Chapter 8
RILEY
Iheld it together for exactly three seconds after Duke walked out. Then I crumbled.
It’s been hours since he left, and I’ve been crying like I haven’t since Jeremy.
Hell. This is worse than when Jeremy dumped me.
I’m scared I’ve lost my best friend. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor of the honeymoon suite, knees pulled to my chest, Duke’s Army t-shirt still warm against my skin.
I can still feel his lips on mine. Can still feel the ghost of his hands in my hair, the solid warmth of his body pressed against mine, the way my whole world tipped into something magical and new when he kissed me.
Last night plays on a loop behind my closed eyes. His hand cupping my face, and the way his eyes darkened before he kissed me. The way he groaned against my mouth when I pressed closer, the way I thought this is it, this is finally happening. Yes.
And then he stopped. Pulled away like kissing me was a mistake.
Once again, a man made me feel like I wasn’t worth it, that I wasn’t worth committing to. I never, ever expected that from Duke.
The familiar shame spiral drags me under. Jeremy’s voice echoes in my head: You’re not the girl I started dating. And now Duke, in his own way, saying the same thing—that I’m not strong enough for his life. Too fragile to love a soldier.
The grief curdles in my gut, turning hot and bitter. Fury rises through me like a wildfire, burning away the tears, replacing devastation with fury.
How dare Duke decide what I can or cannot handle? Who the hell does he think he is? Does he realize I already know what it’s like, even if I haven’t been his wife? It’s never even been a question that I’d support him, however he came home.
I push myself off the floor, swiping at my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. My reflection catches in the mirror—red-eyed, messy-haired, wearing his goddamn shirt like some lovesick fool.
I rip it off.
The fabric balls up in my fists, and I hurl it across the room, watching it land in a heap by the window.
Better.
I find my suitcase and start throwing things into it: clothes, toiletries, the stupid souvenir shot glass I bought on The Strip. I don’t care if everything wrinkles. I need to move, need to do something with this rage before it consumes me.
The blue dress.
I stare at it hanging in the closet. The dress that made me feel beautiful. The dress he remembered, the one I’d mentioned offhand months ago, the one he told me to pack because I said it made me feel like a knockout.
I hate it.
I yank it off the hanger and shove it into the suitcase, not bothering to smooth the fabric. Let it wrinkle. Let it rot. I never want to see it again.
Jeremy told me I’d let myself go. Duke thinks I’m too fragile to love a soldier. Both of them—BOTH OF THEM—decided who I was without asking me.
I slam the suitcase shut, breathing hard.
I think about all the times I made myself smaller for Jeremy.
The way I stopped playing Bella’s music around him because he called it basic.
The way I apologized for having opinions, for wanting things, for taking up space.
Two years of shrinking myself to fit into whatever shape he wanted, and it still wasn’t enough.
I almost did it again.
I almost let Duke’s fear become my shame. Almost accepted his rejection as proof that I wasn’t worth fighting for.
My hands are shaking. I grip the edge of the dresser and force myself to breathe.
I’m done being small.
The words crystallize in my mind. I’m done letting men decide what I can and cannot handle. If Duke wants to throw this away because he’s scared, that’s his choice. I’m not going to slink home with my tail between my legs and hope for scraps. And I’m not going to let his fear become my truth.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand.
I grab it, ready to ignore whatever notification interrupted my righteous fury. But Duke’s name flashes on the screen.
Meet me outside the Bellagio. Main fountain. 7 PM
I stare at the words, my blood pressure spiking. The audacity. The absolute audacity of this man, thinking he can kiss me senseless, reject me, walk out, and then text me like nothing happened.
Another message appears: And before you say no, you have to come.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, ready to fire back something scathing. Go to hell. I’m flying home. Don’t ever talk to me again.
But I delete the message.
Because underneath the fury, there’s a spark of curiosity. And underneath that, a desperate, stupid hope I can’t quite extinguish.
I have things to say to him. Things I should have said last night instead of letting him walk away. I look at my reflection in the mirror—tear-stained, furious, more awake than I’ve felt in months.
I grab a fresh dress from my suitcase and shake it out. Thank God for knit jersey that doesn’t wrinkle.
I’m going because I need to say some things. This is for me, not for him.
I slip into the dress, smooth my hair, and fix my ruined mascara. My jaw sets in a hard line as I stare at my reflection.
Let’s get this over with.
The sunset is brilliantly gold and coral and deep violet, the kind of colors that belong in paintings. The Bellagio fountains stretch before me, and tourists crowd around the railing, phones already out in anticipation of the show.
I almost didn’t come, but I knew it would be wrong to disappear without seeing Duke. No matter if he broke my heart, he’s still been my best friend. I don’t know if we can keep our friendship now, but I owe him this.
I spot Duke near the center of the fountain wall, sitting on a bench, shoulders hunched forward. He’s wearing the same shirt from last night, wrinkled now, like he hasn’t slept. Like he’s been through hell.
Good.
I march toward him, rehearsing every angry word I’m going to unleash. You don’t get to decide what I can handle. You don’t get to kiss me like that and then walk away. You don’t get to—
“Sit.” His voice is rough. “Please. I need to tell you something.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Riley.” He looks up at me, and the raw pain in his eyes stops me cold. “Please.”
I sit. Not because he asked, but because my legs suddenly feel unsteady.
Duke stares at the dormant fountains for a long moment before speaking. “I need to tell you about Killian. And Chuck.”
“Who?”
“Guys from my unit.” His voice scrapes like gravel. “Killian came home from his second deployment to an empty house. His wife had cleared out everything—took the kids, the furniture, even the dog. Left a note that said she couldn’t do it anymore.”
My anger wavers. “Duke...”
“Chuck’s wife stayed.” He won’t look at me.
“Through three deployments, through him coming home with nightmares and a limp and a temper he couldn’t control.
She stayed.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “And it broke her. I saw her at the unit barbecue last year, and she looked hollow. Like the woman I used to know had been hollowed out from the inside. Like loving him had cost her everything she was.”
The fury in my gut softens into something more complicated. I think about what it must have been like for him—watching marriages crumble on both ends of the spectrum.
“I told myself I’d never do that to someone,” Duke continues. “Never ask someone to carry that weight.” His eyes finally find mine. “And then there was you. I told myself I couldn’t do that to you, most especially you.”
“You don’t get to make that choice for me.” The words come out sharp, but my voice shakes.
“I know.” His throat bobs. “I know that now.”
“You think I don’t know the risks?” I lean forward, heat rising in my face.
“You think I haven’t already lived through your deployments?
You think I haven’t spent nights staring at my phone, terrified it would ring with bad news?
I’ve been loving you from the sidelines for fifteen years, Duke.
The only difference now is you’d actually be mine.
You’d have someone to want to come home to. ”
“I know, Riley. I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s not looking at me anymore.
He’s looking over my shoulder, and something in his expression shifts. His jaw sets with determination. He gives a small nod to someone behind me.
“What are you—”
The music starts.
The opening notes of “Love Me Tender” swell through the air, and I spin around in confusion, trying to locate the source.
That’s when Elvis steps out from behind a pillar, white sequined jumpsuit catching the dying sunlight, microphone raised to his lips. He’s singing, his voice rich and warm, and I’m so confused I can’t move.
Then another Elvis appears.
And another.
They’re emerging from everywhere—from behind planters and pillars and clusters of tourists—spreading out in a wide semicircle around us. All in white jumpsuits. All singing in harmony. I count them in disbelief: seven, eight, nine... ten Elvis impersonators.
“Duke.” My voice comes out strangled. “What did you do?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s already on his feet, moving to stand in front of me.
The fountains explode to life.
Water rockets into the sky in perfect synchronization with the music, hundreds of jets shooting upward in cascading patterns, catching the sunset light until they glow gold and pink and amber.
The spray drifts across the plaza like mist, and the Elvises keep singing, their voices swelling over the rush of water.
The crowd has gone absolutely insane. People are shouting, laughing, and holding up phones. A woman near me grabs her friend’s arm and squeals, “Oh my God!”
Duke drops to one knee.
“I’ve been a coward.” Duke’s voice is rough, barely audible over the music and the cheering and the pounding of my heart. “I let fear make my choices. I told myself I was protecting you, but I was just running from the truth—from the possibility of having you and losing you.”
Tears stream down my face.
“I watched a family today,” he continues.
“A soldier with his wife and kids. They were messy and tired and happy. And I thought—that could be us. That could be our future.” He takes my hands, and his fingers are trembling.
“I almost threw it away because I was scared. Because I was too much of a coward to admit that I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen years old. ”
The fountains surge higher, water dancing against the darkening sky. The Elvises shift into the final verse, voices softening into something tender. The sunset blazes behind him, painting everything in fire.
“I can’t promise it’ll be easy.” His eyes are bright with tears. “But I can promise I will fight like hell to come back to you. Every single time. I will never let fear make my choices again.”
He reaches for my left hand and gently slides off the ring from our drunken wedding. Holds it up between us, the gold band catching the last rays of the sun.
“Riley Walsh.” His voice breaks. “Will you stay married to me? Not because we were drunk. Not because of Vegas. But because I love you. Because you’re my best friend and the love of my life, and I can’t spend another day pretending you’re not.
I’m also sorry for marrying you while we were drunk.
You deserve better than that, so if you say yes, please let me marry you with our family and friends there to witness it.
I swear you’ll remember every Valentine’s Day for the rest of our lives. ”
The fountains hit their peak—a massive wall of water shooting impossibly high, framed by the dying sun—while ten Elvises hold the final note.
“Yes!” The word tears out of me as my heart threatens to explode from happiness. “Yes, I’ll stay married to you.”
Duke slides the ring back onto my finger, and the crowd erupts.
I grab his shirt and haul him to his feet, laughing and crying. “You absolute lunatic. You really hired ten Elvis impersonators?”
“I wanted you to know I meant it.”
“You could have just said—”
“I’m done just saying things.” He cups my face, thumbs brushing away my tears. “I’m done being scared. I’m showing you that I choose you, Riley, and I’m going to keep doing that, every day for the rest of our lives.”
He kisses me like the world is ending and beginning at once. The fountains thunder behind us, the crowd cheers, and somewhere in the chaos, ten Elvises break into “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
When we finally pull apart, we’re both crying, both laughing, standing in front of the Bellagio at sunset while strangers applaud and the sky burns gold above us.
“I love you,” Duke says against my lips.
“I love you, too.” I grab his hand. “Now get me back to that hotel room before I combust.”
He grins, and we run through the crowd, past the Elvises, back to our hotel, laughing like teenagers. We barely make it into the elevator before his mouth finds mine again, and by the time the doors open, I’ve forgotten my own name.
All I know is his. Ours.