Grace realized a bag of frozen potstickers had numbed her fingers. Rationally, she knew the news that had Jenni in a tizzy must be a misunderstanding. Her last date was two weeks ago, and she didn’t know anyone named Reynaldo Cruz, but she’d attended the University of Washington with at least four other Grace Kims. One of them probably had a fiancé. Hopefully the woman would change her last name.
She retrieved her laptop to uncover what another one of the Graces had going on.
The story was easy to find.
A Special Operations soldier named Reynaldo Cruz, twenty-nine years old, from her own 675-person hometown of Salito, had rescued a boy from an irrigation canal in Afghanistan. Climbing out, he’d stepped on a land mine. A reporter and a photographer had documented the incident, beginning with the child in the water and ending with the helicopter evacuation. The story was a blow for people who’d known him, but the hometown connection wasn’t what had motivated her sister to call.
That reason was the last picture of the online photo essay. It was the one with the slew of comments, the most shared, the one that mattered, in the juggernaut way that a temporary internet sensation mattered for a day or at most a week.
The close-up showed a printed photo of two people identified as the soldier’s fiancée and Sergeant Cruz. Spattered with ominous dark spots, the couple’s images stared from on top ofa pile of shredded clothing and used bandages. “Aftermath,” the photographer had titled the shot.
She zoomed her screen, dared it to change, but it remained her: Average Asian Girl eyes, medium-snub nose, forgettable mouth, oval face. The staff directory used that photo, and that blouse and suit hung in her closet. Her hair was longer now, but that was her.
Who the hell was Reynaldo Cruz? A shiver made her wrap her arms around her torso as she tried to guess why a soldier she didn’t know would carry her photo in Afghanistan—why?
Then the phone on the end of the breakfast bar rang, but talking to her family could wait until she had more answers. She checked the caller’s number: her boss.
“Grace, how are you?” His warmth and concern sounded genuine.
“Fine, I guess.” Words to describe her situation did not freaking exist.
“I’m sorry to phone so late, but I wanted to reassure you not to worry about the office or your annual review. Focus on your fiancé.”
His sympathy was too much. “But he’s—”
“Your hero needs you now. I’m proud that we can support a soldier’s loved ones. As an American, that’s my duty. If it was my daughter—” he broke off.
Crap. She’d forgotten his oldest child graduated from the Naval Academy next month.
“Your emergency leave is approved for next week so you can be at his side.” His worry projected through the phone to create an almost physical feeling of her condo filling with kindness and pressing on her to suffocation. “Hope it wasn’t presumptuous, but I also used my frequent flier miles to arrange a ticket for you to D.C. tomorrow night on the red-eye.”
“Washington, D.C.?” When her supervisor rambled at work about Pacific currents or ocean temperature models, she enjoyed following his thoughts, but this conversation was becoming surreal. She stared around her loft, hoping for rescue, even for an ugly clown to pop out screamingjoke’s on you!
“I heard soldiers arrive at Walter Reed Hospital within twenty-four to thirty-six hours, so you should go right away.”
“Right away?” The phone bounced against her cheek, and she realized her hands shook, perhaps from lack of food, or perhaps from the crazy events of this evening.
“When I say we’re behind you, it’s not a bumper sticker. If you need extra days from the leave bank, they’re yours.” It sounded like his voice cracked. “We care, Grace. You’re part of the Fisheries team. We want to help.”
A response seemed to be expected, so she whispered her thanks.
“By the way, congratulations. Have you set a date?”
“Ahhh—” She didn’t want to lie, but the knowledge that he’d reserved a plane ticket for her stuck the truth in her throat.
“I’m sorry.” He half laughed. “My wife would flash-freeze me. A wedding must be the last thing on your mind.”
“Er, yes.” Lies by omission were still lies, and still tasted like cardboard.
How, she wondered after they’d disconnected, was she going to tell her boss that the latest American hero wasn’t her fiancé, he was a liar?
“Grace! Grace!” a familiarvoice called from across the check-in area at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. Her sister, Jenni, approached pushing a luggage cart that held a largecardboard apple box. “Ha! Thought you could sneak away like you always do.”
“Jenni.” Even at ten p.m., her sister’s lipstick looked fresh and her long hair was tangle free, making Grace aware that she had chosen to wear fleece and clogs for the red-eye flight.
The airport wasn’t crowded this late on Saturday nights. Grace was the next customer at the counter. Her plane started boarding in less than an hour, but apparently the way her boss had arranged the ticket required her to see a desk attendant, which didn’t leave her time to deal with Jenni. Five minutes earlier and she would’ve missed the unexpected Spanish Inquisition.
“Glad I caught you before you checked luggage.” Jenni wheeled the cart through the exit lane to reach Grace.
