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Hell, if that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.
My fingers start opening the seal on the envelope. It’s not like I promised her I wouldn’t open this before I retire. My honor’s not at stake here. And if she couldn’t say the words “I love you” to me the way I wanted to say them to her, then I can at least look at this and know that she did it with some kind of caring—of love—in her heart.
I pull out a stack of papers and fan them out for a moment, looking at all the headache-inducing forms. The government doesn’t make anything easy.
Then I read the note she handwrote on top.
Happy retirement!
I love picturing you on this day, ready to start a new adventure. I worried this day wouldn’t come. There was no stopping it. I worried every day about you, even though we were apart. Because you deserve the kind of person who will worry about you.
I hope these papers will help get you started in this next stage of your life. I believe in your dream, Dax, the same way you always believed in mine. Thank you for being there for me when I needed you.
I don’t know what the future will bring, but I’ll never change my cell phone number. And I hope you’ll call me if you need any help setting up your new nonprofit.
I hope you’ll call me. Period.
I touch where she wrote her cell phone number for me. I find myself laughing. Did she really think I’d forget her number?
Holy shit. Mason was right. She’s going to worry anyway. For all the crappy advice I’ve gotten from him this summer, he finally nailed something on the head.
I’ve already made a beeline to my door and am taking the stairs two at a time as I head to my car parked out front.
Well, hell, that changes everything.
I need to see her.
I don’t want her thinking she’s wasting all her worry on a guy who doesn’t love her. Because I do.
I climb into my Jeep and tap the voice recognition button after I hit the ignition.
“What’s the traffic look like?” I ask.
“Traffic is a band founded by Steve Windwood in 1967. Would you like me to play a song by Traffic?”
“No. What’s the traffic on Highway 80 headed to Tybee Island from Savannah, Georgia?”
“Interstate 80 does not go through the state of Georgia.”
“Highway 80 notI-80.” Frustration building, I try something new. “How long will it take me to get to Tybee Island from my location.”
“Your location services are turned off. Would you like me to turn on location services?”
“Yes, dammit.”
“Location services are now turned on.”
“Great. How long will it take to get to Tybee Island from my location?”
“It will take forty-five minutes to get to Tybee Island from your location.”
Perfect. The Labor Day weekend traffic hasn’t started up yet since it’s just Wednesday. And if traffic just stays the same, I wouldn’t even piss off my CO if he found out I strayed further from base a bit more than I should right now.
Because right now, what my CO wants is taking a back seat to whatIwant.
And all I want is to tell Millie I love her.
