Rhett’s thumb strokes slow circles on my arm. “Ivy.”
“He was proud of my job,” I say, blinking fast. “He didn’t always understand it, but he liked that I told stories about people. That I made them look as good on the outside as they were on the inside. He’d brag to anyone who would listen—‘My girl makes Christmas happen with a camera.’” I laugh softly, watery. “I’ve spent every Christmas since trying to live up to that. And now I’m up for a promotion where I could make it happen even more. He’d be so proud. I just know he would.”
I feel a gentle pressure at the top of my head.
He’s kissing my hair.
“He’d be proud of you,” Rhett says quietly. No hesitation. No performative comfort. Just simple, solid belief. “You’re doing exactly what you set out to do.”
My eyes flood.
I turn my face into his chest, breathing him in, letting myself feel the grief and the comfort at the same time. He doesn’t try to talk over it. Just holds me while I ride it out.
When I can speak again, I sniff and tip my head back enough to see his face.
“Tell me about him,” I say softly. “Your friend. The one from…there.”
He knows what I mean.
For a second I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But his gaze doesn’t shutter. Instead, it just goes a little distant, like he’s looking at a different horizon layered over this one.
“His name was Caleb,” he says. “From Kansas. Cornfields, Friday night football, parents who sent care packages that made the whole unit jealous. Best shot I ever saw. Worse taste in music than any human being should legally have.”
“I already like him,” I say.
A small, sad smile flickers over his mouth. “He snored,” Rhett adds. “Loud enough to rattle the tent. We’d throw socks at him. He’d wake up long enough to say we were jealous of his ‘manly respiration’ and go right back to it.”
I laugh, a fragile, surprised sound.
“He was the one who taught me to drive stick in a truck that shouldn’t have been on any road,” Rhett continues. “The one who made sure the new guys ate. The one who crawled under the Humvee with me when things went loud, cracked a joke, and handed me an extra mag like we were just patching a fence.”
His voice roughens.
“He deserved better than a folding chair at Christmas,” he says. “Better than me replaying that day every time I see a string of lights.”
My chest aches so hard I press my palm there for a second, as if I can hold it together.
“He got you,” I say, voice thick. “A friend who loved him enough to remember all of that. That’s something.”
He looks at me like I’ve said something bigger than I realize.
“Maybe,” he says.
Silence settles again. Softer now. Full of things we’ve handed each other and not dropped.
The phone on the tripod is still recording.
I hit the remote, stopping it.
When I look back at Rhett, he’s already watching me.
The air between us shifts.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
“I’m literally already here,” I whisper, smiling.
“Closer,” he says.
