Chapter 7
It had been a week.
Seven days of pretending she was fine.
Seven days of waking up and reminding herself that he was alive, and that she was fine.
The grocery store was busy for a Tuesday afternoon. The aisles were crowded. A kid cried somewhere near the bakery. Someone laughed too loudly in the produce section.
Normal.
Everything was painfully normal.
Aria pushed her cart down the cereal aisle, comparing prices like her life hadn't cracked open in a VA hallway a week ago. She wore jeans, a soft gray sweater, and her hair pulled back. Minimal makeup. No one would look twice at her.
That was the point.
She reached for a box of granola when a familiar voice stopped her cold.
"Mrs. Callahan."
She didn't flinch.
Didn't gasp.
Didn't drop anything.
She just closed her eyes for half a second before turning.
Sergeant Hayes stood at the end of the aisle, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed but eyes careful.
"Sergeant," she replied evenly.
He nodded once. "Mind if I walk with you?"
She gestured vaguely to the cart. "It's a free country."
They moved slowly down the aisle together, like this was casual. Like he hadn't brought the ghost of her husband back into town.
"How've you been?" he asked.
She smiled without humor. "Peachy."
He accepted that.
"It's been a week," he said carefully. "He's been... exploring."
She didn't look at him.
"Yeah?"
"Old football field. The lake. A couple of diners he used to go to. Some spots the guys remembered."
"And?"
Hayes exhaled through his nose. "Nothing."
Her hand tightened on the cart handle.
"He's not remembering," Hayes continued. "Not the town. Not the house he grew up in. Not his old truck. Not stories from the unit."
She grabbed a loaf of bread she didn't need.
"And?" she repeated.
Hayes hesitated.
"The only memory he's had. The only clear one."
Now she looked at him.
"It was when you left the VA."
Her throat tightened.
"He said something snapped. Said it wasn't fragmented. It was sharp. A clear memory brought on by you... You're probably his emotional trigger."
She forced her face to remain neutral. "What was it?"
Hayes shook his head slightly. "He hasn't shared the details."
That wasn't true, she could tell. But she didn't push.
"He's given the Army one month," Hayes continued. "They're footing the bill. After that, he goes back to New Zealand."
Back home.
The words sliced cleanly.
"If nothing changes," Hayes said gently, "he leaves."
She nodded once, swallowing.
"And you're here because...?"
Hayes stopped the cart with a light hand.
"I'd like to set up a time for him to come to the house."
Her entire body stiffened.
Hayes raised a hand slightly. "Before you react, just listen. If you don't want to be there, you don't have to be. We can arrange it while you're out. You don't have to relive anything in front of him if it's too much."
The offer was sincere.
That almost made it worse.
She stared down at the grocery list in her hand, though she wasn't seeing it.
"It's not that I don't accept that he isn't... Chase anymore," she said quietly. "It's not that I don't accept that he doesn't remember."
She finally met Hayes' eyes.
"It's that I deserve consideration too."
"You do," he said immediately.
"I am more than willing to let him come into my house," she continued. "I'm not trying to block him from closure. But I will not ..." her voice sharpened "... suffer humiliation in my own home if this turns into a total flop in front of a stranger."
Hayes' brow furrowed slightly.
"Emily doesn't come," she said plainly.
Silence stretched between them.
"If he wants to walk through that house," Aria went on, "if he wants to look at photos and touch walls and stand in the bedroom we shared, he can. But not with her standing there watching me fall apart."
Hayes studied her carefully.
"She stays behind," Aria said. "Or it's a no."
"That's... a firm demand."
"Yes," she replied evenly. "It is."
He considered it.
"She's his wife."
"And I was his wife first," Aria shot back, not loudly but firmly. "I carried his name before she ever knew it. I buried him. I stood at his grave. I sat alone in that house for five years."
Her breath wavered, but she held eye contact.
"I'm not trying anything. I'm not trying to win him back. I'm not trying to sabotage her. But I will not stand there and feel like the other woman in my own home."
That landed.
Hayes' expression shifted into understanding.
"Tell her," Aria added more softly, "that I promise I'm not trying to interfere. Tell her I respect that he chose her. I respect that he loves her."
Her voice thinned slightly.
"But she needs to respect my grief, too. And what this is doing to me."
The grocery store felt too bright suddenly.
"If they can't agree to that," Aria finished, pushing the cart forward again, "then he doesn't come."
Hayes walked beside her in silence for several steps.
Finally, he nodded.
"I'll talk to them."
She stopped at the end of the aisle and looked at him one last time.
"I'm not the villain here," she said quietly.
"I know," he replied.
And for the first time since the VA, she believed someone actually understood that.
He knew something was coming the moment Hayes walked into the hotel room.
Emily was sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping through a local brochure. Will was near the window again; he'd been spending a lot of time there lately.
Hayes didn't waste time.
"I spoke with Aria."
Will's stomach tightened instantly.
Emily looked up, alert but composed. "And?"
Hayes crossed his arms. "She'll let you come to the house."
A strange mix of relief and dread flooded him.
"But," Hayes added, "she has a condition."
Will's jaw flexed. He already knew.
"Emily doesn't come."
The room went very still.
Emily's fingers tightened slightly on the brochure, but her expression remained calm. Controlled.
Will felt heat rise under his collar.
Hayes continued carefully. "She says she's not trying to interfere. Not trying to win you back. She just won't stand in her own home feeling like an outsider. If that boundary isn't respected, she's out."
Silence stretched.
Will didn't look at Emily immediately.
He was too busy noticing the unexpected surge of... fear.
Not anger.
Not resentment.
Fear.
Alone with Aria.
In their house.
In the place where every memory either existed or waited to.
Emily spoke first.
"That's fair."
His head snapped toward her.
She met Hayes' gaze steadily. "She deserves that much."
Hayes nodded once. "That was my thought, too."
Will's pulse was suddenly loud in his ears.
"You're okay with that?" he asked Emily quietly.
She looked at him then, really looked at him.
"I'm not threatened by her grief," she said softly. "And I'm not threatened by your past. If you need to walk through that house to figure out who you are, then you should."
Her voice was steady.
But he saw it.
The flicker.
The what-if she would never say out loud.
Hayes cleared his throat. "I'll let her know."
When the door closed behind him, the room felt smaller.
Emily stood and walked toward Will, placing her hands gently against his chest.
"You're shaking," she murmured.
He hadn't realized he was.
"I don't..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know why this scares me."
Emily searched his face.
"Are you afraid of remembering?" she asked.
He swallowed.
"No," he said slowly.
That wasn't it.
"I'm afraid of what it will feel like."
The honesty surprised even him.
He looked past her toward the window, Tennessee stretching out beyond the glass.
"She looks at me like I'm her whole world," he said quietly. "And I don't know how to stand in a house full of that and not feel... something."
Emily's hands tightened slightly.
"You already feel something," she said gently.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Yes."
There it was.
Not romantic longing.
Not betrayal.
But gravity.
History has weight.
And he was about to walk into a house built entirely out of it.
"What if I walk in there," he continued, voice rough, "and it feels like home?"
The question hung between them.
Emily didn't flinch.
"Then we deal with it," she said.
No accusation.
No panic.
Just courage.
He opened his eyes and looked at her, really looked at the woman who had stood beside him through confusion and reconstruction and identity loss.
"I'm not choosing differently," he said firmly. "No matter what I remember."
"I know," she replied.
And she did.
That was the terrifying part.
She trusted him enough to let him go alone.
Will exhaled slowly.
"I'm worried," he admitted. "I'm afraid that when I'm standing in that house with her, that it will all come flooding back and I won't be able to separate who I was from who I am."
Emily rested her forehead briefly against his chest.
"You're both," she whispered. "You just haven't had time to learn how to balance that yet."
He wrapped his arms around her then, grounding himself.
She cleaned like she was preparing for mourners.
Not because the house was dirty, it never was, but because she needed something to control.
She vacuumed lines into the carpet.
Dusted picture frames she could have cleaned blindfolded.
Folded and refolded the throw blanket on the couch.
She moved through each room slowly, touching things as if committing them to memory, as if they might be taken from her.
The hallway photos were still up.
Their wedding day.
Him in uniform.
Her laughing as he'd whispered in her ear at their wedding.
The lake.
Christmas lights tangled around his shoulders.
She stood in front of them for a long time.
Should she take them down?
Would it be easier for him if the evidence of them wasn't staring him in the face?
Her hand hovered over the first frame.
Then dropped.
No.
She wouldn't remove these things from her home to make this easier.
If this was going to hurt, it would at least be honest.
She walked into the bedroom last.
Their bedroom.
The bed was made neatly. The comforter smooth. His side still held the bloody pillowslip as it had been for five years.
Should she throw it away now?
She sat on the edge of it and pressed her palms into the mattress.
"This is ridiculous," she whispered to herself.
It felt like planning a funeral for something that was technically still alive.
A knock at the door pulled her back into her body.
Her breath hitched.
It was time.
The Visit
She opened the door before she could overthink it.
He stood there alone.
No Emily.
No unit members.
Just him.
Will.
He looked different in the day's sunlight. Softer somehow. More uncertain.
"Hi," he said.
The word scraped across her nerves.
"Hi," she replied.
There was an awkward pause.
She stepped aside. "You can come in."
He hesitated at the threshold for half a second, then crossed it.
The moment he did, something shifted.
She felt it.
He felt it too.
His shoulders tensed. His breathing changed slightly.
His eyes moved slowly across the living room.
The couch.
The bookshelf.
The framed photos.
He didn't speak.
She watched him instead.
Not just what he looked at, but how he looked at it.
Chase used to move through any room as if he owned it.
Will moved carefully. Respectfully. As if he were afraid to disturb something sacred.
There were differences.
Subtle ones.
The way he held himself. Straighter. More guarded.
The faint scar near his temple, she didn't recognize.
The hesitation before every step.
"You can..." she cleared her throat. "You can feel free to look around."
He nodded.
"Thank you... Aria."
The way he said her name, gentle, unfamiliar, made her stomach twist.
She followed him at a distance as he approached the hallway.
His eyes landed on the first photo.
Their wedding.
He leaned in slightly.
"That was here?" he asked quietly.
"Yes."
Her voice felt tight.
"Small ceremony. You didn't want anything big."
A flicker crossed his expression.
"I don't like crowds," he murmured instinctively.
Her breath caught.
"You never did."
Silence fell again.
He moved to the next photo. The lake.
"You proposed there," she said before she could stop herself.
He glanced back at her, surprised.
"I did?"
She nodded.
"You forgot the ring at home."
A faint, almost involuntary smile tugged at his mouth.
"That sounds like something I'd do."
"It is," she said softly.
Was.
She meant was.
He walked further down the hall.
Each step felt like it was peeling her open.
"Do you want to see the rest?" she asked.
He hesitated.
"Yes."
She led him to the bedroom.
The air inside felt thinner.
He stopped just inside the doorway.
Something changed in his face then.
"This was..." he started.
"Our room," she finished.
He stepped closer to the bed slowly, like approaching an altar.
His fingers brushed the edge of the dresser.
He closed his eyes briefly.
And for a split second, she saw it.
Chase.
Not fully.
"I'm sorry," he said suddenly.
The words broke something in her.
"For what?"
"For hurting you," he replied quietly. "I don't remember... but I know I hurt you and that kills me."
Her throat burned.
She swallowed hard.
"It's not your fault."
She meant it.
But that didn't make it easier.
He turned toward her then.
Closer now.
Too close.
She could see the faint gold flecks in his eyes and the tiny smile wrinkles at the corners of his lids, slightly more pronounced now, the same ones she used to trace with her fingers.
Her chest rose and fell unevenly.
"Will," she said.
The name felt foreign in her mouth.
He noticed.
"You can call me whatever feels right," he said gently.
Her composure cracked.
"Ch..."
She stopped herself.
Her hand lifted without permission.
Without thought.
She grabbed his.
The contact was electric.
Her fingers curled around his like they'd done a thousand times before.
His breath hitched.
And for a second, just a second, he squeezed back instinctively.
Not Will.
Chase.
They both felt it.
The air shifted.
Her eyes filled.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, trying to pull away.
But he didn't let go immediately.
His thumb brushed lightly across her knuckles.
Memory flickered behind his eyes.
Sharp.
Bright.
Confusing.
"Aria..." he breathed.
She saw it happening.
Saw the internal war.
The collision.
She released his hand abruptly, like she'd been burned.
"I shouldn't have..."
"It's okay," he said quickly, though his voice was unsteady.
They stood there, inches apart, both shaken.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said quietly.
"You're not," she lied.
He looked around the room again.
Slower this time.
He stepped toward the nightstand.
There was a small wooden box there.
He touched it.
Something in his face shifted again.
"What's in here?" he asked.
Her heart pounded.
"That's... private."
He withdrew his hand immediately. "Sorry."
She watched him carefully.
The man standing in front of her was not entirely a stranger.
But he wasn't entirely hers either.
And that was the most painful truth of all. She could not hug him without permission, kiss him passionatly or simply hold his hand without there being an awkwardness.
He stepped back slightly, giving her space.
"I don't know what's happening inside my head," he admitted. "But being here... it feels like something is pressing against a door."
Tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.
"I used to believe nothing could tear us apart," she said quietly. "War. Distance. Even death."
His eyes softened.
"But I never imagined your mind would."
Silence.
Heavy. Sacred.
Devastating.
He didn't have an answer for that.
Neither did she.
He was still staring at the wooden box, as if it might bite him.
The air between them felt fragile. Charged.
"Open it," she said softly.
His eyes flicked to hers. "Are you sure?"
She nodded.
"If anything's going to press on that door in your head," she whispered, "it's in there."
He hesitated only a second longer before lifting the lid.
Inside were pieces of a life.
His old dog tags.
A folded, worn photograph.
A hospital bracelet.
And beneath them, carefully preserved was a tiny knitted hat.
He reached for the dog tags first.
The metal clinked softly as he lifted them.
His breath changed instantly.
His fingers curled around them tighter.
"I remember these," he murmured.
His jaw tightened. His eyes unfocused slightly.
"You used to complain about how cold they were when you came to bed," He said quietly. "I told you to take them off."
A flicker.
A flash.
Dark room. Laughter. Her voice is teasing.
He sucked in a breath.
Then he picked up the photograph.
It was of the two of them at nineteen. Her hair longer. His grin was cocky and bright. The lake behind them.
His thumb brushed over her face in the picture.
And something hit.
Hard.
He staggered slightly, bracing a hand on the dresser.
"Hey..." she stepped forward instinctively.
"I already remember this day," he said hoarsely.
Her heart slammed into her ribs.
"You did?"
"The butterfly," he whispered.
Her knees nearly gave out.
He closed his eyes tightly.
"You were wearing that yellow sundress," he continued, voice shaking. "You said it made you look like a highlighter."
A sob tore out of her before she could stop it.
He opened his eyes slowly, staring at her like he was seeing two versions of her at once.
"I told you I was leaving," he said quietly. "I promised you... I promised."
"If I saw butterflies," she finished, tears streaming freely now, "it was you."
Silence filled the room.
He swallowed hard.
Then his gaze dropped back into the box.
His fingers brushed the tiny knitted hat.
Confusion creased his brow.
"What is this?"
Her breath left her in a slow, fragile exhale.
"That," she said, voice barely holding, "was ours."
He looked up sharply.
Understanding dawned, not memory yet, but awareness.
She reached into the box and picked up the hospital bracelet instead.
Her name.
A date.
He stared at it.
And then...
White light.
Beeping machines.
A doctor's voice.
You have to choose.
His knees buckled slightly.
He caught himself against the dresser.
"We were in a hospital," he breathed.
Her heart broke and soared all at once.
"Yes."
His face drained of color.
"There was... a baby."
The word cracked in half.
Tears blurred her vision completely now.
"Yes."
He pressed a hand to his chest like something inside it physically hurt.
"I chose you," he whispered.
The memory wasn't full.
But it was enough.
Her entire body trembled.
"You did."
His breathing grew uneven.
He stepped toward her.
And for one suspended second, it felt like time had folded in on itself.
Like they were nineteen again.
Like love was simple.
Like he was hers.
A knock shattered it.
Sharp. Sudden. Jarring.
They both froze.
Another knock.
Firmer this time.
Aria wiped at her face and moved toward the window, heart pounding.
She pulled the curtain back slightly.
Emily stood on the porch.
Alone.
Hands wringing.
Pale.
Terrified.
Aria closed her eyes briefly.
Of course.
She walked to the door slowly and opened it.
Emily looked like she'd been crying.
"I'm sorry," she said immediately. "I lied. I said I could do this. I thought I could. But I can't."
Her voice shook.
"Him being in there without me..."
There was no accusation in her tone.
Just fear.
Raw and honest.
"I trust him," Emily continued, voice breaking. "But I don't trust what this house might do."
Aria felt something inside her twist.
Before she could respond.
Footsteps came from behind her.
Fast.
Urgent.
"Emily!"
Will's voice was sharp with panic.
He rushed forward, instinct overriding everything.
And in his urgency to reach Emily, he bumped hard into Aria.
Not violently.
Not cruelly.
Absently.
She stumbled sideways, shoulder hitting the doorframe.
He didn't notice.
He was already past her.
Already reaching for Emily.
His hands cupped her face.
"Hey. Hey. I'm here," he said quickly. "I'm here."
Emily clutched his shirt as if she might drown otherwise.
"I couldn't stay away," she admitted shakily.
He pulled her into his chest without hesitation.
Protective.
Immediate.
Instinctive.
Aria stood a few feet away.
Hand still braced against the doorway where she'd caught herself.
Watching.
The space that had felt sacred seconds ago now felt invaded.
Reality is crashing back in.
He wasn't just Chase.
He was Will.
And he was Emily's.
He turned then, finally noticing Aria still standing there.
Guilt flickered across his face.
"I didn't mean to..."
"It's fine," she said quietly.
Too quietly.
She stepped back fully now.
Putting distance where emotion had just been.
"I think that's enough for today."
Her voice was composed again.
Guarded.
Emily pulled slightly away from him, eyes red.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to Aria.
Aria nodded once.
"I understand."
And she did.
That was the cruelest part.
She understood exactly what Emily was feeling.
Because she had just lived it.