Page 12 of The Art of Dying

Mack nodded. “A month isn’t near long enough, but I’m glad you got something.”

We’d lost more than just Kurt since high school. Recruiters from the various military branches spent a lot of time in small towns like ours, wooing the teenagers with promises of travel and glory. Quincy had been hit harder than most, losing four just that year. We were a patriotic town, though, and most families had at least one deployed. We were no strangers to the struggles soldiers faced when they came home, but we were also lucky to have no less than half a dozen mentors in town to help with anything we needed—but we had to reach out, and most were too proud.

“Kitsch?” Mack said, snapping me back to the present. “You okay?”

“I was just thinking today I was finally starting to feel a little closer to normal.”

Mack smiled. “Good to hear.”

“Real good, bro,” Sully said, standing. “I’ve drank all my beer and yours. Any more in the fridge?”

I nodded toward the house. “Probably some down cellar.”

Mack furrowed her brow, and I realized some of the Boston jargon was still probably lost on her. “The basement,” I clarified.

Sully made a face. “Too much effort. Beer’s gone, I’m gone. Until next time.”

I stood, shook his hand, then brought him in for a hug. We patted each other’s backs. “Thanks for coming by.”

He winked at me. “And for telling Mack you wanted to call but wouldn’t?”

I looked over at her, already falling for the way she covered her mouth when she laughed.

“The official story is that I just decided to show up,” she said.

“Well,” he said, leaning over for a hug. “You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t want to. I don’t know a lot about women, but I do know that.”

Mack simply smiled.

I watched him go, then sat back in my chair. Mack’s red hair glowed behind the embers of the fire, her eyes reflecting the flames as she stared at me. We didn’t talk, we didn’t have to. Just being that close to her was enough to make any man happy.

She seemed to be thinking, and I prayed it was about me, hopeful she was at least weighing the pros and cons to giving a guy like me a chance after suffering what she’d had with Mason. I was sure she’d heard I’d enlisted, and like my friends, there’d come a day when I would see enough carnage and brothers die to fuck me up for life—if I came back at all—and that was likely in the back of her mind as she considered putting herself out there again.

I narrowed my eyes, wincing at the thought of rejection. There was a whole evening ahead of us, and I was afraid she’d get bored and want to go home.

“So…” I began.

She stopped mid-sip of her beer. “Yeah?”

“Do you dance?”

She was already suspicious. “What kind of dancing are we talking about here?”

I chuckled. “Two-stepping. At Remington’s.”

“Remington’s.”

“You ever been there?”

“That dusty, packed dance hall on the outskirts of town where there’s fights every weekend? Half my weekend patients are from there.”

“Hey, it’s live music. And no one’s gonna touch you.”

She sat back and took another sip of her beer, unimpressed while I screamed silently at myself for being so stupid.

“I’m from Nashville. Of course I can two-step.”

I smirked, trying to keep my cool. “Is that a yes?”

---