And while I’d never given her those words, the minute she said them, I knew no truer words had ever been spoken.
“Yeah… I do.”
It was monumental what was happening at that moment. They were big words, but I’m not sure they were ever really needed. Greer and I said things to each other all the time that were far more important.
You get me like no one else does.
You fulfill me.
My life is infinitely brighter with you in it.
I’ve never been happier.
I can’t wait to wake up beside you in the morning.
Over and over again, we had a million endearments. “I love you” seemed almost paltry next to the acknowledgment we gave our feelings for each other on a daily basis.
So maybe that’s why I felt the need to let her know how I felt. “Will you marry me?”
Just like that. Four simple words, no ring, my hands smelling like kalamata olives.
We’d known each other three months, but they’d been the happiest of my life. They had clearly been hers, too, because she threw herself in my arms and kissed me hard before accepting my proposal.
“Dad,” Ethan says, and by the tone of his voice, he’s likely said my name more than once.
I blink several times and turn to see Ethan staring at me on the other side of the kitchen island.
“What was that?” I ask, somewhat embarrassed I tuned out the entire world as I thought about Greer.
“I asked if you want some help with the pizza,” he replies, looking down at the empty pan on the stove.
“Yeah, buddy. Sure.” Then I glance at my watch, relieved only a few minutes have passed. “I thought you wanted to play Fortnite?”
Ethan shrugs, coming around the island and grabbing the block of mozzarella to shred. “I thought maybe if I came and helped with dinner, you’d be so impressed, you’d let me play for at least an hour after I finish my homework.”
I snort as I turn on the heat and then cut open the package of sausage. “That’s a pretty risky bet you’re taking that I’ll agree to such a thing. You could technically be losing Fortnite the entire night if I don’t agree to that one-hour request.”
Ethan shrugs again, as if it’s no big deal. He stares at me with what I believe is an exaggerated look of adoration. “That’s okay. I love you so much, it’s more fun to hang out with you than play Fortnite.”
Laughing, I shake my head and affectionately say, “You’re a monster. A very good, manipulative monster. Yes, you can have an hour after dinner, after you help me clean up the kitchen and after homework.”
Ethan grins mischievously, and within those twinkling eyes I know my son takes after me. He sees what he wants and doesn’t worry about the risk.
He just goes for it.
I want to commend him for being such a daredevil, but I also want to warn him… it can lead to heartbreak.
CHAPTER 10
Greer
It feels weird to be in my childhood home. It hasn’t been mine for a long time—not since leaving for college at eighteen. It remained my parents’ home, though, and it’s always been the place I could come back to.
While I was in college pursuing a bachelor’s and then my master’s in international studies, this house was a refuge for me. When I went into the CIA straight after graduation, if I wasn’t working an active intel assignment, I’d always make it home for the big holidays. And because my time off after missions could come in two- to three-week periods, I would often come home to hang out with my folks.
I love this old house—twenty-one hundred square feet in the foothills of the Laguna Mountains. Over the years, my mother built the most beautiful, luxurious garden to meander through via walking paths replete with benches, a two-person swing, and a little wrought iron table where you can sit to sip a glass of wine while watching the koi pond.
I spent a lot of time out there today staring at the fish. It’s been four years since my parents died, and I can’t sell the house. I can’t think of it as mine either, but at this moment with no job and no home, I’m glad I have it. I’ve had it meticulously maintained over the years. While I didn’t come home for the holidays or extended work breaks as much, I have visited a handful of times each year.
But as I said… it feels weird, and it’s because I don’t hear my dad’s boisterous jokes or my mother’s sweet lilting voice singing a love song.
Pieces of furniture throughout the house bear photos of our family. They’re everywhere, placed in groupings on tables, bookshelves and sideboards. Some of just Mom, some of just Dad, some of the both of them, some of the three of us. My mother has dozens, framed and perched and hung on walls.
While Dad was a security guard when he met my mother, he later became a real estate agent and was quite successful at it. My mother did not win the Miss World pageant as Miss Argentina, but she did win my dad’s heart. She settled into American life and became a private voice coach.
While they both loved their careers, they loved boating and fishing even more. They scrimped and saved to buy a twenty-eight-foot twin engine boat that was sufficient for them to fish offshore. They moored it in a rented slip in San Diego and were on that boat every chance they got.
And they eventually died with it. No one is really sure what happened. There was storm activity with heavy rain and winds. The boat was found floating in the Pacific Ocean seven miles off the coast of Mexico. The prevailing theory is they hit bad weather and a rogue wave swept them overboard. The currents took the boat south where it was found, and their bodies were never recovered.
While I know the most probable answer is that they were lost to the sea, sometimes I like to imagine they wanted to relocate to a new country and give themselves secret identities, and they’re happily strolling the Paris streets together, eating baguettes and drinking strong coffee.
I stroll through the house, perusing photos and picking up knickknacks that were important to my mom. It makes me feel close to her.
When I reach the spare bedroom where I’ve been staying the last two days since leaving Langley, I change into workout shorts and a T-shirt. I walk across the hallway and brush my teeth. There’s no makeup to take off because there’s been no need to wear it, but I do brush my hair and tie it on top of my head.
Back in the bedroom, I hook up my phone to the charger, pull the covers back, and slide between the cool sheets. I turn off the lamp and roll onto my side, one arm curled under my pillow.
I wish I could fall immediately to sleep, but no such luck. I’ve barely slept since Ladd rescued me in El Salvador. I’ve not only been plagued by his presence back in my life but by my career ending with the CIA.
What stretches my brain the most is trying to figure out where I go from here. I was paid well for my work with the CIA, which included hefty bonuses for hazardous duties. I saved and invested most of it and never spent money on frivolities. I could live comfortably for several years without working.
That’s not my style, though. I have to be busy.
I could absolutely go private sector—security or consulting. I could go to Argentina, as it feels almost as much like home to me as this place does because of my mother’s roots. I could teach English to kids or become a bartender on one of the beaches. There are any number of things I could do, and I most certainly don’t need the CIA. While I might feel a little sad for leaving a job that gave me such satisfaction, I remind myself I was ready to give it up ten years ago when I sought out Ladd. Our breakup made me realize that my career wasn’t as important as personal happiness.