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The words hit Easy like a blow to the chest.
“What?” Easy said glaring at Shark. “What did you say?” His voice broke, and he had to wait for the nearly suffocating panic to pass.
Tex dropped his hand and turned, his face ashen and carved by strain, his eyes shadowed by some emotion Easy couldn’t decipher. “He didn’t say anything. He got an ass chewing. I saw it on the tape—you’re not ready to be back. And until you get your shit together, you’re on medical leave.”
Tex turned away again, but Easy went after him. “I’m all right. It’s just some residual prob—”
Tex whirled. “Do you want thatresidualto blow back on your brothers?” He stepped closer. “Do you know what kind of hole your death would have left in this team? You’re our new kid, you’re our heart, proven yourself during every mission and the last one was no different.” He grabbed Easy’s shoulder and squeezed, a lame but effective bro-move. “I’m not taking chances with my guys. Take the leave, Easy, and don’t come back to this team until you are one hundred percent.”
So, it was only six hours later that he was back in Williston, Florida, a taxi dropping him to the curb of his parents’ home, a sweet little ranch with Spanish influences, red terracotta roof tiles, arches, and a tan stucco exterior. The yard was immaculate. His parents kept up with the plants and bushes, especially his dad’s cactus garden. He went up the walk, the grass a vibrant green, mostly year around because it often rained like clockwork every afternoon. Grass was a stretch, it was more like a viny ground cover, springy and solid under his bare feet.
He entered the alcove to the front door, but before he could reach for the handle, it opened, and his sister flashed through like she had been shot from a cannon. She hit him hard in the chest and he dropped his duffel, taking a step back as he caught her in his arms.
“Dammit, Matty, you never tell us when you’re coming home! We could have had a celebration, with a cake even.”
He chuckled, hugging his sister, Christina—or “Chrissy” as they called her—as hard as she was hugging him. The warmth of her greeting mixed with her acerbic tongue was always welcome. “You just want cake,” he teased.
She let him go and smirked beneath her dark bangs. “You know me too well.” The rest of her hair was in two braids over her shoulders. She looked more like seventeen than she did twenty.
“Matthew Connor Hitchcock!” came a call from inside the house. His mother’s voice.
“Ooh, you’re in trouble, Matty.”
“I can hear the love in her voice.” He bent and picked up his duffel, his turn to smirk. “I’m her favorite.” He walked toward the house and his sister kicked him in the butt.
“You are not! It’s me.” She ducked into the house just ahead of him. “Mom, don’t we need some kind of cake or something?”
His mother chuckled as he walked into the living room. She was drying her hands on a kitchen towel, which she flung over her shoulder. “You’re a sight, young man. Let me look at you.”
“I don’t know what the big deal is, especially if we’re not getting cake. He probably brought his dirty laundry.”
“Chrissy, hush. I’ll make a cake.”
His sister clapped and hooted, then disappeared into the kitchen.
His mom sighed. “You look good, Matty. How have you been?” She eyed his duffel. “Is it full of dirty clothes?” There was a twinkle in her eyes. He could have argued that he’d gotten the leave unexpectedly and didn’t have time to wash. She was well aware he was a grown man and she, herself, had taught him how to fend for himself, but when he was home, he let her pamper him. It made her happy.
“Um…”
“Hand it over.” She gestured with her fingers.
“Mom, it’s heavy.”
Instead of burdening his mom with his bag, he set it down and went to her. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him hard. “It’s so good to have you home, Matty.”
He closed his eyes, his throat suddenly tight. He thought about what could have happened and how he’d kept the almost-drowning incident from his family. They didn’t need to know, and this was a visit he wanted to try to enjoy. If he told his mother, she would have that look on her face, the same one she had when he’d been eighteen and told her he’d enlisted in the Navy.
“Mom? Can we tell him about Logan?”
His mom shook her head. “Chrissy,” she scolded. “That’s for your brother to tell.”
“Ho, do my eyes deceive me? Is this my wayward son?”
Easy turned, his smile broad. For some reason, he got even more emotional seeing his dad. He couldn’t describe how close he was to the man who raised him. He was and continued to be a protective, affectionate, and encouraging father. He listened attentively, respected the mother of his children, and spent quality time with each of them even when he was beat down from his workday. He was one of Easy’s best teachers.
His dad was an older version of Easy, his hair shorter but still dark, and his eyes had a few more crinkles from the sun and smiling, the depths warm and affectionate. They hugged with a few back slaps.
“Did your mom give you hell for not telling us you were coming home?”
