94. Jackson
Jackson
“My mom’s pulled out the good china and is threatening to make me wear a shirt with a collar,” Donovan joked into his phone. “Look, it’s just my family. And my brother, Nate, will be there. You two need to talk. Bring Ryan.”
“It’s a lot of people,” Ryan murmured, his gaze sweeping the crowded backyard as we walked through the gate.
“Relax. We’re safe,” I assured him, pointing to a man in a Mariners jersey grilling massive steaks. “That’s Donovan’s dad, the gatekeeper of all things food.”
Donovan met us by the deck. “Glad you made it.” He nodded toward a man sitting quietly in a lawn chair, nursing a beer, wearing a worn Army cap. “That’s Nate. He’s my little brother. Go say hi.”
Ryan hesitated for a moment, the soldier in him recognizing a kindred spirit. He walked over slowly. I watched from a distance as Nate looked up, his face breaking into a gentle, knowing smile.
“Splash, right?” Nate asked, taking a slow sip of his beer.
Ryan blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Just Ryan, now. And you must be Nate.”
“Cole told me you’re getting used to the quiet,” Nate said, his voice low and steady, not quite a question, more of a statement of shared experience. “It’s the hardest part, isn’t it? The silence is deafening.”
“It’s torture,” Ryan admitted, sinking into the chair next to him.
Nate just nodded. “Yeah. Well, it takes time. Took me three years to stop checking the ceiling for holes. The trick is finding a new sound to focus on. For me, it was the sound of my kid’s laughter.
For you,” he paused, nodding toward me, “it’s probably the sound of Jackson’s espresso machine breaking. ”
Ryan let out a genuine, unforced laugh, the sound making my entire body relax.
Just then, Willow, covered in grass stains and demanding an ice cream, darted over, latching onto Ryan’s leg. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Did you know that Nate used to be a super spy, too? And he says ducks don’t eat potato salad.”
“She’s right, they don’t,” Ryan confirmed gravely. He looked at Nate, a deep, silent understanding passing between them. He was included. He was seen. He wasn’t the project; he was family. He was home.