“You know what I’m most excited to see?” Tobin leaned across the plane aisle toward him, an excited grin plastered across his face and a glassy look in his eyes as he sloshed down his fourth mini-bottle of whiskey.

“What’s that?” Miles warily eyed his friend’s glass, taking note in case things got out of hand. He’d never known Tobin to understand boundaries, but his friend’s drinking had increased since Afghanistan. Not that Miles blamed him after what they’d seen over there.

Miles lifted his own glass, considered the whiskey inside for a minute before putting it back down on the tray table and pushing it away. At the rate Tobin was going, one of them would need to maintain a sense of control.

“Grass, Miles! When is the last time we saw a patch of grass, man? Whole meadows of grass and big trees everywhere you look?” Tobin had a distant look in his eyes as he leaned his head against the headrest. He lifted the mini-bottle of booze to his lips, only to realize it was empty. Frowning, Tobin reached above his head and pressed the call button to summon the flight attendant.

When she didn’t materialize in half a second, he pressed it again…and again…and again.

“Tobin, quit it!” Miles scowled. “She’s coming. Don’t you think you’ve had enough anyway? We’re landing soon, and you don’t need to be completely shit-faced when you see your mom again.”

Tobin scoffed, shaking the small plastic bottle in front of Miles’s face. “I’m going to need more than this kid-sized bottle if I’m going to see Janiiiice.” He grimaced as her name left his mouth.

“Kid-sized booze?” Miles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I think you’ve had enough.”

“I just want to see a patch of grass, Miles.” Tobin’s voice was softer now, nostalgic.

Miles couldn’t help smiling and nodding his head. He knew exactly what Tobin meant. One of the many things their camp in Afghanistan had lacked was the lush green grass and trees they’d grown up with in their home town of Slipwick, Pennsylvania.

“I miss the lake.” Miles mused over fond memories of the woods near Lake Arthur where his family home was.

His father had built their house—it was really more of a cabin—from the ground up, right on the lake’s and completely off the beaten trail. It was farther from town than most of Miles’s friends when he’d been in school, but he’d never minded since spending every warm weather day on the water had been worth the trek. He’d practically lived for the hours spent in the old canoe, or equally ratty rowboat.

Tobin chuckled, rubbing his hand over his bare head. “You and that damn lake.” He rattled the ice in his cup, pressing the call button a few more times.

A snarl escaped Miles’s lips, swiveling in his seat to shoot his friend an angry glare, any sense of calm gone. “I swear on your fucking life, Tobin, if you press the damn button one more time, I will break your finger clean off,” he barked.

Tobin’s eyes widened, but Miles’s continued seething, his thoughts taking off at a sprint. The incessant ringing from the call button. The ringing in his head.

Ringing like the sound of the first explosion, knocking him to the ground.

“Damn, Miles.” Tobin put his hands up in defense. “Relax.”

Miles blinked and looked around, suddenly self-conscious. He’d drawn the attention of a few neighboring passengers. From the looks of concern on their faces, he’d be lucky if they didn’t call the Air Marshall on him.

Forcing a tight-lipped smile, he sat back in his seat and faced forward. Guilt washed over him when he noticed Tobin still staring at him with a look of suspicion.

“So grass, huh? What’s next after the greenery?” Miles asked.

An unspoken apology passed beneath his question, and Tobin grinned. All was forgiven. It had always been that simple between the two of them. “Hair. I can’t wait to let it grow out and finally meet some women. A lot of women—you remember how chicks loved my hair. I won’t be able to keep up with them all.”

“Yeah, right. Mr. Romantic suddenly becomes a player. That’ll be the day.” Miles chuckled, smoothing a hand over his own head, his short, dark blonde hair tickling the underside of his palm. “Bet you fifty bucks you’re in a relationship by the end of the month.”

“Hey, not my fault they keep coming back for more.” Tobin rubbed his thumb and index finger over the top of his lip. “I might even grow back my ’stache.”

“Oh, hell no.” Miles dropped his head back, laughing loudly. Several passengers turned to glare at his most recent outburst, but this time, he didn’t care. “No woman is going to go near you with that dirt on your face again.”

“Hey, I got no complaints.” Tobin huffed, pushing out his chest defensively. He took the next mini-bottle of whiskey from the flight attendant and swigged it down in a single chug. Belching, he pounded his fist to his chest. “At least I wasn’t the town kiss-ass.”

Miles lifted one brow. “Town kiss-ass?”

“You heard me,” Tobin continued. “Once a golden boy, always a golden boy.”

It’d been a while since Miles had thought about his reputation back in Slipwick. All-star high school quarterback, prom king, and class president—he’d been treated like royalty in the small town. Not to mention, he was the late Violet Kydd’s son, the elementary school teacher nearly every single person in town had adored.

His mother, or “Vi” as everyone called her, had been well loved for her sweet demeanor, generous heart, and the brilliant smile that seemed to find its way into even the coldest hearts. Miles had never officially met her since she’d died during childbirth due to complications, but her legacy lingered in every framed photograph at home and every person on the street who stopped to tell him how much they missed her. The Mayor back then had even elected to plant a tree in the main courtyard downtown with a bronze plaque at the base dedicated to her.

“I’ve never been a kiss-ass,” Miles clarified, lifting his chin. He couldn’t control how the town saw him, but he’d certainly never been an angel—especially with a best friend like Tobin. “What about the time I set off an M-80 in Mr. Fenton’s rowboat? Sunk that sucker in less than thirty seconds. Would a golden boy do that?”

“Only ’cause I gave you the firecracker to begin with!” Tobin laughed, a deep belly laugh that always made Miles smile, along with anyone else who heard its unique lilt. “You were so scared—you bolted the second you tossed it in.”

“What else would I do? Wait around for it to blow my eyebrows off?” Miles was laughing just as hard now. “Those things are illegal, you know. I wasn’t about to end up in jail thanks to you.”

“Hey, true friends do time together.” Tobin pointed a finger at him, one brow raised. “I regret nothing.”

“I bet you regretted setting your arm on fire with bug spray,” Miles countered.

Tobin’s cheeks reddened slightly, but he shrugged. “Scientific research—plus now we know bug spray is flammable.”

“Yeah, reading that exact warning on the side of the can didn’t make it clear,” Miles said, laughter flowing easily between them.

“Trust but verify, my friend.” Tobin cocked one eyebrow as he opened his next mini-bottle, downing it in one go again. His face twisted at the taste, coughing until his throat cleared. “My life’s motto.”

“When your life motto leads to death, it’s time to pick a new one,” Miles said, shaking his head. “You’re reckless, man.”

“I prefer the term fearless.” Tobin crossed his arms over his chest. “And if I do kick the bucket, you better hope I don’t come back and haunt your ass.”

Miles tried to stretch out his legs into the aisle, feeling cramped in the tight plane seat. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, Tobin.”

Tobin didn’t respond right away.

Miles turned to see him staring out the tiny, square window, down at the landscape hundreds of miles below them.

“After what we did, you still believe that?” Tobin asked.

The reminder of the incident lashed out at Miles as if Tobin had slapped him across the face. He looked away, swallowing hard. There wasn’t anything to say about Afghanistan, or what they’d done over there—more accurately, what he’d done over there.

So, he said nothing.

“I’m just glad to be going home, Miles,” Tobin continued, his tone hushed and heavy now.

Miles opened his mouth to agree, but his voice caught in his throat as painful memories pushed into his mind. Finally, he cleared his throat and nodded.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman,” the flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom. “We’re beginning our descent into Pittsburgh…”

Both men eagerly sat straighter at the mention of their destination, Miles’s anticipation growing as the flight attendant described the landing protocol and droned on about the weather on the ground. He drew his seatbelt across his lap and clasped it, pulling the band tighter around his waist.

The landing was suddenly making him a little nervous, which was odd since he hadn’t been afraid of anything in last eight years from raiding terrorist camps to returning enemy fire, even coming face to face with death.

Miles exhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back. Only a few more minutes and they would no longer be active duty Marines. They would be home.

And maybe that’s why this landing made him so nervous.

* * *

Getting off a plane was by far one of the most irritating parts of Miles’s journey home. Standing behind dozens of other passengers waiting to disembark, his head was awkwardly cramped to the side, unable to stand straight with the plane’s low ceiling.

He shot a look of frustration at Tobin, who was a few inches shorter and had no problem being completely upright. By the time they managed to shuffle off the plane and through the gate, Miles was beyond ready to get his bag and go.

Silence fell naturally between the men as they headed to baggage claim, trying to spot their gear bags amid the sea of black, wheeled suitcases.

While they waited, Miles watched the other passengers being greeted by loved ones—wives with signs of love, children holding My Daddy is an American Hero banners, and mothers wringing their hands with a nervous energy that was almost infectious. Shouts of excitement, tears of joy, and raucous laughter filled the room, and yet Miles felt the exact opposite—his skin crawled with unease from the cacophony.

Someone grabbed Miles’s shirt from behind, and he sprang forward, away from his assailant, pivoting quickly, his hands in the air prepared to fight, his breathing suddenly ragged and unsteady.

A small child stood in front of him, his knees wobbling and eyes wide. The stunned look on the child’s face told Miles he’d accidentally grabbed him before the little boy quickly crumpled into tears, his wailing immediately alerting a man—presumably his father—nearby.

Tobin stared over at him, one brow raised, surprise evident on his face. “Uh, Miles?”

“What the hell is your problem, man?” the boy’s father yelled, quickly scooping his child into his arms and staring Miles down with all the ferocity of a papa bear.

Miles dropped his aggressive stance and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He swept his fingers through his short hair as the father stormed off, his bawling child tucked tight in his arms.

Tobin cocked one brow higher than the other. “Dude, what the fuck was that? Where do you think we are?”

Miles shrugged his shoulders, heat settling in his cheeks. “My bad.”

Tobin stared at him for another moment then frowned and went back to watching for their luggage.

Miles took the opportunity to scan the room, hoping finding a familiar face in the crowd might distract him from wondering why he’d reacted so impulsively to the child touching his back.

A deep-seated longing filled him—a desire to have someone there to greet him, someone who cared he’d just spent eight years and multiple tours overseas, or even someone to simply offer a hug or handshake. He already knew his father wasn’t coming because of his failing health, but the optimistic little boy in him looked around hoping to spot him anyway.

Tobin gave him a puzzled look. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No, just looking,” Miles replied. “Lots of happy people here…” His voice trailed off at the end, and he started looking for his gear bag instead.

“You know Walter would be here if he could.” Tobin clapped him on the back. “Cancer is a bitch, Miles.”

“What about your mom?” he asked, changing topics not-so-subtly.

Tobin scoffed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, right, like Janice would ever take the time out of her day to do something for her son.” Tobin cleared his throat, his voice lowering to a mutter. “She probably doesn’t even remember I’m coming home—never responded to my last letter.”

Miles got the hint and dropped it; he had known Tobin long enough to know when his friend didn’t want to explain further.

Janice Leach had always had a drinking problem, along with some illegal activities they’d been too naïve as a child to understand. So, it was safe to say she’d never been one to count on.

Miles had never had a sibling, but Tobin had a younger sister who’d died when she was fourteen years old. After that, it had been just the two of them, and Tobin became the brother he never had. In fact, Miles had no childhood memories which didn’t include him, since Tobin had spent most of his time at the Kydd house.

Tobin smacked Miles on his arm and pointed to a military duffel bag falling off the carousel’s starting point and making its way around to them. “Isn’t that one yours?”

Miles pressed through the throng of people in front of him and grabbed it. Minutes later, both men had collected their bags and headed to the shuttle that would take them home.

Miles led the way and Tobin followed, balancing his luggage on his shoulder. “Time to head home, Tobin.”

Tobin grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. “God bless America!”