Page 47 of The Art of Dying

I shook my head. “Mason is an asshole, Mack. He’s not a murderous psychopath.”

She looked up at me, the look in her eyes so calm it was unsettling. “If you were there the last night Mason and I were together, if you’d seen the look in his eyes when he blamed me for slipping in the pool of blood he’d just beaten out of me, you’d know that’s not true.”

I hugged her tighter, both to shield her from the memories, and trying not to let her feel the rage I knew was radiating off me. “You’re right. Sully’s right. The only thing that matters is being here with you. I’m never going to let anything bad happen to you, Mack. Even when I’m deployed, you’ll be safe. And that’s a promise.”

She simply nodded. Mack had survived things I didn’t even want to think about. She was just as much a survivor as any Marine, and yet she felt so small and fragile in my arms. In that moment I knew I’d do anything for her. I’d sacrifice everything I had without a second thought. I’d die to protect her, and my final regret would be that I could only do it once. But as much as I thought I’d be the one to trade my life for hers, I should’ve known it would be the other way around.

Day 3,672.

chapter fourteen.

Kitsch

“Kitsch!” Mack screamed from the kitchen.

I ran around the corner at full speed and immediately slipped on the soapy water gushing from the dishwasher. After a few seconds of cartoonish failed attempts to remain upright, I landed on my back, yelling more than a few expletives on the way down.

My little spitfire was standing in the middle of it all, white suds hanging from her chin like Irish Santa Claus, her big green eyes even wider at the sight of me trying to stand. She looked back to check on Emily, who was staring at me from her highchair, her puff snacks wet and mashed into her russet waves. She had her mama’s big, green eyes, and they were lit up at the sight of me struggling on the floor.

“You idiot!” she shrieked. Mack leaned back and howled and then bent forward, grabbing her knees.

I frowned, unable to defend her insult when on all-fours, covered in soap. “You screamed for me like you were dyin’!”

I crawled to my knees… best I could do.

“Daddy!” Dylan said in his little voice, clumsily running in. He slipped, too, but I caught him before he fell.

After a momentary concern and then relief for Dylan, Mack took one look at me and leaned back again, this time holding her middle while she filled the house with the sound I’d loved since the first time I took her dancing, just a week after we met in the basement of Bart’s Tavern, in a little hole-in-the-wall bar where I got the piss knocked out of me by some low-level biker with a decent sucker punch.The woman I thought I’d never have a snowball’s chance in Hell with was now my wife, suds dancing off her chin, her signature cackle bouncing off the walls.

She’d stuck with me through deployments, three cross-country moves, MARSOC training, multiple negative pregnancy tests, and three devastating miscarriages, but there she stood, just as crazy in love with me as I was with her. There were times that I wouldn’t have blamed Mack for leaving, but in those moments, she’d dig in her heels and remind me of the promise we made on Del Mar Beach, reassuring me as many times as I needed that she was happy and there was nowhere else she’d rather be. We’d also traveled the world, celebrated promotions, and started a real estate company, and just when we’d accepted kids weren’t in the cards for us, we had two rainbow babies.

Dylan was just over two, and we’d celebrated Emily’s first birthday the month before. We were exhausted most of the time, but we were right smack dab in the middle of our happily ever after, and we knew it.

Still laughing, Mack crawled under the sink and then sat back on the floor, dishwasher plug in hand. “What?” she asked, noticing me smiling down at her.

“You are the perfect woman,” I said. I crawled over to her and pulled her into my arms.

She giggled as I leaned her back onto the soapy floor, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing me back. “You trying to get out of helping me clean this up?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” I said. I stood up carefully and then grabbed her ankles, pushing her back and forth.

“Not with me! Stop!” she said, trying not to laugh while kicking her feet.

“I want to help!” Dylan said, holding onto her leg with a big grin.

“Good job, buddy!” I said.

I let go and reached for her hand, pulling her into my arms. She seemed ready for anything, but I surprised her by hugging her to me and slow dancing to silence. The California sunset poured through our kitchen window, the birds were chirping, and the faint sound of ocean waves crashed in the distance. Life with Mack was perfect, everything I promised her it would be.

I was proud of that.

I planted a kiss on her mouth, pulling her closer when she hummed.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Sloan asked, carrying in an extra-large silver tin covered in aluminum foil. John Harbinger came in behind him, holding the door open for his wife, Caroline.

“Unca Jawn!” Dylan squealed, running past Sloan to hug Harbinger.

I rolled my eyes and looked back. “You forget how to knock, Sloan?” I asked.

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