Callie Barnes slid a chicken pot pie into the microwave and closed the door, ready to set the timer when she heard the rumble of a motorcycle in the distance. It grew closer and then abruptly stopped. Her heart skipped a beat, and a smile lifted the corner of her mouth. Grady. She hadn’t seen him in a while. A long while, actually.

She set the timer, sighed, and peeked out the kitchen window, knowing what would happen next, but maybe one day . . . The moment she brushed aside the kitchen curtain, which looked over the east side of the street, the rumble of the engine started again, the headlight came on, illuminating a narrow cone down her street, and then the bike pulled a U-turn and disappeared.

Grady. A distant constant in her life, one that she liked even though it frustrated her to no end that he wouldn’t come speak to her in person. She knew Grady had always had a sort of crush on her, even when she married David. She was pretty sure that David had known as well, but he’d trusted Grady—and her—not to act on that attraction. Because yes, she had always been attracted to Grady, too, but in the end, David had won her heart. The two of them were complete opposites; Grady tall and broad and muscular, David shorter and lean. David had been dependable, the safe choice. And yet Grady’s very physical presence had always instigated a tingle deep in her belly. She accepted it though she never would have acted on it.

And now?

She shook her head. It had become part of a routine, not scheduled and often intermittent, but over the past nine months, she had heard that bike so many times, always stopping several houses down from her small bungalow. He never knocked on her door, never approached her even when she spotted him sitting on his bike when she happened to be out in the front yard. She’d offer a wave, and he would lift a hand in greeting, then start the bike again and disappear.

Why did he do it? Why did he continue to watch her? Why didn’t he just come in, talk to her, and tell her what he was thinking, what he was feeling?

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered, watching the glass tray in the microwave turn, the chicken pot pie turning with it. She knew why Grady remained on the outskirts of her life, watching over her. Grady and her husband David had been best friends for years, way before Callie had met David. Before David was deployed for the last time. Before David had been killed in Afghanistan. She knew that Grady felt somehow responsible, but they had never talked about it, not even after Grady had been discharged. Not even after Grady had escorted David’s remains back from the combat zone, guarding his coffin, sitting with it, refusing to let it out of his sight.

Grady felt guilty for not keeping David alive, blaming himself for something unknown. Grady had stood by her side at the funeral, silent and introverted, yet a comforting, strong presence beside her. She knew that if her knees collapsed, that if she crumbled into a bout of heart-wrenching tears, Grady would be there, wrapping a protective and sturdy arm around her shoulder, holding her upright. But she hadn’t fallen apart. She hadn’t collapsed, at least not in public for anyone to witness. She was an army wife. An army widow.

She waited for the pot pie to finish cooking, the top bubbling. She should eat better. She should take the time to cook, but she really didn’t have the time. She had enough energy to struggle through her days but not much else. She worked two jobs, not just to get by financially, but to keep her busy, to prevent herself from giving up, from wallowing in self-pity, from becoming the recluse she feared she’d become after David died. Now she worked part-time as a certified nursing assistant at a long-term care center a couple of miles from the house. She also had a second job as a 911 dispatcher with the Oklahoma City Police Department. So when did she have time to cook?

She turned away from the microwave and moved out of the kitchen and into the small dining room, staring at a table that was designed for six but rarely sat anyone. More often than not, she ate at the kitchen counter off a paper plate and using plastic silverware, not even having the energy to wash dishes. She wandered through her small yet comfortable house. Not a home, not anymore. Just a house. A structure.

Callie moved through the small living room, eying the furniture that she and David had picked out: a simple loveseat, an armchair, a couple of end tables and a small entertainment center. Dust had accumulated on the shelves of the entertainment center. She needed to dust but didn’t have the energy. She tried not to look at the photographs adorning the wall over the couch, all different sizes, all of them of her and David during happier times. She wandered down the short hallway and passed the doorway to a small room on the left that she and David had used as their office of sorts, the place where they had their computer, paid their bills, and made plans for the future. To the right was the bedroom with the queen size bed with brass headboard and footboard, a small end table, and a dresser. The top two drawers were his, the bottom two hers because she was shorter than he was. His T-shirts, underwear, and socks were still in those drawers. She knew she should get rid of them, use the space, but what was the point? She wore a uniform to the nursing home, another uniform to work at the police dispatch center. When she was off, she wore sweats or lounge pants, sometimes David’s flannel pajama bottoms, with T-shirts or sweatshirt completing her trendy ensemble.

At the end of the shotgun hallway stood the bathroom. That was it. Her small bungalow. A house, not a home. Out front was a postage-stamp-sized front yard, slightly larger than the backyard, both of which had been pretty much neglected. She kept the grass alive and somewhat green, but that was about it. No spring or summer flowers in well-tended beds like her neighbors had. She paid a teenager down the street to mow the front and back every week during spring and summer, and since she was rarely at the house anyway, to water as needed.

The beeping of the microwave prompted her back into the kitchen. The pot pie was done, part of the insides having bubbled all over the edges of the box, making a mess on the glass tray. She sighed, opened the door, and carefully reached in. She placed the pot pie on the counter and stared at it. She wasn’t really hungry, but she had to eat.

Geez, she really needed to get out of this funk. But it wasn’t a funk anymore. It was full-fledged depression. To say that she had yet to recover from David’s death was an understatement. Everywhere she looked in this house were reminders of David, of the life they shared that was now over. She should move, but where? While it was hard to stay here, it was the last place David had lived. She couldn’t leave if she wanted to. Maybe someday.

She had met David when he’d been stationed at Fort Sill in Lawton, not even hour’s drive west of Oklahoma City. That’s when she’d also met Grady. Those two had immediately bonded when they’d met, and even at the time, they’d all known that as long as David was involved in her life, so too would be Grady.

It was odd, the way the three of them had come together. She came from Iowa to attend Oklahoma State University. Grady, originally from Richmond, Virginia, and David, hailing from Concord, New Hampshire, had met during basic training at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, and had been stationed together at Fort Sill prior to their deployments, both of them specializing in artillery survey.

Now that David was gone, she supposed that Grady felt it was his duty to keep watch over her. It was heartwarming and bittersweet at the same time. One of these days, she would move, find an apartment, but for now, she would stay here. With her widow’s benefits and both her paychecks, she could afford to stay here for a while. She didn’t have the strength to go looking for apartments, or to even start packing up her life.

Until then, she would accept Grady’s long-distance watching, even though at times she grew extremely frustrated with him. It was sad how things turned out so badly for him. Of all the people in the world who didn’t deserve a dishonorable discharge, it was Grady Corben. He had dedicated himself to the army, had earned a chestful of medals and two Purple Hearts. He’d tried to save David’s life. She wasn’t clear on the circumstances that had led to Grady’s discharge, but she did know that something had happened right after David’s death. After the funeral, he’d returned to Afghanistan to complete his tour. She knew it had something to do with the deaths of some civilians, but from what she had been able to find out, and it wasn’t much, those civilians had belonged to a group of insurgents hiding deep in the mountains of Afghanistan.

Callie dug into the pot pie, shaking her head, pushing Grady from her thoughts. She had enough of her own worries. Not only the stress of two jobs and dealing with unassuaged grief, but an unwanted suitor. A suitor who left flowers on her porch and little notes slid through the mail slot of her door, and, she suspected, who was responsible for a number of phone calls on her house phone. Yes, she still had a landline phone, used mainly for work, even though she did have a cell phone used for private stuff. Not that she had many friends. Oh, she got along well enough with the people at both her workplaces, but a best friend? A woman she could hang out with? Nope. She didn’t have the time nor the inclination, and least of all, the energy.

As for the so-called suitor, she wondered if it was David’s former lieutenant, who, not long after the funeral, had suggested that he take her out, to “get her mind off things.” She’d been shocked by the proposal. He was asking her out on a date just after her husband had died? As far as she knew, both he and David’s former lieutenant and captain were still stationed at Fort Sill, but she had never cared enough to look into it. The notes, the flowers, the calls, they were all from an unidentified source. She assumed it was the lieutenant, but she didn’t know for sure. It could be someone she worked with. Again, she didn’t have the energy to look into it. She just didn’t care.

She jolted out of her thoughts as her cell phone rang its default tone, at the same time vibrating in her back pocket. Chewing a piece of crust, she pulled the phone from her pocket and answered it without glancing at the screen. It was probably the nursing center, likely asking if she would pull an extra shift. Somebody probably didn’t show up for their shift. That wasn’t unusual, especially when the weather grew warmer after a long, cold winter.

“This is Callie,” she mumbled past the crust.

“Hi, Callie.” A male voice. She didn’t recognize it.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Mark Andrews, Captain Andrews . . .”

There was sudden hesitance in the voice, as if he was surprised she didn’t know who it was. Her mind went blank for a minute, and then, speak of the devil, she made the connection. David’s former captain, the one she had just been thinking about. Why was he calling her?

“I . . . I was just thinking about you,” he began. “I called to see if you got the flowers I sent yesterday. I remembered that it was the anniversary of the funeral . . .”

Not the anniversary of David’s death. The anniversary of his funeral. How odd. She tried to recall Captain Andrews . . . a man in his early forties, slightly balding, the first indications of a protruding belly, his body softening with age. He, like David’s lieutenant, had seemed to show an inordinate amount of interest in her after David’s untimely death and funeral. Mere concern or something else? She didn’t know, and she didn’t care.

She frowned. “You’re the one that sent me flowers?” The bouquet had been left on her doorstep three days ago. She hadn’t known who they were from, found that a little creepy, and thrown them away. Besides, she didn’t have a vase.

“Yes, I did. I’m sorry I didn’t leave a card, but I wasn’t sure how you would feel about that.”

Who sent flowers to be left on a doorstep without leaving a note? At a minimum, the sender’s name? Then she made the connection. There had also been a note left in her mailbox last month. It had simply said, “Hope you’re doing okay. Mark.”

She was polite and thanked him for the flowers, although she certainly didn’t need to be reminded of one of the most horrible days of her life. The day the commander of Fort Sill had handed her the folded American flag that had draped David’s coffin, and, of course, the moment she had watched David’s casket being lowered into the ground.

“I just wanted you to know that we . . . that I hadn’t forgotten about you,” Andrews said softly. “If there’s anything you ever need, I hope you know that you can call me.”

“Thank you, Captain—”

“You can call me Mark,” he interrupted.

“Thank you, Captain Andrews, but it isn’t necessary. I’m doing just fine, thank you.” She didn’t need or want his attention and tried to think of a way to politely discourage him without hurting his feelings.

A pause, a clearing of the throat, and then he concluded the nearly one-sided conversation. “Well, just so you know, I’m here if you ever need anything.”

She mumbled an innocuous reply and then disconnected, frowning down at the phone screen. How had he gotten her private cell phone number? The phone call left her feeling uncertain and more than a little uncomfortable. She stared down at the chicken pot pie, her appetite completely gone. Did the captain think that she was interested in him? How could he? How could he think she would consider starting a new relationship so soon after David’s death? Yes, it had been a year ago, but as far she was concerned, it still felt like yesterday.

It would always feel like yesterday.