92. Jackson
Jackson
The front door opened before I could even get the pizza box down on the counter. Logan walked in first, holding a massive six-pack, followed by Donovan, who was carrying a bag full of chips and a concerned look.
“You weren’t at the practice facility today, Hayes,” Donovan stated, but his tone lacked the usual “Captain” edge.
“Yeah, sorry. Had a thing,” I deflected, knowing Ryan was already tucked away in the living room, probably trying to focus on the noise of the TV and not the noise in his head.
“We figured ‘the thing’ needed some tactical support,” Logan announced, dropping the beer on the counter. He immediately spotted Puck, who was sitting on the back of the sofa, judging him. “Hey, you furry little menace. Still stealing salmon?”
Logan was loud, but he knew how to read a room. He walked past me, heading for the living room where Ryan was already settled. I tensed, ready for Ryan’s usual flinch when confronted by a person who was too much.
“Splash, my man!” Logan didn’t touch him, just gave him a salute. “We heard you’re an espresso expert now. Is that true? Because Donovan here is threatening to buy one, and I need a witness.”
Ryan smiled a real, unarmored smile. “It’s an M4 trigger pull, Logan. All about the pressure.”
Donovan finally walked in and sat in the armchair, setting the tone. “We’re not here to talk stats or the war, Ryan. We’re here to watch the Stars vs. Devils game. Pure, meaningless, civilian noise. Jackson says you haven’t seen a good hockey game since that debacle we had against the Bruins.”
They didn’t force him into conversation. They just settled around him, creating a protective, casual perimeter. Logan sat on the floor, passing Ryan the remote to control the volume. Ryan took it, the simple gesture of control relaxing his shoulders instantly.
As the game started, Donovan leaned forward, speaking quietly, his voice cutting through the sports commentary on the TV.
“The unit always has your back, Ryan. Even if it’s a hockey unit.
I know you’re transitioning. My brother took three years before he could stand in a line at the grocery store.
Take the time, man. You have come so far in such a small space of time, but you’re still part of a team. ”
Ryan looked at him, his dark eyes wide with surprise at the unexpected empathy. “Thanks, Donovan.”
“Don’t thank me,” Donovan chuckled, grabbing a slice of pizza. “Just don’t let Jackson burn down the kitchen trying to make you those double chocolate cookies. That’s your mission now, Ryan.”
I watched Ryan laugh, a genuine, deep sound. He was safe, included, and completely unarmored. The armor was off, replaced by the scent of warm pizza and the sound of two of my best friends welcoming him home.
The sun rose over Tidehaven with a clarity I hadn’t felt in years.
I sat at the kitchen island, watching the steam curl off my coffee, and for the first time, I didn’t feel the weight of the mask.
The “Joker,” the guy who had to keep everyone laughing to hide the hollow ache in his own chest, was finally, thankfully, out of a job.
I didn’t need the jokes or the performance anymore because the real Jackson was sitting right here, and he was being seen by the only person who mattered.
Ryan was spread out on the living room floor, surrounded by a mess of brochures and printed catalogs.
He was looking at local colleges and industrial design firms, his brow furrowed in that same intense concentration he used to give the coffee machine.
The soldier was still there in the set of his shoulders, but the man who drew ducks was the one making the decisions now.
But his focus wasn’t entirely on the future.
He had his phone open to a video call with Anna, her face framed by the sunny kitchen of their home.
They weren’t just grieving together; they were building a tangible legacy.
Ryan had told me they were starting a non-profit in Brody’s name—The Quiet Pond Project—focused on creating small, safe retreat spaces for recently discharged soldiers dealing with PTSD.
Anna would handle the legal and fundraising side, while Ryan, with his design eye and military experience, was sketching out the first prototype for a small, simple cabin.
It was his way of turning the guilt and vengeance into the quiet life he had always sought.
Our life together wasn’t a promise anymore; it was a confirmed reality.
No more counting down the days of a deployment, no more lines thrown into the dark.
We were both here, anchored in the quiet of our own home.
I walked over and sat on the floor next to him, resting my hand on the small of his back.
He didn’t flinch. He just looked up and gave me that unarmored smile, the one that proved the quiet pond was finally ours to keep.