Chapter 8
Caden
The pain still lingers. The phantom aches in my leg, the twinge in my arm when I stretch too far, the weight in my chest that feels like a bruise that never fully heals. But something's different now. The heaviness doesn't win anymore. Not every day.
I want more than to survive.
I want to live.
PT still kicks my ass. Every time I walk across that room with my prosthetic strapped on, every time I fall and scrape my palms raw, every time the therapist says "again," I do it. I grit my teeth and do it.
Because Lucy's smile flashes in my head.
Because her hand still fits in mine.
Because that baby is real, growing, waiting.
Because I'm tired of being angry at the world, at myself.
Because maybe, just maybe, I'm ready to believe I'm not broken beyond repair.
I want to be the man who walks toward them, not the one who hides in a dark room full of ghosts.
My first few weeks of therapy was horrible. My stump was raw, the prosthetic like a foreign limb trying to fight me with every step. I remember collapsing halfway across the gym floor, sweat pooling at the base of my neck, shame thick in my throat. I'd looked up at my therapist, expecting pity.
Instead, she just handed me a towel and said, "Next time you'll fall two feet farther. Then five. Then one day, you'll walk right past that mark. Get up and let's go again."
That day, I almost quit. Almost told her to shove the damn leg and roll me back to my room. But I saw Lucy's name on the envelope I'd tucked into my bag. Saw the curve of her handwriting and remembered the way she once said she believed in me more than I believed in myself.
Which is why I got up.
And now? I don't just fall. I rise again faster every time.
Jake notices. One morning, he shows up early with coffee and hands me a cup like we used to do before our shifts—before the military.
"You remember what you said to me when I first came back?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"You said, 'You don't have to prove anything. Just breathe.'"
I nod. "Sounds like something you needed to hear."
"Yeah. But maybe you need to hear it now too. You're trying so damn hard, Caden. And I see it. But you don't have to earn your place back. You never lost it."
Then, for a while, we sit in silence, sipping coffee. It feels good. Normal. We're brothers again, not just men broken by war and time.
Noah starts sticking around after therapy, tossing a football in the yard or helping me figure out how to balance on uneven ground. One afternoon during PT, he watches me struggle with a balance bar.
"You keep leaning like that, you're gonna end up on your ass again," he says.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Just calling it like I see it. You gotta shift your weight to the left sooner. Trust your body. Even when it's changed."
I give him a look. "Easy for you to say."
He steps closer. "No, it's not. I still wake up with burning skin and nerves that don't fire right. My body's a patchwork quilt, Caden. But it still carries me. Yours will too."
We finished the session with him coaching me through the last ten minutes. I don't fall that time.
Brentley shows up a week or so later with Mom in tow, arms full of takeout and that typical twin brother grin.
"You look like crap," he says cheerfully.
"Nice to see you too."
Mom hugs me, her arms tight and shaky. I feel her tears soak into my shirt, and I let her hold me as long as she needs.
"You didn't tell me you were getting better," she whispers.
I glance over at Jake, who shrugs. "Thought you'd want to see it for yourself."
We sit on the back porch, eating Chinese and watching the sun dip low behind the trees. It feels normal. It feels like home.
Brentley's cracking jokes, Jake's rolling his eyes, and Mom's already planning when she can come back with a casserole. There's laughter. Genuine laughter. And I'm a part of it again.
The air smells of soy sauce and pine. Crickets are chirping as the sun dips lower. I feel the evening breeze on my face, and it's the first time I don't shrink from it.
When the moment feels right, I clear my throat. "I need to tell you something."
Jake leans forward, already knowing what I'm going to say. Brentley stops slurping his noodles. Mom sets down her cup of tea. The air goes tight, and everyone seems to feel it’s going to be big.
"Lucy's pregnant."
Mom gasps, her hand flying to her chest. Jake smiles slowly, knowingly. Brentley lets out a low whistle.
"Holy shit."
"Watch your mouth," Mom snaps automatically, even as she smiles.
"And I'm going to marry her," I add, my voice firmer than I expected.
Brentley chokes on his drink, coughing. Jake grins wider, while Mom's eyes fill with tears.
"Does she know that part yet?" Jake asks, amusement in his voice.
"Not exactly."
They all laugh, and for the first time in a long time, I do too. It bubbles up in my chest and spills out before I can stop it. The sound surprises me. It surprises all of us. But it feels good.
"That look on your face… you really love her,” Mom says, almost a whisper.
"Yeah. I do. I almost lost her. Twice. And I don't want to waste another second pretending like I don't know what I want."
Mom's smile trembles. "I always knew it was her. Even before this last deployment. When you'd talk about building that house with the porch swing. Your voice always changed when you said her name."
Mom pauses, and all I can do is grin happily.
"Then tell her," Mom says. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "We'll be right here, cheering you on."
Taking a breath, I look toward the pathway that leads to Noah's place next door.
She's there.
I hesitate. My pulse hammers in my throat. What if she doesn't feel like she belongs here? What if I say the wrong thing? What if this perfect picture I'm trying to paint doesn't fit?
But then I see her walking with Noah.
She's walking toward us, the wind tugging gently at her hair, her hand resting protectively over her belly. My chest tightens at the sight of her. There's something about the way she moves, as if she's both fragile and unbreakable all at once.
As Lucy and Noah walk toward us, they follow my gaze as I nod toward the pathway.
Lucy steps onto the porch in one of those soft sweaters that fall off her shoulder, hand instinctively on her bump. Her steps are hesitant, and her eyes scan the group nervously until she sees my mom smile. Then she breathes easier.
Brentley is on his feet first. Of course he is. He bounds over to her with zero chill, wrapping her in a bear hug before she can say a word.
"Welcome to the madness. We have no rules and too much dessert."
Lucy laughs, a little caught off guard. But it's genuine.
Jake nods at her, calm and solid. "Took you long enough to wrangle this idiot."
Mom walks over slowly, her eyes shining, and takes Lucy's hands in hers. "Welcome to the family, sweetheart. You've already been in our hearts for a long time."
Lucy blushes, smiling. She looks at me, her eyes soft, and mouths, thank you.
Noah walks up beside me as I watch my family form around her like she's always belonged.
"Lucy and I talked on our way over here," he says, voice low. "She smiles when she talks about you now."
He pauses, watching her laugh at something Brentley says.
"So long as she's smiling... I can live with that."
He claps my shoulder and walks inside, leaving me on the porch watching my future take shape.
The next day, I help fix the broken stall door in the barn. It's hot, my shirt sticks to my back, and the brace on my arm digs into my skin. My hand slips twice, and I bite down on a curse. But I don't stop. Gritting my teeth, I keep going. Sweat drips into my eyes, but I blink it away.
Taking a step back, I shake out my arm, frustration bubbling under my skin. I drop the hammer and sit on the edge of a hay bale, head bowed, breath ragged.
"This thing giving you hell, too?" Grace's voice startles me.
I glance up to find her leaning against the stall, arms crossed.
"You hurt her," she says flatly.
I nod. No use pretending.
"I know."
She walks closer and kneels in front of me.
"You know what she was like before you? Before all of this? She was light. She was joy, and messy ideas, and big, impossible dreams. And after she lost you, first to the army, then to silence, some of that dimmed. But she never stopped fighting for you. Even when it hurt."
I swallow hard. "I didn't mean to…"
"Doesn't matter. She believed in you when you didn't. So, you damn well better start believing in her."
Her voice cracks a little at the end. And I realize she's not just defending her sister. She's protecting her.
"I'm trying," I say.
"Try harder," she replies, and then she's gone, back toward the main house.
Her words sting. But they settle somewhere deep, anchoring me.
That night, I pull out the new sketchbook Jake brought after he found out I set the old one on fire. My hand shakes as I flip to the first page. The pencil feels unfamiliar, almost foreign, like I'm holding part of an old life I'm not sure I'm ready to reclaim.
What if I can't do it? What if that part of me burned with the rest?
But I take a breath. I press the tip to the paper.
I draw the porch first. Then the rocking chair. Then the outline of a small house nestled into a field. Trees in the background. A swing hanging low.
Finally, I have to draw Lucy. Her bump. Her smile. Her hand in mine.
Next to it, I scribble a note: Build this before the baby comes.
I draw a future I'm not afraid of anymore.
And I start planning the surprise that will show her I believe in it too.
Because I do.
I believe in us.