Page 14 of Big Risks

Walker nods awkwardly. "Have a good evening."

Later that night, I curl up on my porch swing with another letter from J. This one is dated later than the others.

My love,

It's been six weeks since I've heard from you. The other guys get letters, packages, and news from home. I tell myself the mail is slow, that your letters are coming, but doubt is a persistent companion out here. The nights are the hardest—when the base falls quiet and there's nothing to distract me from the fear about what is happening to us.

Yesterday, Martinez got a "Dear John" letter. We all pretended not to notice him crying behind the barracks. That's the unspoken code out here. You give a man privacy with his pain. But it scared me. Made me wonder if there's a letter like that somewhere, making its way to me across oceans and deserts to me.

Please write. Even a few lines would be enough. I need to know you're still there, still waiting. I keep the photo of us by the lake tucked in my helmet. It's fading from the sun and sweat, but I can still see your smile. Some days, your memory is all that keeps me going.

I count the days until I can come home to you. Sometimes it feels like forever.

Always,

James

I run my fingers over the paper, feeling the indentations where his pen pressed too hard in some places. My throat tightens at the raw emotion in his words. The loneliness, the uncertainty.

In my journal, I write my thoughts.

Who leaves someone like this hanging? What happened between them? And why did she keep his letters if she didn't care enough to write back?

The questions swirl in my mind as I watch fireflies dot the darkening yard. Big Wood is already feeling less like an impulsive escape and more like a mystery I need to solve. And somewhere in this town is a man who once poured his heart onto paper, never knowing if anyone was reading his words.

My phone chimes with a text from Becky.

Becky:Outdoor movie night in the square tomorrow. Bringing popcorn and blankets. You in?

I text back immediately.

Me:Absolutely.

As I get ready for bed, I realize something startling. I haven't thought about Savannah or my old job in days. Instead, my mindis filled with pancake socials and paint colors and the half-smile of a man who claims not to be offering help.

Maybe that's what growing roots feels like, when you stop noticing the absence of your old life because your new one has quietly taken its place.

Chapter 4

Walker

The things we do for our children.

I stare down at the wildly colorful drawing my daughter has created. Complete with rainbow sprinkles raining from what appears to be a cotton candy sky. The stick figure with curly hair is unmistakably Hailey, caught mid-scoop over an ice cream counter that looks suspiciously like it's made of chocolate.

"Do you think she'll like it?" Olivia asks, her blue eyes wide with hope.

"She'll love it," I say, secretly planning to mail it. Or maybe leave it on her doorstep. Anything to avoid another face-to-face encounter that leaves me feeling like I've been hit by a freight train of emotions I'm not equipped to handle.

Olivia bounces on her toes. "When can we take it to her? Today? Can we go today?"

I sigh. "Liv, I'm sure Hailey is busy with—"

"But you said thank-you notes should always be delivered promptly." She crosses her arms, throwing my own parenting wisdom back in my face with the precision of a tiny lawyer.

That's the problem with teaching your kid manners. They remember them at the most inconvenient times.

"Fine," I concede. "We'll drop it off. Quick in and out, okay?"

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