I slid the knife out of my back pocket and bent down to cut through the layers of packing tape my mother had used on one of her moving boxes labeled “pictures and frames.” I flipped open the top to lean forward and peer into a neatly packed box full of familiar images of my childhood and other family members. At the very top was a picture of my mother and father on their wedding day.

My father was wearing a powder-blue suit and a black bow tie. The sleeves of my mother’s dress were to her wrists, with puffy shoulders adorned with jewels and lace. It was, by no measure, understated.

There had been one hundred and twelve people at the ceremony and reception, and the picture had been snapped by my now deceased Uncle, who had stood at the bottom of the church stairs while my parents came outside after officially becoming husband and wife. My mother, a dark-haired and beautiful young woman, was smiling up at my father, a massive, broad-shouldered man dressed in his formal military uniform.

I felt a light hand rest on my shoulder as my mother leaned around me to stare at the picture I had just pulled from the top of the box. “That is one of my favorites of your father,” she said softly. “He never liked pictures very much, and this is one of the only ones where he’s wearing his real smile.” She took the picture from me and ran her thumb over my dad’s face. Then she walked to the white trimmed fireplace and set the frame down in the middle of the mantle.

I stood and crossed my arms over my chest as my mother stood back to make sure the picture was centered. She sighed sadly then looked over at me. Her eyes were pink and puffy, as they had been for the last couple of weeks since I came home for my father’s funeral. She had good moments and bad moments, all spread out and jumbled in a chaotic and confusing order. One minute, she would be smiling and remembering him, and the next, she would be sobbing so uncontrollably that she would make me emotional.

And I was not a crier by any stretch.

But my dad was my hero. He always had been. And to lose him so suddenly after not seeing him for almost a year was weighing heavily on me. The heart attack had been swift and killed him almost instantly. At least, that was what the doctors told my mom. He had been at his local Legion, playing chess with some old friends when it happened. My mother had told me repeatedly since I got home that she wished she had been with him to say goodbye.

I was silently grateful that she hadn’t been. She didn’t need the memory of her only love collapsing to the floor, dead, burned into the back of her mind forever.

My mother sniffled and pushed her silver-framed glasses higher up her nose. She pulled a tissue from the depths of her sleeve, dabbed at her eyes, and then tucked it back inside before returning to the box at my feet to pull out more photos, which joined the one already on the mantle.

I helped her work quietly until a few more boxes were unpacked. There were more to bring from the old house, but my mother told me she wanted to stop for the day. “It’s too hard to do it in one big chunk. Too big of a change.”

“That’s fine, Ma. I understand. I can come back in a couple of days, and we can make another trip. A few boxes at a time. We’ll get it all done.”

The house she and my father lived in was the same one I grew up in, a traditional country home with four bedrooms, two living rooms, three bathrooms, and a large piece of property. It was too much house for an elderly woman.

With connections from high school, I found my mother a brand new one-bedroom condo not far from her old house. I didn’t want her to have to learn a new community. The smaller the changes, the better. The condo was perfect for her, and in time, she would form new habits, new routines, and eventually, this place would feel like home.

“How long do you have before you have to go back?” my mother asked as I went to the front door to leave. “Don’t they need you back on base?”

“I’m not going to go back, Ma. I want to stay here and be with you.”

Her eyes widened. “But what will you do for work? You love flying. You love your job and the boys on base. You don’t have to give all that up for me. I have friends here. I’ll be all right.”

I took her by the shoulders and gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s not just for you,” I said—only a small white lie. “I should have been around more. I missed out on a lot of time with Dad, and I regret that. This is where I want to be. I’ve applied for a Humanitarian Assignment here in Houston. I’m moving into my own place not far from here this weekend.”

My mother smiled, and for the first time since I’d been home, she looked genuinely happy. She reached up and patted my cheek. “You’re such a good son, Zachary. Wait here. I have some leftover chili in the fridge to send you home with. I’ll have to get used to cooking smaller recipes now.”

“No need. I’ll always be around to take extra food off your hands.”

She patted my cheek and shuffled back into the kitchen. She returned moments later with a container full of the chili I grew up on. She pressed it into my hands. “Now you heat that up on the stove, not the microwave. You hear? Microwaves ruin it.”

“Yes, Ma. Got it.”

“Good. I’ll see you in a few days. Say hi to Ryan for me.”

I leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Love you, Ma. Call me if you need anything.”

Ryan and I were meeting at his father’s bar, Hart’s Pub. When I pulled into the parking lot on my motorcycle, I realized how long I’d been away for. The place had been completely renovated. What used to be a small dingy pub was now a modern building two or three times its original size, with new wood siding and a porch out front littered with tables filled with customers sipping beers and margaritas in the shade.

I turned my bike off and swung my leg over the seat. I hung my helmet on the handle and tucked my gloves inside before heading up the steps and in through the saloon-style front doors.

I was greeted with the smell of grease and beer. That was the one thing that smelled the same.

The place was pretty busy for a Wednesday evening. Almost all the tables were full, and a young blonde hostess greeted me with a smile at the door. “Good evening, table for one?”

“Uh no, I’m meeting a buddy here. Ryan, the owner’s son.”

She smiled knowingly, then turned from her podium and pointed at the bar along the south wall. “He’s just there, sitting in the middle. Enjoy.”

“Thanks,” I said, and then I slipped by her and went to the bar, where I grabbed Ryan by the shoulders and squeezed.

He let out a laugh that reminded me of when we were kids, turned on his barstool, and slid to his feet. “Zach!” he said joyfully as he pulled me in for a one-armed hug and patted my chest. “You made it. It’s good to see you.”

I laughed and got onto the stool beside him. “You too, man. This place is hopping!”

Ryan grinned and looked around, pride twinkling in his eyes. “Yeah. Dad finally took my advice and gave her a facelift a few years ago. Now we can serve triple the clientele, and the exterior matches the good service.”

“You still helping out behind the bar from time to time?”

“Every now and then.” Ryan shrugged. “But not as often now. Work has really picked up over the last year, and my schedule is pretty tight.”

Ryan was a counselor at his own office here in Houston. He worked specifically with soldiers who were suffering from trauma. I’d referred more than a couple of friends to him over the last eight or so years.

“How’s your mom doing?” Ryan asked as he sipped his half-empty bottle of beer.

“She’s all right. Better than when I first got home, at least. It’s just a big adjustment for her.”

“And you?” Ryan asked, looking at me knowingly.

I hated when he did that—when he used his counselor mojo on me. He’d been like that since we were kids. He always had an uncanny knack for sensing when something was wrong, and he wasn’t the kind of guy to let it lie. If I had a problem, he would get it out of me and help me through it. It was just who he was.

“I’m all right,” I said.

He patted me on the back. “Then let’s get you a beer. Yo, barkeep!”

I chuckled as he waved his other hand in the air to get the bartender to come down to meet us. I reached for the menu pinched between the salt and pepper shakers between me and flipped it open. Then I heard a familiar female voice giving Ryan shit.

“I told you not to call me ‘barkeep,’ Ryan. And you can just walk around the bar and get your own drinks, you know? I’m not your—”

I looked up. Josephine Hart was staring back at me, her mouth hanging open as she stopped talking mid-sentence.

Ryan patted me on the back again. “Look who’s back in town, sis! You remember Zach, right? If I recall, you used to have a huge crush on him when you were just a little squirt.”

“Shut up, Ryan,” Jo snapped, shooting him a dark look before returning her stare to me. “What are you doing back here?”

A little perturbed by her attitude and apparent irritation by my presence at her bar, I simply said, “My dad died.”

She blinked, and her hard stare softened. “Oh. I’m sorry, Zach. Is your mom okay?”

I nodded. “She’s coping.”

Jo poured me a beer from the tap and slid it to me on a coaster. “On the house.”

“Thanks,” I said.

She gave me a weak smile that was rather lackluster compared to the brilliant grin I remembered from our wild night five years ago. I’d thought back on that night almost every day since. I hated to admit it and would never say it aloud, but I had feelings for the girl that I just couldn’t extinguish. It drove me mad.

I’d tried to negate them by believing she was off somewhere doing bigger and better things than me. Maybe she was starting a family. Or maybe she was still out on the open seas working for the Coast Guard. I had believed that Jo was destined for a brighter future than me, but here we were, in the same spot, wearing the same disappointed smile.

“I’ll be right back,” Jo said. “I have to top up some drinks for my customers. Whatever you want is on me, okay? Go crazy.”

Jo hurried away, and I couldn’t help but check her out. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a button-up black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her frame was different, but I couldn’t quite put a finger on it. She was a bit softer and still sexy as hell.

Ryan cleared his throat beside me. “All right. What the hell was that about?”

“Uh,” I stammered, suddenly nervous about saying the wrong thing about his baby sister. “Jo and I ran into each other on base a while back.”

“Oh?”

I nodded.

Ryan narrowed his eyes.

“Relax, man. It’s all good. We just had a fun night together, and I haven’t seen her since.”

“Did you sleep with my sister, Zach?”

I couldn’t tell if he was angry or not. Ryan had a way of arranging his features into a completely neutral expression. He was a calm guy, the kind of guy who managed to keep his temper in any and all situations. Surely, this one would be no different. I decided that the truth was the best course of action. He was my best friend, after all. But I was too much of a coward to speak the words aloud, so I simply nodded and then drained the rest of my beer.

Ryan shook his head and chuckled. “I should have known the two of you would have ended up hooking up at one point.”

“You’re not pissed?”

“Why would I be pissed?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. My mind went to Grady, and I knew how he would feel about this kind of situation. “Bro code?”

Ryan laughed loudly and clapped his hand on the counter. “Dude, what am I? Fifteen? Fuck bro code. My sister is a grown woman, and she can do what she wants. I mean, I wouldn’t do you, but hey. Everyone has their type, right?”

Relief washed through me, and I deflated like a balloon. Ryan laughed at my very obvious release of tension and yelled for Jo to bring us more beers. She held up her hand and gave him the middle finger from the other end of the bar, which earned her roars of laughter from the other patrons sitting in the stools on either side of us.

It was clear that she’d been here for some time already.