"So," Hale said when he was fully dressed. "This was fun."
Elliot let out a small awkward laugh in a desperate attempt to cover up what he was really feeling.
Crossing the room, Hale stopped in front of him. He searched Elliot’s eyes, jaw working. It almost looked as if he was holding something back. Then he leaned in and kissed him.
It was over before Elliot even got to kiss him back.
"Take care of yourself," Hale said.
"You too. Don’t do anything stupid."
"Can’t promise that." Hale smiled, then headed for the door. "See you around, Shaw."
He was gone, and Elliot was alone.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. One night. That's all this had been. One night that would have to last until—whenever. If ever.
Elliot forced himself to get up and start packing. He had a life to get back to. Responsibilities.
But as he checked out of the hotel and drove back to Fort Liberty, he couldn't stop thinking about Hale.
Elliot had spentthreeyears trying to forget.
He had a feeling the next three would be as unsuccessful.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ELLIOT
Four years after Selection
The chapel was too warm,the air thick with the scent of lilies and furniture polish. Elliot stood in the front row of Arlington National Cemetery's memorial chapel, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the flag-draped casket twenty feet away.
His mother wouldn’t have wanted a military funeral.
But she'd been a General's wife for twenty-three years, an officer's wife for ten years before that, and she'd worn the role like a uniform—pressed, proper, never a thread out of place.
So what Elliot’s mother had wanted didn’t matter.
The chaplain rambled about service and sacrifice, about a life lived in devotion to duty and family.
The words washed over Elliot. He'd heard this speech more than once.
His mother hadn't died in combat. She'd died of pancreatic cancer in a hospital bed at Walter Reed,morphine drip keeping the pain at bay while her body slowly gave up. Six months from terminal diagnosis to death. Not enough time to say everything that needed to be said. More than enough time to watch her fade away.
His father was beside him, ramrod straight in his dress blues, jaw set, eyes forward. The General hadn't cried, which surprised no one. He did nothing that might suggest he was human underneath all that brass and ribbon.
Elliot had no idea what his father was actually feeling. Regret? Sadness? Did he wish he’d spend more time with her? Elliot couldn’t know.
The General had made the arrangements with military efficiency, selected the casket, approved the program, and delivered the eulogy without his voice wavering once.
Elliot had planned on saying something too. Three pages, edited down to one, then down to half a page he’d finally decided were enough. He’d read it over this morning in his hotel room and knew immediately he wasn’t going to use it.
Not here. Not in front of two hundred people who’d known his mother as The General’s wife and nothing else.
When the service ended, people filed past offering condolences. Elliot shook hands, accepted sympathies, said "thank you" so many times the words lost meaning.
His father accepted condolences like he accepted reports from subordinates. When someone tried to offer comfort, to say something personal about his wife, The General redirected to logistics. The reception. What time people should arrive. Next steps.
