The Husband Hour by Jamie Brenner (56)

The invitation arrived at the Green Gable on a windy day in March.

It had a New York City return address.

Lauren knew what it was before she opened it. She left the rest of the mail, most of which was for her parents along with a few clothing-store-sale postcards for Stephanie, on the counter. She sat alone at the kitchen table with the envelope, looking out at the pool covered with its winter tarp and fighting her mixed feelings.

Matt had called her a few months earlier when the film was accepted in the Tribeca Film Festival. It was a big deal, because he’d missed the application for Sundance recutting the film to omit Stephanie and Ethan. He was upset about not making Sundance, but it was the first moment Lauren fully let herself believe that he had kept his word.

She still hadn’t left the island, not even to visit Matt, whom she thought about every day. Not even to visit Rory’s grave on the five-year anniversary of his death.

Instead, on that day, she had walked to the edge of the ocean, the sky as gray as slate, the air misty and freezing. She’d held Ethan’s hand, and together they tossed a few flowers into the sea.

“The waves are bringing them back,” he said.

“That’s okay,” she told him. “Let them rest here for a while.” Standing by the freezing water, she had thought that five years was a long time and yet, in the big picture of life, it was no time at all.

Lauren carefully tore open the envelope and pulled out a stiff white card.

“Can’t you just send me a digital copy of the film?” she had asked when he called. “I mean, even as just a professional courtesy.”

She had donated funds, through the Polaris Foundation, toward finishing the film.

“I want to see it with you. No—scratch that,” he said. “I want to see you.”

“You could come here,” she’d said. But he hadn’t, and she knew that he was right not to. At some point, she had to decide what he meant to her, what she was willing to mean to him. Eight months after he’d left the island, she still didn’t know.

But she did know that she had to see the movie—if not before the public saw it, then at least along with it on opening night.

She booked a hotel room and left Longport at ten in the morning on the day of the screening. By the time she was in the standstill traffic queue to get through the Holland Tunnel, she felt sweaty and her heart was beating fast. She texted Matt in a panic. He responded: That’s how everyone feels on approach to the Holland.

She wrote back, Very funny.

I have to do press now for a few hours. Do you want me to pick you up later for the screening?

She told him no, that she would meet him at the theater. A pause before the dots appeared to show him texting back, then disappeared. He still didn’t believe she would actually show up.

Finally: Okay. Your name will be at the box office. Text me when you get there.

The traffic inched forward.

Lauren stood on the corner of Fifty-Eighth Street and Fifth Avenue, next to Bergdorf Goodman and half a block from the Plaza Hotel. Surrounded by the grand buildings and bustling pedestrians, she felt her trepidation give way to excitement.

She wore new clothes she’d bought for the occasion: tapered black pants, a crisp white blouse, and a pale blue spring cardigan. The only thing that wasn’t new was the heart necklace she had on. She’d come to realize she didn’t have to throw everything away. And she didn’t want to.

Lauren expected to feel exposed and vulnerable walking into the theater, but the crowds of people helped her feel perfectly anonymous. Then she saw the theater marquee with the movie poster, the title American Hero: The Rory Kincaid Story in red, white, and blue with a close-up image of Rory in his U.S. Rangers uniform and beret in front of the American flag. It made the film seem more real, but at the same time, looking at Rory’s face, she felt like she was seeing a stranger. His time in the military had taken on a distant, dreamlike quality in her mind, while memories of high school were still so sharp, she could be walking in the supermarket, hear a song from 2004, and it was like he was right there next to her.

“Here we go,” she whispered to herself.

The line to get into the theater stretched all the way to Sixth Avenue. Adjusting her sunglasses and pulling her hair around her face, she followed Matt’s direction to check in with a festival rep at the box office.

The rep seemed very young. When Lauren gave her name, the woman startled as if she’d been confronted with a celebrity.

“Mrs. Kincaid, we are so honored you could be with us tonight,” she said. “I’ll take you to your seat.”

The theater was empty except for a group of people standing in the front, under the curtained screen and before a narrow stage. She spotted Matt immediately but he was engrossed in conversation with a guy setting up a microphone stand. Lauren followed the festival rep down the aisle to the front row.

“Thanks,” Lauren said to her. She didn’t want to sit there—wasn’t sure she should be in the very front row. But then Matt noticed her, and the expression on his face told her she was exactly where she was supposed to be. With him. She realized it was maybe the height of stupidity to have planned their reunion in such a public and stressful situation.

He came over and hugged her, holding her just a beat longer than a friendly greeting.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said. “Come meet some people.”

Before she could hesitate, she was shaking hands with the woman who had cofounded the festival with Robert De Niro. Matt introduced her to his producer, Craig Mason.

“Great to finally meet you,” Craig said. “Matt was saying you should come aboard for our next film.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “This film fit into the mission of the Polaris Foundation but I’m not making a habit of funding films.”

“Actually, I thought you’d be great as a researcher on the next one,” Matt said.

She looked at him. “Research? Really? What’s the next project?”

“I was hoping we could talk about it over dinner tomorrow night.”

People began filing in.

“I need to borrow you for a minute,” a tall African American man in a charcoal suit who was wearing an earpiece said to Matt. The two of them walked to the mic, leaving Lauren to find her way back to her seat.

She resisted the urge to turn around and watch the seats fill, but the buzz of conversation grew around her until it felt deafening. The energy in the room was electric. Matt’s producer and a few other people filled out her row, leaving room for Matt in the aisle seat next to her, which he used for just a second before jumping up again to greet someone.

A photographer wearing a press pass took photographs of the room before focusing her camera on Lauren and the front row. She asked the producer for his name, then turned to Lauren.

“Can I please have your name? This is for the New York Times.”

Lauren hesitated for a second, causing the woman to look at her more closely.

“Lauren Kincaid,” she said.

“You’re Rory Kincaid’s widow?”

Lauren nodded.

“Can I speak to you after the film?”

Again, Lauren hesitated. Five years, and she’d never spoken one word to the press. The lights dimmed, signaling the audience to get settled in their seats. It was happening. The time for truth had come.

“Yes,” Lauren said. “We can talk after the film.”

The man in the charcoal suit took the microphone and welcomed everyone to the festival and the premiere of “this important film.”

Matt slid into his seat.

“We are delighted to host the world premiere of American Hero: The Rory Kincaid Story. Five years after the death of hockey star turned soldier Rory Kincaid, American Hero takes on an emotional and challenging topic—head trauma in our athletes and soldiers. The people behind this film are dedicated to helping foster an informed and rational dialogue on the issue while honoring a man who inspired a nation. I am thrilled to share this film with you tonight and honored to introduce director Matt Brio.”

The room erupted in applause. Matt jumped up and returned to the stage and took the mic. Lauren’s stomach did a tiny flip, a combination of nerves and pride—for Rory, and for Matt.

“Thanks to all of you for being here today. And a special thanks to my producer, Craig Mason, and to the Polaris Foundation.” More applause. When it quieted down, Matt said, “When I began this film, I found a motto engraved above the entrance to Rory Kincaid’s high school: Enter to Learn, Go Forth to Serve. It was an amazing benediction to me, because I went into this project haunted by this question: Why do some men and women answer their nation’s call when so many others are deaf to it? I wanted to illustrate what it means to be a hero. And what I found was that even our greatest heroes are vulnerable and flawed, just like the rest of us. So while they bravely go forth to serve, we need to do a better job of serving them. I hope that after watching this film, you’ll agree. Thank you, and enjoy the film.”

The crowd erupted in vigorous applause. Lauren watched the curtain rise on the giant screen in front of her. Matt returned to his seat.

She smiled at him.

“You ready?” he asked, leaning closer. He started to put his arm around her but then hesitated.

Lauren reached for his hand.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes locked on his. “I’m finally ready.”