Epilogue
WAR
The Following June
We’d driven for hours through the flat nothing of Indiana, where the only shade was the thin line of woods guarding the cornfields from the wind.
Even with the AC cranked, summer heat rippled off the highway, but Kit didn’t complain.
He pressed his hand to the window, watching the world blur by, fingers splayed as if he could touch every billboard and wildflower in passing.
The closer we got to my mother’s house, the heavier my chest grew.
It wasn’t fear because fear was a clean, cold feeling.
This was different. I’d trained myself to expect violence from the world, not softness.
But Kit’s presence made me acutely aware of every possible way the day could go wrong, and every way it could go right.
The GPS guided us off the main road, down a gravel lane flanked by raggedy sugar maples and a faded mailbox with Snoopy the dog on top as decoration.
The house itself was a ranch, plain and beige, tucked behind an overgrown lawn that still managed to look cared for.
Dozens of daisies spotted the grass in reckless constellations.
Some had crept right up to the porch steps, crowding the welcome mat.
“She’s a gardener,” Kit said, grinning. “You never told me you came from flower people.”
I glanced at the yard, then at him. “Mom says they’re weeds, but she never pulls them.”
Kit shrugged. “Nature always wins.”
I left my backpack full of meager possessions in the trunk.
I was light on things worth carrying these days.
Kit, less so. His duffel looked heavy, but he hauled it over his shoulder with the comfort of someone who’d had years to practice.
I took the bag off him, though, because I wasn’t letting him haul it by himself. I was a lot stronger.
We’d barely mounted the first step when the front door swung open and my mother’s voice cut across the sunlight. “Warrick!”
She stepped outside and grabbed me, arms wrapping around my back so tight I couldn’t breathe.
Her hair was streaked white and frizzy at the edges, but her grip was the same as it’d been when I was eight and came home bloodied from some playground brawl.
I’d forgotten how small she was—five foot four, maybe, and mostly bones under a faded gingham blouse—but she made up for it with the kind of energy only Midwestern mothers possessed.
I hugged her back hard, and when she finally let go, she patted my cheeks, as if checking I was real. Her eyes, blue as old jeans, shone with tears she’d never let fall.
“You’re so thin,” she said, a line she’d rehearsed for years. It was also a lie because I was far from skinny, but Mom wouldn’t be herself if she didn’t feed visitors. “Are you eating, honey?”
Kit’s laugh was soft. I shot him a look, and he bit his lip.
“Hi, Mrs. Briggs,” Kit said, waving like an idiot with his free hand. “I’m Kit. Your son’s um, plus-one?”
She zeroed in on him. Kit’s duffel nearly hit her shins when I set it down.
“Oh, I know exactly who you are,” she said, and pulled him in for a hug that, while less aggressive than mine, lasted twice as long.
“He never brought anyone home, you know. Not even a friend, let alone—” She pulled back, gave Kit a once-over, her gaze sharp and appraising. “Oh my. You’re adorable.”
Kit blushed so hard I thought his ears would combust. “Thank you, Mrs. Briggs.”
“Claire,” she corrected. “Mrs. Briggs is my mother-in-law, and she’s a real piece of work. There was a reason I was glad when Warrick’s Daddy left. I got rid of the monster-in-law as well.”
Kit pulled his lips into his mouth, holding back another laugh.
She ushered us inside, not pausing to see if we followed.
The house was a shrine to everything she’d ever loved—family, flowers, bad ceramics, and very bad paintings of lighthouses.
A quilted runner topped the console table, and every available inch of shelf held either a photo frame or a knick-knack.
Light poured through the living room window, painting the couch in golden stripes.
The coffee table, tiny and rickety, was set with a plate of lemon bars and two sweating glasses of iced tea.
“Sit, sit,” she ordered, motioning to the couch. “Warrick, I know you hate sweets, but you can make an exception for your own mother’s lemon bars, can’t you?”
She perched on the recliner across from us. Kit, eager to please, took a bar and nearly dropped powdered sugar everywhere. I chose to nurse the iced tea.
She watched us, chin in hand, like she was cataloguing evidence.
I braced for interrogation, but she just smiled and let Kit do the talking.
He told her about our drive from New York—what we’d seen, what we’d listened to, and how I grumbled when the cruise control wouldn’t set right on the rental car.
Kit was a good talker and older folks loved him, so it was no surprise he had Mom’s attention.
He made me sound like someone worth knowing, maybe even worth loving.
Mom beamed. “You know, when Warrick was five, he built himself a treehouse out of scrap wood and fishing line. Thought he could live out there all summer. You remember, honey?”
I shrugged. “Mostly the splinters.”
She tsked and waved her hand before turning to Kit. “He fell straight through the floor on day one. Landed on his butt, cried for hours, then got up and built the next one out of two-by-fours. Kid never quit. He’s always been like that.”
Kit beamed at me, and for a second, I forgot about the mission and the ghosts in my closet.
The debts in my ledger. The men I’d put in the ground.
Right now, I was just a guy on a couch, holding hands with the prettiest boy in the state—fuck that, in the world—while my mother told stories about how I once got my head stuck in a fence post.
We lasted almost ten minutes before the specter of Eric entered the room.
Mom’s gaze lingered on the dog tags at my throat. She reached for them, thumb tracing the etched letters, then let her hand fall to her lap.
“You boys hungry?” she asked, voice careful and light. “I can heat up a casserole or—”
“It was my fault,” I blurted, loud enough to make Kit jump.
She looked at me for a long time. “No, it wasn’t.” She didn’t flinch when she delivered the words. “It never was.”
I forced my eyes down, jaw clenched so hard my teeth creaked.
“You told me to keep him safe. We got caught and I couldn’t help him.” I brushed my fingers over the scars on the backs of my hands and across my knuckles, and her gaze followed the movement, sadness bleeding into her eyes. “I knew better. It should’ve been me—”
She reached across, covering my hand with both of hers, squeezing until my fingers went numb. Her hands were dry, more wrinkled than I remembered, and warm as sunlight.
“Warrick.” Her voice reminded me of all the times she comforted me when Dad left, how she promised he didn’t leave because of me. “I lost two sons the day he died, but I got one back when you called. You’re not alone, honey. Not anymore. You hear me?”
I nodded but couldn’t get any words out.
Kit squeezed my knee. He didn’t say anything, just let the silence sit between us, gentle and bearable. Eventually, Mom drew Kit into our tangled hands, linking us together in a three-person knot.
I didn’t cry. Not at first, but when Kit leaned against my shoulder and my mother brushed my hair with her fingers, the tension in me fragmented. My shoulders shook, quiet and ugly, and for the first time in my adult years, I sobbed.
Mom pulled both of us into her arms, holding on like she could keep us safe by sheer force of will.
When the tears dried, she wiped my cheeks with the hem of her sleeve and gave a little laugh. “Well, now that we’ve all had a good cry, why don’t you boys come see your room?”
She led us down the hallway, past a wall of school photos and faded drawings. The guest room was small and yellow, the bedspread covered in sunflowers and lace. She’d even set out two towels on the dresser, folded into triangles like we were staying in a hotel.
“Now don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” she teased us, winking at Kit. “Which isn’t much by the way. Don’t you worry, though, I wear earplugs to bed.”
Kit threw his head back and laughed.
I groaned, slapping my hands over my face. “Mom.”
When she left the room laughing, the space felt different—fuller and safer, as if the walls themselves were holding us up.
Kit flopped on the bed, bouncing once before sprawling out, arms flung overhead.
“She’s amazing,” he said.
“She’s better than I deserve.” I sat down beside him, close enough that our knees touched.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so wanted. Not as a weapon, not as a reaper, but as someone’s son. As a man in love, maybe.
Kit took my hand, and for the first time since Eric had died, I let myself believe I was home. It wasn’t a place, it was him.
I glanced around.
The guest room was smaller than I expected.
The walls were painted a buttery yellow, the sort of color you couldn’t buy in the city, and were dotted with hand-stenciled daisies—mom’s attempt at whimsy.
The window above the bed was half covered by a curtain so thin it turned sunlight into pure gold, and the air smelled faintly of clean linen and whatever soap she used to keep the place forever new.
A twin bed, old but serviceable, sat pressed against the far wall.
The coverlet was quilted, squares of blue and green and pink stitched by hands steadier than mine.
A brass reading lamp sat on the nightstand, next to a stack of ancient Reader’s Digest books and a coaster painted with a smiling cow.
The only other furniture was a wicker chair and the dresser with two folded, white towels.
Everything in this space was a silent but kind reminder that even strangers deserved small comforts. Mom had always been caring.