Of course we will have babies. Lots of them. I hope Dr. Harris is right in thinking she’s making progress. She gets so close, then slides back down. I hate that I’m not there to catch her when she does. To give her that extra boost she needs. Gemma hasn’t had it easy. Her parents were in a fatal car accident when she was only nineteen years old, and the only family she has left is her sister, who is estranged and reckless, and an aunt who lives in Arizona.
I open the next email.
July 20
My love,
It’s been three days since I’ve heard from you. My mind began to wander to the worst possible scenario until I reached out to Rivers’ wife and she said she hasn’t heard from him either. We assume the towers are down again and that all is well. As soon as you read this, call me. I don’t care what time it is. I need to know that you are safe.
On another note, I took that pottery class today. Wait until you see our new fancy centerpiece. You will die of laughter. Damn, I miss you, Nash.
Stay safe,
Until next time,
Gemma xoxo
Forever.
It’s what keeps me going. Forever with Gemma is the reason I open my eyes each morning and face another day.
Chapter Two
Waking up, I throw my arms over my head in hopes of five more minutes. I can hear everyone scrambling around to get breakfast and head to the range.
A nudge against my shoulder has my eyes shooting open. “Sergeant’s waiting for you outside. Wake your ass up.” Lifting my head with a growl, I see Rivers standing at the end of the cot.
I take a deep breath of the dry air and force myself up. “What’s he want?” I holler, but he’s already out of the tent before the words hit his ears.
Once I’m suited up, I push through the thick fabric opening of the fifteen-square-foot tent. Stepping out into the sandy abyss of the desert landscape, I expect to find Sergeant Jacobs waiting for me. Instead, I see him standing with the chaplain and Captain Riggs, who all carry the same mask of concern on their faces.
Stopping in my tracks, I salute Captain Riggs when he looks over in my direction. Sheer displeasure accompanies each step he makes toward me.
“Private Whitmore, there has been an unfortunate event back home that requires your attention. Your time here has been cut short.”
“Unfortunate event? What’s that supposed to mean? Am I needed at the US base?”
His next step has my heart sinking deep into the black pit of my stomach. A dark cloud descends over me. Only, it’s an illusion. Only I can see it, feel it. Something is very wrong.
“You’ll be accompanying Private Herein back to the States proceeding the ramp ceremony for Private Jones at approximately 0900.” He places a comforting hand on my shoulder. The look on his face is solace. As if he’s expecting a mountain of grief to pour out of me when I have no fucking clue what is even going on.
Waving over the chaplain, Sergeant Jacobs drops his head, unable to make eye contact.
“Private Whitmore,” he begins, shifting his focus to the card in his hand. “I regret to inform you that we’ve received an official notice from the American Red Cross that your wife, Mrs. Gemma Whitmore, was pronounced dead on the twenty-fifth day of July—” He continues on, but the words don’t register.
“What? No, there has to be some sort of mistake.” Did I say the words out loud, or were they only in my head?
His words keep on as he looks at the notecard, but I don’t hear them. All I can hear is the thoughts going rampant through my mind.
No. Gemma was getting better. She started a pottery class. She wore the blue dress. It’s not possible. They have to be mistaken.
Holding up a hand, I stop him. “You have the wrong person. Gemma isn’t dead. Gimme that.” I snatch the card out of his hand.
My eyes skim over the writing. Her aunt Lori contacted the American Red Cross last night. Gemma Whitmore, wife of Private Nash Whitmore, was found dead on July 25.
In this moment, everyone disappears. The sun has set. The sand has settled. My heart has completely broken in half, fallen out of my chest. My breath—lost. My legs buckle beneath me as I collapse to the ground.
There are no tears, there are no words.
Minutes feel like hours.
Hours feel like an eternity.
Time continues to move as I stay grounded to the dirt beneath me.
“How?” I manage to choke out the word. Lifting my head, I look at the chaplain.
“We do not have that information. This note is all we have received.” He kneels down beside me. “Would you like me to pray with you?”
I snarl, “Pray for what? For my wife to get better? She’s already gone. What’s the point?” I can feel myself getting angry. She’s gone. She’s not coming back.
“For you. I’d like to pray for you, Private Nash.”
In a swift motion, I’m on my feet. “Don’t waste your time. I’m a lost cause.”
Walking away, I feel any ounce of happiness inside of me drift away. Any sense of compassion, hope, faith. It’s gone. It’s gone with Gemma. It’s gone with Jones. What’s the point anymore? Where do I go from here?
Over the past three hours, I have lost everything, including my memory of the time between then and now. I’m sitting in a fog of my own thoughts. Nothing makes sense anymore. One moment, I’m convincing myself that this isn’t real. The next moment, I’m wondering how and why—when and where. I’ve received hugs, condolences, pats on the back. I’ve heard people say that time heals all wounds. What if I don’t want to fucking heal? What if I want to die with her? We just met a year ago, wed three months ago, but I can’t even imagine a life without her. My future is bleak and narrow. A tunnel of darkness ahead with no ending in sight.
When we hit the ground, I swallow my pride and thank the pilot. I haven’t even attempted to make a call to Gemma’s aunt. Yet, walking down the boarding bridge, I see her waiting.
“Oh, Nash.” She throws herself into my arms. A lady I’ve met once, who baked me the best apple pie I’ve ever had. That’s all I know of her. “I’m so sorry. Our sweet Gemma was just—” She pauses. “She’s in a better place now.”
I don’t even respond. I nod with the fake smile plastered on my face. In a better place? She should be here with me. She should be throwing herself in my arms, while I shower her with kisses. Whisking her away and taking her home to make love to her while we try for a baby.
We walk together to the luggage belt. Tossing my bag over my shoulder, I prepare for answers. “Where is she?”
Lori places a calming hand on my tattoo-covered arm. Coincidentally enough, it’s the one I had done right before I left, the one I had done for Gemma of our own special paradise. We’d often talk about escaping to a private island, shutting out the world, and living—really living. A life where you actually enjoy life. The tattoo is the shape of Bora Bora filled with Polynesian waves. We never got there. We never will get there. “She’s at the morgue. We have plenty of time to talk about that. Tell me how you are doing?”
“Listen, Lori. I’d prefer not to beat around the bush. I need to know what happened. Please, don’t try and spare me any details. Was she in an accident? Was she sick? I need answers,” I say, as we continue to walk. Each step feels like I’m walking into my new personal hell.