Page 60 of SEAL of Valor

He starts whistling and continues down the sidewalk before turning the corner and disappearing from my sight. The evening goes silent, and I rush forward, coming up on the corner, too.

Except, when I reach it, there’s no one there.

Just darkness and the soft glow from a streetlamp.

What just happened?

Chapter 17

Reese

“You know, honey, if you keep mixing like that, you’re going to break the whisk.”

“Huh?” I look down at the bowl of brownie batter in my hand. “Come on,” I mutter, frustration mixing with every other emotion currently rolling around inside of me. Batter is splattered all over the sides of the bowl, my hands, and the counter.

My eyes fill, and I push the bowl aside to wash my hands.

“Honey, what’s going on?” My mom comes forward and offers me a towel.

“I’m just tired.”

“Reese Lillian Faye, you know better than to think I’m going to buy that story. Come here.” She pulls me over toward a stool at the counter, then pulls down two mugs I haven’t seen in a long, long time.

I smile through the tears still threatening to fall. When I was a kid, my mom designated two specific mugs as our “talking mugs.” They’re super simple, white mugs with faded hearts on the side, but she said they signified us opening our hearts.

Communication may not have been the greatest in my house, but whenever we had these mugs in our hands, that changed.

She starts the kettle, then puts some loose chamomile into two tea bags before turning to face me. “What’s going on, Sugar?”

How do I tell her?

“I’ve been keeping something from you, and I’m so sorry.” Suddenly, I’m not thirty-seven anymore. I’m a little girl, terrified to tell her mother the truth.

“Sugar, you don’t need to be sorry about anything.” She comes around and takes a seat on a stool, then turns to face me.

“I—” Shutting my eyes tightly, I focus on the words that need to come out. If I can’t have closure with Weston, maybe talking to my mom will help me take a step in that direction. “Weston and I slept together. Back before. When we were dating.”

She arches a brow. “Okay.”

“It wasn’t his idea. I actually pushed him into it, and afterward, we decided that we wanted to do things right, so we planned on getting married before we took that step again.” She’s quiet as she listens, then reaches forward and takes my hands. “I got pregnant that night, and⁠—”

“Oh, honey.”

“We wanted the baby so bad. Weston was so excited. We snuck away and got married in Charleston, and on the way back, he got the call about the accident.”

As I recount the moments to my mother, reliving each horrifying detail, I find a surprising layer of strength. The words just come pouring out of me, from the first moment I realized I was having a miscarriage to me telling Weston.

I told her about his pain. About mine. And finally, about how I gave up because dealing with it was too much.

By the time I’m finished, she and I are both crying.

“I’m so sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have kept it from you. I just—I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to face any of it.” The knot in my stomach has loosened, but the weight on my heart is suffocating.

“Sugar, you have nothing to apologize for.” Reaching up, she cups my cheek. “I’m glad you finally told me, and I am so very sorry you went through that alone.”

“I left him, Mom. I left him to suffer through everything alone.”

“Suffering is exactly what you did.”