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“It’s just a little piece of metal. Doesn’t mean shit.”
“It means something to me,” I hissed, closing the box to press against my chest.
Moving over to my dresser, I laid it gently on top, then framed it with all the other boxes from the medals he’d received after being in the military for so many years and doing so many incredible things.
“They don’t just give this out to everyone,” I mumbled, staring down at the assortment of his life achievements.
“Like I said—”
“I’m not an idiot, Ash. You’ll never be able to convince me that it means nothing to you. You resent it, sure, but it means something. These are a physical representation of all your years of sacrifice and service.”
He just shrugged.
I went back to the box and checked it one more time, making sure there was nothing else inside when I saw a glimmer of metal. Down, shoved in the corner were his dog tags; two sets of them. One was silver, and I smiled at the simple A. J. Kane written on them. USMC, blood type AB negative. I didn’t know that. Christian? I never knew he was a Christian.
The next pair was black, matte metal, covered with black electrical tape on the edges instead of the rubber silencers that were on the silver set. These were his Raider tags, and the silver pair were from his Marine days.
“Why don’t you ever wear these?” I asked him, holding up both pairs.
He looked up at what I was doing, holding a few pairs of his boxer briefs in his hands as he unpacked his duffle now.
“Why would I? I’m not a Marine anymore.”
“Babe, once a Marine, always a Marine,” I teased.
“Fine, then I didn’t want to be that guy who has to let everybody know he used to be a Marine. What’s the fucking point?”
“I don’t know,” I mused, touching the silver set. “I would be proud to wear it, if I were you. Hell, I’d wear them even though they’re yours. I’m so proud of you and everything you put into this. I know it’s painful to think about, but this was a big part of you. It still is, if we’re being honest.”
He shrugged.
Moving over to him, I lifted the silver ones and put them over his head, and he let me.
“I mean, you kept them for a reason,” I whispered, pressing the little identification tags against his chest.
“Memorabilia,” he said, shrugging again.
“I think you should be proud to wear them. Plus, it looks fucking hot.”
He smiled at me, pressed a kiss to the top of my head, then went about his business putting things away, still wearing the tags.
I looked forward to some good old missionary with those tags brushing against my naked chest with every one of his solid thrusts.
Whew, down girl. I reminded myself. We still had stuff to do. No time for hanky panky.
Actually, we were done. By the time I’d emptied one bag, Ash had finished two, stuffing his things into the top drawer that I’d emptied out for him and into the few inches of closet space I’d managed to make by shoving my own clothes further over.
“What do you want to do with your mom’s things?” I asked him, looking at the stack of pictures and the blanket.
“Nothing yet. I’m going to put them in some new frames, then, I don’t know. How would you feel if we hung them up?”
“I have the perfect place,” I admitted, taking his hand to pull him along out the bedroom door.
There was a little spot just outside the bedroom door where I had pictures of me and my family hanging there. On the opposite wall, it was blank.
“What about here?” I pointed to the blank wall.
“Looks good,” he agreed, not even bothering to look at the damn wall.
