home? Is that what this is?
“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for bed,” she said, nudging the closet door shut.
“You go on ahead, Pix. I’m not quite ready.”
She tilted her head. “Everything okay?”
Waylon leaned in and kissed her lips, soft and sure. “Yeah. Just hungry.”
She smirked. “Liminal didn’t fill you up?”
“It filled my soul,” he said dryly. “My stomach, not so much.”
He planted another kiss on her forehead and headed for the kitchen.
Frankie lingered a moment watching him, then padded barefoot down the hall toward the bedroom.
Waylon’s old childhood Snoopy was back on the dresser, sitting there like he’d never been demoted to a drawer. Frankie didn’t know when Waylon had taken him back out. He hadn’t said a word. Neither had she.
She peeled off her dress, hung it up, and slipped into her nightshirt. In the bathroom, she poured rosemary oil into her palm and ran it through her hair, breathing in the grounding scent.
The night had been heavy, cathartic. She’d finally told Waylon about Dan. And instead of feeling like Dan was gone for good, she felt closer to her.
Closer to Waylon.
I’m not in love with him, right?
She picked up her big wooden brush and ran it through her hair. She’d read somewhere that brushing her hair with the rosemary oil would make it come back thicker. Frankie watched her reflection in the mirror, then she studied all the bottles and cotton balls and make-up on the vanity until her eyes fell on Waylon’s mouthwash.
I care about him, sure. But I can’t possibly love him. I hate the way he gargles. He teases me mercilessly. He’s got that funny little cowlick in the morning before he showers and plasters it down. He stays in the bathroom until I finish showering and then hands me a towel. He’s got a great laugh. He makes me smile every time I win an argument. He’s sexy as hell. He gives the sweetest kisses. He’s always got my back when we’re hiking. He’s the first person I’d call if the cancer came back.
The brush slipped from her hand and clattered loudly against the tile.
“You okay, babe?” Waylon called from the kitchen.
Babe .
“I’m good…babe,” she shouted back. “Just clumsy.” She waited for him to say something snarky. Nothing. Just the faint sound of something sizzling.
I’d call him first if the cancer came back.
But as she looked at her reflection, at her thin face, her short hair, the outline of the chemo port under her nightshirt, she knew she was lying to herself.
No. He’d be the last person on earth I’d call.
Because I wouldn’t put him through that.
Whatever he was cooking, it smelled good. Frankie wandered back out to the kitchen.
The kitchen lights were low, warm and golden. Waylon stood barefoot in front of the stove. His suit was gone--replaced by flannel pajama pants and a dark T-shirt he must have pulled from the pile of laundry. He was flipping something in a pan.
Frankie leaned against the doorway and took a second to drink him in.
“Do I smell... bacon?”
Waylon didn’t turn. “Among other things. I got inspired. Liminal activated my inner chef.”
Frankie wandered closer, stealing a peek at the cutting board. “You’re making a breakfast sandwich? ”
“I’m making art,” he said, gesturing grandly to the pan. “With real food. No judgy petals and definitely no crow.”
She snorted. “Need a sous chef?”
He gave her a sidelong glance, then grinned. “Only if you promise not to critique my knife skills.”
“No promises.” She grabbed an apron from the hook near the fridge and slipped it over her head. “Tell me what to do, Chef Ramson.”
Waylon nodded toward the eggs. “You can crack those into a bowl. Whisk, not beat. Gently. We’re making artsy Liminal eggs, not hangover food at a Waffle House.”
“You are such a dork.” Frankie cracked the first egg.
He flipped the bacon onto a plate with unnecessary flair. “And yet I’m the master chef and you’re the sous chef.” He put the plate of bacon in the oven to keep it warm.
Frankie whisked the eggs with salt and pepper. The warmth of the kitchen settled deeper into her skin. She handed Waylon the whisked eggs and he poured them into the pan with a hiss. For a while, the only sounds were the gentle sizzle, the clink of utensils, the occasional hum from the fridge.
“I’ve only ever cooked midnight breakfast for one other person,” Waylon said quietly.
Camille , Frankie guessed. But she didn’t want to ask. Not yet.
Waylon kept his eyes on the pan as he stirred the eggs. “I need to come clean with you, Frankie. About... things. Considering the bus. The earbuds. The fact that you might be fate.”
Frankie’s heart skipped. “Okay...”
He glanced at her. “If I believe that—if I believe we were meant to find each other—then I have to be honest with you.”
Frankie felt her stomach clench. “About what?”
He took a breath. “About the man I used to be.”
And just like that, the air shifted.
“I went straight from high school to boot camp, trying to get my act together. I was wild back then—me and Elias both. Ben knocked some sense into us one night, and we enlisted after graduation.”
He stirred the eggs gently, eyes on the pan but clearly seeing something else entirely.
“Being away from home for the first time, I got lonely. Then I met Camille at a club. I followed her around like a lost puppy until she said yes to a dance. After that, we were a thing. Man, I’d get jealous if she even looked at another guy. She was my first.” He smiled, a bit sheepish. “Thought she’d be my only. I didn’t want to date around—I had Camille. We married way too young.”
He gave the eggs one last stir, then turned off the burner and scooped them onto a plate.
“She said she could handle being an Army wife. Bragged about it. Showed me off. And I ate it up. Elias became a Ranger before me, and when he talked about being a medic, I got curious too. Camille loved that. She thought she’d married a future doctor. I got stationed at Hunter Army Airfield in Savannah. She loved it—beach, people, all of it.”
Waylon paused to turn the burner back on. He grabbed a clean pan and tossed a few slices of butter into it. As he watched the butter melt, he sighed, voice softer now.
“Those were good days. We were happy. Talked about starting a family. I wasn’t ready and told her so. That’s when things started to crack.”
Waylon reached for a package of English muffins and took two out. He opened them and dropped them into the sizzling butter.
“At first, I blamed it on my new post as a newly-minted Ranger—Joint Base Lewis-McChord, in Washington, about thirty miles south of Seattle.”
He leaned on the counter as the muffins browned, not quite ready to turn them yet.
“JBLM was a good post. Not exactly laid back, but command had a sense of humor—maybe to make up for the rain. We got a nice house off-base. I figured everything would keep rolling along. Yeah, it rained a lot, but the place had a strong community. I thought Camille would dive in, make friends, find her people like always.”
He finally flipped the muffins, golden now, added more butter, and watched them toast on the other side.
Frankie said softly, “But that didn’t happen, did it?”
Waylon took the bacon out of the oven. He slid the toasted muffins onto two plates and layered on the still warm bacon.
“No, it did not,” His voice dipped lower, like the weight of memory was pressing against his throat. He reached for the scrambled eggs and spooned them onto the muffins. “Camille got moody. Withdrawn. Snapped at me when I was home, then we’d fight, make up, promise to do better. Same cycle, over and over. I blamed the weather. That year was brutal.”
He sprinkled shredded cheese over the eggs as he spoke, not bothering to glance up.
“She said she’d get a job but didn’t. The other wives reached out—she pushed them away. Said she couldn’t relate. They had kids. She didn’t. Because of me, she said. Threw that at me like a knife.”
Frankie winced.
“I brought her flowers, candy, anything to keep the peace. Then she started demanding things. Big stuff. Stuff we couldn’t afford. And I gave in. I felt guilty that I wasn’t giving her what she really wanted.”
Waylon paused, finally glancing over at Frankie before continuing.
“I wasn’t ready to be a dad. I’d just made Ranger. I didn’t want to give that up, but I didn’t want to miss my kid’s first steps either. She called me selfish. But seeing her after a mission, waiting at the airport—it made everything worth it.”
He started to grab the plates and paused, jaw tight.
“Then I’d get home and find closets full of crap she’d bought while I was gone. Unopened. Still in the box. They weren’t impulse buys. They were punishment.”
Frankie silently reached for the paper towel roll near the sink. She tore off two sheets and handed one to him.
“She got a job. Finally. Started smiling more. Selling off the junk online. I thought, hell yeah, we’re on the upswing. I should’ve known. She wasn’t putting the money in our account, and I wasn’t seeing anything new come in, either. But I ignored it. I wanted to believe things were better.”
He handed Frankie her plate. She accepted it gently.
“Then the fights started again. And this time, she was… gone. Checked out. I had to leave for a mission—six, maybe eight weeks. I knew we weren’t good. But what could I do?”
They both moved to the table and sat. Waylon didn’t touch his sandwich. His fingers toyed with the edge of the plate as he stared down at it.
“Halfway through, she messaged me. Said she was sorry. That she’d been in her head, but was thinking clearer now. Wanted to talk when I got back. I thought—finally. We’re gonna fix this. Save the marriage. I was ready to walk away from the Army for her.”
Frankie looked up, eyes wide. He met her gaze, then dropped his to the table.
“I had my speech prepared—I wasn’t gonna re-up, we were going to move someplace warm, start our family. Got off that plane, practically ran through security, and scanned for her in the crowd waiting for us.”
Frankie’s voice was barely a whisper. “She wasn’t there, was she?”
Waylon exhaled, short and sharp. “Nope. Sent someone else. To serve me divorce papers.”
Frankie covered her mouth. “That was an absolutely shitty thing to do to you. I’m so sorry.”
He held up a hand, stopping her. “Don’t. She’s not the villain in this story.”
Frankie blinked. “What? Because you had to move for work? Because you weren’t ready to have a kid on her schedule? That makes you normal, not the bad guy.”
He shook his head slowly, voice low. “It wasn’t any of that. It was what I did after she served me. I didn’t believe her. Thought she just wanted to scare me. Punish me a little more.”
“Oh my God, Waylon, I still don’t see how you’re the villain here.”
“Let me finish, babe.” He pushed his plate away, untouched. “This is the part I’ve never told anyone.”
“Like what you just told me wasn’t bad enough?” Frankie whispered.
Waylon leaned forward, forearms on the table, his voice dipping. “I got home. The place was empty. Her stuff gone. The house smelled... still. Like it hadn’t been lived in for weeks. I dropped my bag on the floor and went looking. Knocked on neighbors’ doors, demanding answers. Went to her work—lost it. Made a scene. They said she was on vacation. Security had to drag me out.”
He raked a hand down his face. “That kind of behavior? At JBLM? Career suicide. And I didn’t give a damn.”
He looked up briefly, then added, quieter still, “That came later.”
Frankie froze, sensing the shift.
“I borrowed a buddy’s car,” Waylon said. “Sat outside her work every morning, watching. For a week. Waiting to see her car. But she got out of someone else’s.”
Frankie barely breathed. “Waylon…”
He covered his face again. “I followed them. Back to his place. Looked him up. Found out he was her boss. Saw photos—months old. Back when everything started falling apart. I should’ve let it go. Signed the papers. But I couldn’t.”
Waylon let his hands drop to the table. He folded them. One thumb rubbed a slow, restless circle over his knuckle.
“I couldn’t let her go. I stalked her, Frankie.”
Frankie stared at him, her pulse ticking up. “No…”
“Yes. I called her till she blocked me. Took leave so I could follow her around. She saw me. I wanted her to. Wanted her to know she was still mine.”
Frankie’s stomach twisted .
“She showed up at my place one day with him, only he was her fiancé now. Little guy, not a threat—but he was there to protect her. From me. I’d scared her, Frankie. Bad. She said if I didn’t stop, she’d file a restraining order. That would’ve ended everything. My career. My future. All of it. But this was my final warning.”
He looked away, jaw tense. “I almost didn’t listen. I was ready to keep going. Then Elias called.”
Surprised, Frankie asked, “Elias knew? How?”
“He’d been following me . Watching. Making sure I didn’t cross another line. He said he didn’t know who he’d find if he came inside—so he called first.”
She pressed a hand to her chest.
“I let him in. He looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘She’s not yours. She made that clear. You either stop, or you’re not my brother anymore.’” Waylon’s voice cracked. “Said that’s not who we are.”
His hands curled into fists. “And he was right. So I stopped.” He exhaled. “I signed the papers. Let her go.”
His voice quieted, rawer now. “Over the next year, my brothers checked in on me, one by one. Making sure I didn’t spiral. They didn’t have to. Elias had already made me face what I’d become. I hated that guy. Swore I’d never be him again.”
He looked up, eyes full of fear. “That’s why I never let myself see you that way. I care about you too much. I’m terrified I’ll screw it up. That I’ll scare you. That I’ll turn back into that guy.”
Frankie paused, studying his face.
Then, softly, “You don’t scare me, Waylon.”
“I should.”
“Stop. Right now.”
He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “You haven’t been in a relationship since?”
“No.”
“Just hookups?”
He nodded once.
“And you and your brothers—you help women. ”
His jaw flexed. “Help them get away from men like me.”
“No. Not like you,” she snapped. “Men who never learn. You learned .”
He shook his head. “That doesn’t excuse what I did.”
“No one’s making excuses. I’m telling you the truth. That guy? The one who scared Camille? He died the second you listened to Elias, did the right thing, and let her go. And you’ve never let him come back.”
Waylon looked down.
“Only because I haven’t let myself fall again.”
She pushed her plate aside and leaned closer, voice gentler now. “You really believe the only thing keeping you from being a monster is staying alone?”
He didn’t answer.
Frankie stood up and came to Waylon’s side. “You’re lying to yourself. And it kills me. Because I can see the truth. I see a good man. A man who’s made mistakes, learned from them, and refuses to stop trying.”
He finally looked up at her. She gently took his face in her hands. “What you did is not who you are.”
Waylon let that sink in. Then, quietly, “But I didn’t stop on my own.”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “Of course you didn’t! Would you go on a mission alone and expect to win? I mean all alone—no HQ, no battle buddy, no, um sergeant? Sorry, I have zilch military knowledge, but you know what I mean, right?”
By now, Waylon was grinning at her. “I know what you mean.”
“Almost nobody accomplishes anything hard all on their own. Hell, a lot of people don’t accomplish hard things with a whole slew of people behind them. But you did. You saw that you were doing the wrong thing, admitted it, and you stopped . You came out better on the other side. I’m not even going to say you changed, because you didn’t.”
She poked him in the chest. “This is you. This has always been you.” Then she smoothed her hand over his heart. “You’ve shown me who you are, every day. I trust you. Completely. Now, you need to trust yourself .”
He covered her hand with his. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I know,” she said as she grinned. “And I love you, too.”