Page 168 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

I navigate through the graveyard to a fresh grave that's only just starting to sprout grass. I stop at a headstone that's a simple granite marker. It reads:Michael Alexander Byrne. Beloved Husband, Father, Brother.It doesn't even begin to capture who he was. The birth and death dates feel wrong, too close together, a life compressed into inadequate numbers.

The cemetery is quiet except for the distant hum of a lawnmower. And the oaks bring a lot of shade and beauty. Mike would've liked this place. It's peaceful, well-maintained.

I settle on the grass and pop open the shaker bottle in my hand. Some people bring beer or wine to toast a loved one. Some bring flowers. I brought what I think Mike would appreciate most: a protein shake. That was practically all he lived on, along with coffee and the occasional sweet.

I bump the plastic shaker bottle against the small headstone then raise it in a toast. I take a sip.Gross.Tastes like strawberry-flavored chalk. Protein shakes have never been my thing, but I'm going to sit here and drink it.

I glance up at a bird hopping through some branches nearby. It's been two months since Mike's funeral, and this is my first time coming back. First time I've had the courage to face him without Londyn beside me. She's been telling me a steady stream of 'it wasn't your fault.'

But it was. It fucking was.

"Mike," I say to the headstone. To the air. To no one. "I wanted to tell Mona everything." My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. "I was going to tell Mona some version of the truth about how you died. I had it all planned. I was going to show up at her door and confess. Tell her how I failed to check my messages. How I let my guard down. I can never tell anyone about the yacht, but I wanted Mona to understand that you died because of my fuck-up. Of course, I wouldn't tell her the gory details of—" I think of those pictures. The dismemberment. My voice is shaking too much so I take a moment to let some of it out. No one's around, and that's what this place is for.

When I'm a little more settled, I wipe my face and choke down more artificial strawberry chalk.

"Londyn wanted to come with me when I talked to your wife. She said she'd be there to support me while I faced your family. But I couldn't let her. This is my burden to carry. Declan and Sienna—those are my friends you've never met—they flew down with us. They stayed with her at the hotel while I went to your house. I don't like the thought of Londyn alone, even though no one is after her now."

The memory of the day I faced Mona burns fresh. Walking up the familiar driveway, seeing Noah's bike abandoned on the lawn, Mateo's chalk drawings on the sidewalk. Normal life continuing despite the crater Mike's death had left in me.

"When Mona opened the door, I was prepared to break the news. I had my whole confession ready. But she already knew. She just... collapsed in my arms, sobbing."

I press the heel of my hand against my eyes, trying to push back the moisture gathering there. I've spent the past month breaking down randomly, and my head has been throbbing for days from it.

"Mona said officers had already come and told her everything. They said you were in pursuit of a kidnapper. There was a car crash, then a fire. That your body was burned..." I can't finish my sentence and voice the lie that became Mike's official story.

Victor's cleanup crew had been thorough. Whether they were real cops on his payroll or just his men who were great actors, I'll never know. But they'd convinced Mona not to view the body and said it would be better to remember Mike as he was. A day later, they'd delivered a box of ashes. I knew that wasn't him, but I couldn't tell her that.

I desperately wanted to tell her the truth. God, I wanted to. But what good would it do at that point? She was already devastated and trying to figure out how to raise the boys without Mike. And it's not like the truth would bring justice. Victor's too powerful for that.

I can't drink any more chalk, so I set the protein drink aside. Dampness from the grass has soaked through my jeans, but I don't care. I lean against the headstone, thinking about Mike's funeral. It was a beautiful service. Everyone came. Family, friends. There were old Marine buddies, old clients. The church didn't have room for that many people, so they moved some speakers outside so the overflow crowd could hear.

Londyn and I were there an hour early and could've sat front row. But I couldn't bring myself to be inside. We lingered on the outskirts of the overflow, listening to the faint voice of the priest and then the friends and family who shared stories of Mike's life.

Finally, I couldn't stand the guilt of knowing how much pain I had caused all those people. We left early.

"I've visited Mona a few times since your funeral," I say, digging my fingers into the soil. "I can't look your boys in the eyeknowing their dad is dead because I couldn't do my fucking job. Londyn keeps telling me it wasn't my fault. She says you knew the risks. That you stayed because that's who you were: loyal, courageous, never backing down from a fight. And maybe that's true. But it doesn't change how I feel…"

The words dissolve into more sobs I can't hold back. I bend forward until my forehead touches the grass, shoulders shaking with the burden of grief I've been carrying.

It takes several long minutes before I can speak again. When I sit up, dirt clings to my palms and knees. I look at my palms and laugh. "Fuck, I'm a mess, aren't I?" I glance up at the bright sky. "You remember that day in the Marines? I'd just been promoted to Sergeant and I was spiraling. You took me out to shooting practice and told me to get my shit together." I laugh again and wipe my eyes. "You said it doesn't matter how many people are counting on me and the pressure I feel. Don't think about that. Focus on what needs to be done. Focus on the target and shoot. One thing at a time. And if I could do that, then everything would work out. I've always followed that advice."

Has it worked? I don't know. But maybe I'm getting off-topic.

I brush a leaf off the headstone. "Well… just wanted to tell you that your family isn't alone. Everyone is taking care of them. Your sister-in-law moved in. She was there when your son was born. I'm sure you already know that Mona named him Mike." Little Mike Jr.—a baby who will never know his father. Makes my chest feel like it's caving in. "Mona's surrounded by family. Both sides. Someone's always at the house cooking, cleaning, watching the boys. She's drowning in love and casseroles. I guessthe universal response to grief is carb-based." I pull a picture from my pocket. It's a photo Mona messaged me a few days ago. I printed it out, the way Mike preferred. I set the photo against the headstone and then secure it with a rock so it doesn't blow away. "Here's a picture of all your boys together. Mateo lost another tooth and Noah's been teaching Mike Jr. how to fist bump."

I stand and dust off my jeans. "I'm going to watch over them. The rest of my life, I'll make sure your family is taken care of. I can't bring you back, but I can make sure they're safe. I promise I'll keep them safe."

The cemetery lawnmower has stopped, leaving only the sound of wind through the trees and my ragged breathing.

"Also… Londyn and I are moving to Australia. Londyn's pregnant." I manage a weak smile, imagining Mike's reaction to this news. I'm sure he'd wrap me in a bear hug and squeeze until I couldn't breathe. "We already bought a place on the beach, and Londyn loves it. I'll be trading in my combat boots for flip-flops."

My hand unconsciously moves to my chest, pressing against the scarred V beneath my shirt.

"I don't know what the hell happens next, but… I miss you, brother. Every fucking day. I'm sorry for failing, and it's something I'll never forgive myself for." I touch the top of his headstone, the granite warm under my palm. "But I promise you this—I'll live every day trying to be the man you thought I was. I'll protect my family the way I should've protected you. I'll raisemy kid to be brave and loyal and good, like you were. And I'll make sure your boys know what kind of man their father was."

I grab the shaker bottle and leave. But I'll be back again in a few months to visit Mike and check in on his family.

The walk back to the rental car doesn't feel any lighter, but I didn't expect it to; this is a weight I'll always carry. As I get in the car, I think of Londyn waiting at the hotel with Declan and Sienna. She'll ask how it went, and I'll tell her the truth—that it was hard, that I cried, that the guilt hasn't lessened but maybe I can learn to carry it better.

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