Page 15 of Big Risks

"Like a ninja mission?" Her face lights up.

"Exactly like a ninja mission." I tap her nose. "Stealth is key."

Twenty minutes later, we're standing on Hailey's porch, my daughter practically vibrating with excitement while I'm trying to remember how to breathe normally. The door swings open, and there she is—Hailey, in jeans and a faded blue shirt that matches her eyes perfectly. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she's wearing glasses I haven't seen before.

She looks soft. Approachable. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.

"Walker! Olivia! What a surprise!" Her smile is genuine, and it hits me like a sucker punch.

Before I can execute our ninja drop-off plan, Olivia thrusts her artwork forward. "I made you a thank-you picture for the ice cream!"

"You did?" Hailey crouches down, accepting the paper with exaggerated reverence. "This is absolutely magnificent. Is that me flying through the air?"

"You're not flying," Olivia giggles. "You're jumping because you're so happy about ice cream."

"That makes perfect sense. I do feel jumpy around ice cream." Hailey looks up at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Would you two like to come in? I just made my grandma’s famous violet lemonade."

"We don't want to impose," I say, at the exact moment Olivia shouts, "Yes, please!"

"It's no imposition," Hailey says, stepping aside. "Unless you have somewhere to be?"

I don't. That's the problem. I have nowhere to be except inside my own head, which isn't exactly a fun place these days.

"Lemonade sounds great," I surrender, following my daughter inside.

Hailey's living room has a comfortable feel even though the photos are still leaning against the wall instead of hung. Thereare also a few boxes in the corner. The walls need a good paint job and I wonder which of the green shades she picked from when we ran into her at the hardware store.

"Make yourselves comfortable," she calls, heading toward the kitchen. "I'll just grab the glasses."

Olivia immediately plops onto the couch, picking up a small ceramic turtle from the coffee table to examine it. That's when I see them scattered across the table's surface like land mines.

Letters.

My letters.

The blood rushes from my face so quickly that I have to reach for the back of the couch to steady myself. The familiar handwriting—my handwriting—stares up at me accusingly. Some are unfolded, others are still in their envelopes marked with international postage. All of them addressed to my Red.

The letters I wrote during my last deployment.

"Daddy, look! It's a turtle family!" Olivia's voice sounds distant through the rushing in my ears.

I force myself to move, to sit, to appear normal while my past lies exposed on the coffee table between us.

Hailey returns with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of purple lemonade.

"Careful, these glasses are heavier than they look," she warns Olivia, who's already reaching for one with both hands.

"Thanks," I manage, accepting a glass of my own.

Hailey settles into an armchair across from us, tucking her feet underneath her. Her eyes flick to the letters, then back to me. "Sorry about the mess. I've been doing some reading."

"School stuff?" I ask, as if I don't know, as if my heart isn't trying to hammer its way out of my chest.

She hesitates, then reaches for one of the letters. "Actually, these were in the attic in a chest. I found them as I was unpacking. They're... well, they're incredible. Love letters from a soldier."

Olivia perks up. "Like a prince writing to a princess?"

Hailey smiles. "Sort of. More like a real hero writing to the person he loves most in the world."

---