David found me standing by the window, staring at the silhouette of the USS Wisconsin. He wrapped his arms around me from behind.
“You don’t have to keep waiting, Nola,” he said, his voice vibrating against my back. “Family isn’t the people who are supposed to show up. It’s the people who do.”
I turned and buried my face in his chest. But later, when his breathing was deep and even, I slipped into the cold marble bathroom, turned on the shower to mask the sound, and slid down the wall. I pressed my fist into my mouth and sobbed until I dry-heaved. It was the ugly, silent crying that tears you apart from the inside.
The sun rose the next morning, mocking me with its cheerfulness. We were on the balcony, sipping coffee we couldn’t taste, trying to salvage a honeymoon from the wreckage.
Then, my phone pinged.
