No justification.
Just that.
I believed him.
That didn’t repair everything.
But apologies weren’t repairs.
They were permission to begin them.
I leaned back.
“Do you remember Grandma’s lake?”
He frowned.
“Yeah.”
“You jumped off the dock when you were seven.”
His face changed at once.
“Oh, God.”
“You belly-flopped.”
“I remember.”
“You almost strangled me in the water.”
“I was drowning.”
“You were in four feet of water.”
“I was seven.”
“You slept beside my bed afterward.”
He looked offended.
“That never happened.”
“It absolutely happened.”
“No evidence.”
“I have a photograph.”
His head snapped toward me.
“You do not.”
“I do.”
“You’ve held that for twenty-three years?”
“I believe in strategic reserves.”
He laughed again.
Then his eyes moved to my watch.
The silver one.
He frowned.
“Is that the same watch I gave you?”
I looked down.
Years ago, before BUD/S.
Before the Trident.
Before any of this.
Ryan had bought it for me with his first real paycheck from a summer job.
It had been cheap.
Too big at first.
The clasp had broken twice.
I had replaced the band.
The face was scratched near the six.
“Yes.”
He stared.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you still wearing it?”
I shrugged.
“You gave it to me.”
His eyes turned glassy.
