glittered off the ocean. Sweat dripped down my back and chest and I fought the limp in my left leg for as long as was healthy. A few more steps and I stopped, shaking out my thigh as breath ripped through my lungs. My doctors called the fact that I was running at all nothing short of miraculous, but I was annoyed that my body continued to betray me time and time again. I still had miles left in me, but my damn leg was done.
I raked my hands through my blonde hair and stared out over the water, drowning in deep thoughts. My life wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to be here, drifting and useless. I wasn’t supposed to wake up panting, drenched in sweat, shivering and shaking in fear until I remembered where I was. I was supposed to be making the world a better place, not wasting time and taking up space and being forced to give up long before I was done.
Everything I thought I was or ever would be, died back in Afghanistan. Every hope. Every dream. Every plan I had for the future. Before, I had purpose. Since the incident, I merely existed. Life was little more than a string of days to get through. Nothing more. Nothing less. With one last look at the waves rolling up to the beach, I turned and made my way back to my car, accepting my pace, walking slowly so as not to limp.
The docs assured me I wouldn’t do any more damage to my body as long as I listened to the warning signs. Over the last year, I had learned that pushing past the pain would leave me in agony for the next couple days.
So, time and time again, I walked right up to the pain, stared it in the face, and then turned around and sent myself home. Some days were better than others. Some were worse. But on the whole, I lasted longer than I used to, so I counted it as a win.
As I approached my car, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I slipped it out and answered a call from my younger brother as gulls strutted in front of me, keeping a safe distance and a watchful eye in case I had food to toss their way.
“Hit me with the good stuff, Wy-guy.” I yanked open the door and pulled out a towel to swipe over my face.
“I have good stuff, and I have bad stuff. Whatcha want first?”
I ran the towel through my hair and closed my eyes. “Let’s get the bad stuff out of the way.”
“All right. Bad stuff it is.” Wyatt paused. “Dad passed away last night.”
And so, that was that.
I had been waiting years to hear those words. For most of my adult life really. I knew for a fact all five of us Hutton kids wished our father would curl up and die more than once throughout our lives. Despite outward appearances, despite what the community thought about his philanthropy, despite the father he was when we were little, it turned out he wasn’t a nice man, after all.
“And the good stuff?” I asked my brother.
Wyatt huffed into the phone. “Dad passed away last night.”
I bobbed my head in agreement…understanding…acceptance. The asshole had held on too long as it was. “How’s Mom?”
“You know Mom. She’s taking it gracefully. Mourning the loss of the man she fell in love with while celebrating the loss of the man she ended up with.”
I never understood why she stayed after things got bad. She said it was for us kids, but that never made sense. Mom was too smart not to see the effect it had on us once Dad started drinking. We scattered to the wind as soon as we could, all of us but Wyatt, who said he stayed to help with the business. What he wouldn’t admit, but what everyone knew, was that he stayed to keep Mom safe and sane.
The scattering of the Hutton tribe was so complete, my sister couldn’t bring herself to make an appearance when I got hurt. Wyatt, Caleb, and Eli put their heads down and stood in stony silence next to Mom and Dad in the hospital room, but Harlow sent a text and a fruit basket and called it a day.
Wyatt droned on about the funeral arrangements, which would be massive to sate the public’s grief. No one understood why most of us Hutton kids