Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
I left the office feeling good. The latest case that Simon had me working on was something I could really sink my teeth into.
I’d have to be out of town for two days, but Joy was doing great after seeing Dr. Liu, and I would bet my bottom dollar that Emmie would come and stay with her while I was gone.
But God only knew what they would get up to while I was away.
When I pulled into my driveway, the garage door was just starting to close.
Sweet. Joy had just gotten home. That meant that I could stop her from trying to cook something. I loved the woman, but cooking a meal just wasn’t a skill she was ever going to master.
I parked my truck in the driveway and let myself in through the front door.
“Dinner’s going to be ready in twenty minutes,” Joy hollered.
My stomach lurched. “Joy, you don’t have to go to any trouble.”
She popped her head out of the kitchen. “I hear the fear in your voice, Mr. Navy SEAL. Don’t worry, Mom dropped off food at the clinic. Your stomach is safe.”
“Oh yeah? What did she send?”
“Homemade chicken noodle soup and chocolate cake. She suggested grilled cheese sandwiches to go with the soup.”
“Uhm. Why don’t you go get cleaned up? I know how you always like to take a shower after spending time with your babies.”
Joy let out a big laugh. “I see right through you. You don’t want me attempting to make the grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“Guilty as charged. Now scoot.” I smacked her ass as she sashayed toward our bedroom, earning me another laugh.
I pulled out the pot and ladled the soup into it, turning the heat to medium. The smell hit me immediately. Rich broth. Tender chicken. Fresh herbs that reminded me of Sunday dinners from a lifetime ago.
My chest tightened without warning.
Dad used to make grilled cheese and tomato soup when Mom worked late shifts at the hospital.
He'd stand at the stove in his uniform, still perfectly pressed despite twelve hours at the base, and flip sandwiches while telling me about his day.
Nothing classified. Just the mundane details of life as an Air Force major that made my eight-year-old self feel important.
I hadn't thought about those moments in years.
The butter sizzled as I dropped a buttered sandwich into the pan, and I tried to shake off the sudden weight in my chest. I had soup to heat and sandwiches to make. Joy needed feeding, and wallowing in memories wouldn't accomplish that.
But the image stuck. Dad in his blues, sleeves rolled up, humming some old country song while he cooked. He'd taught me that real men took care of their families. That providing comfort was just as important as providing protection.
I flipped the first sandwich and started on the second. Golden brown. Perfect. Dad would approve.
When was the last time I'd talked to him? He'd stopped leaving voicemails after the first year. Stopped sending texts after the second. I'd cut him off so completely he'd probably given up hope of ever hearing from me again.
And why? Because I couldn't face the disappointment I’d hear in his voice when he learned what had happened in Africa. Because admitting I'd failed my team meant admitting I'd failed everything he'd taught me about leadership and honor.
The soup started bubbling, and I stirred it with more force than necessary.
“Graham?”
I turned to find Joy standing in the kitchen doorway, her head resting against the wall.
“I thought I'd set us up at the table. This smells amazing.”
But she was looking at my face, not the food. Those blue eyes missed nothing.
I ladled soup into two bowls and added the sandwiches to plates.
I followed her to the dining table. We ate in comfortable silence for several minutes. Joy demolished half her sandwich and most of her soup before she looked up at me again.
“What's wrong?”
I kept eating, hoping she'd let it go. “Nothing's wrong.”
“Graham.”
The way she said my name made it clear she wasn't buying my bullshit. I set down my spoon and met her gaze.
“I was thinking about my dad.”
“When's the last time you talked to him?”
“I don't know.”
“I don’t buy that.”
My fist clenched next to my plate, and she covered it with her much smaller hand. “Can you tell me?”
“I called him when I left the Navy. That’s been it.”
She didn’t say anything for a long time, so I took a chance and looked up into her eyes. She had a tender look on her face. “So four years?”
I nodded. “I couldn’t tell him about Africa,” I whispered.
“About the mission that went wrong?”
I nodded.
“So, you haven't told him about the worst thing that ever happened to you?” Her voice went soft. “And you've been carrying that alone for four years?”
“Not alone. You know I’ve talked to Simon about it.”
“But not your father.”
“He's a colonel, Joy. He spent his entire career in leadership positions. He understands the weight of command. The responsibility.”
“Which means he'd understand better than anyone what you went through.”
I shook my head. “He'd see it as a failure. I was supposed to bring my team home alive.”
“You brought Kent home.”
“I was supposed to bring them all home.”
Her hand tightened on my fist. “Graham, look at me.”
I reluctantly met her eyes.
“Do you think my parents love me less because I didn't tell them about London right away?”
“That's different.”
“How is it different?”
“Because you're their daughter. They love you unconditionally.”
“And you're his son.” Her grip on my hand tightened. “Do you really think your father's love comes with conditions? That he'll stop caring about you because you survived a mission that killed good men?”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I'd never thought of it that way.
“Besides,” Joy continued, “weren't you the hero in Africa? Didn't you save Kent's life and complete the mission under impossible circumstances?”
“We didn't save the hostage.”
“The hostage was already dead when you got there. You and Kent eliminated the terrorists and made it out alive when you both should have died. That's not failure, Graham. That's a miracle.”
I stared down at our joined hands. Her fingers were so small compared to mine, but her grip felt strong enough to anchor me.
“You've been beating yourself up for four years,” she said quietly. “Aren’t you done denying yourself your father’s love?”
God, she was right.
“Your father loves you. He's probably been waiting for you to call, wondering what he did wrong to make you shut him out.”
The thought of Dad sitting by the phone, wondering why his son had disappeared from his life, made my chest ache in a completely different way.
“What if he asks questions I can't answer?”
“Then you tell him some things are classified. He'll understand that.”
She was right. Dad had spent thirty years dealing with classified information. He'd never press for details I couldn't share.
“What if he's angry that I waited so long to call?”
“Then you apologize and tell him you love him.” Joy squeezed my hand. “Trust me on this one. Parents forgive their children for almost anything.”
We finished eating in silence, but the quiet felt different now. Charged with possibility instead of weighted with unspoken pain.
Joy yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I'm kind of tired. I still have a couple more chapters in that book I was reading.”
“Go snuggle up in bed for a while. I'll clean up.”
She stood and stretched, then leaned down to kiss my forehead. “Think about what I said.”
“I will.”
I watched her walk toward the bedroom, admiring the way her jeans hugged her hips. Even exhausted, she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.
The dishes took ten minutes to wash and put away. I'd always been efficient in the kitchen, a habit leftover from military life where everything had to be clean and squared away. But tonight, I lingered over each plate and bowl, trying to work up the courage for what I knew I had to do.
Finally, I couldn't put it off any longer.
I settled into my recliner and pulled out my phone. Dad's number was still in my contacts, still marked as “Dad” with the same photo I'd taken of him in his dress blues at my graduation from BUD/S. He'd been so proud that day. Proud and worried and trying not to show either emotion.
My finger hovered over the call button.
Four years. Four years of silence because I'd been too ashamed to face the man who'd taught me everything about honor and duty and taking care of the people under my command.
I hit call before I could change my mind.
The phone rang once. Twice.
“Graham?”
Dad's voice sounded exactly the same. Strong and warm and slightly gravelly from years of shouting orders over jet engines.
“Hey, Dad.”
The silence stretched so long I thought the call had dropped.
“Jesus Christ, son. Are you okay? I've been worried sick.”
The relief in his voice nearly broke me. “I'm okay. I'm sorry I haven't called.”
“Four years, Graham. Four goddamn years without a word.”
“I know. I'm sorry.”
“Are you hurt? Sick? In trouble?”
“No, Dad. Nothing like that.”
“Then what the hell happened? You disappear from my life without explanation, and I'm supposed to just accept that?” That was a tone I remembered.
I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair, pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “I fucked up a mission. Lost three good men.”
The silence stretched again, but this time it felt different.
“When?”
“It was the last mission before I got out.”
“That explains it.” He said it like he was talking to himself. Then he added, “Can you tell me about it?” Dad's voice was soft.
“Some.”
I started talking, and my dad listened. He occasionally interrupted me, but mostly just let me get everything off my chest.
“Is that everything, son?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“How is Kent doing?”
“Last time I checked, he was out of rehab.”
“What do you mean, last time you checked? You haven’t talked to him?”
“How could I? I failed him, Dad.”