Free Homefront Holiday by Jillian Hart Page B

order and a vase of flowers to take to Whitney Harpswell’s hospital room. But where did her mind go? To Mike, always to Mike.
    She could feel his hands on her shoulders, comforting her. She could still hear the kind timbre of his voice. Maybe you and I were never meant to be. Could be that’s why it never worked out between us.
    Rationally, she knew maybe he was right. As hard as it was to admit. But as she dropped behind the wheel and settled her bags on the passenger seat, all the love in her heart cried out, no. No, it couldn’t be. Fourteen years of one’s life should not be a waste.
    She had spent precious years of her life with him, all of her twenties and part of her thirties. Looking forward to her phone ringing and the delight of hearing his voice. Of not being able to wait for the day to end so they could be together over dinner, either at his place or hers, making a meal together and then talking over their day.
    She missed being able to turn to him when she needed comfort and caring. She missed being able to tell him everything and having him do the same. She missed the way he would tell a story out of the most ordinary circumstances, but in a way sure to make her laugh. All the time she had spent terrified for him when he was deployed. All the time her soul felt brighter knowing that he loved her.
    All of that was gone. Forever gone. Mike had said it best: All we can do is go forward.
    She would go her way. He would go his. He would find someone else to date and love and marry. Some other lucky woman to cook with and laugh with and raise kids with. He would be happy—because she would pray that he was so every day of her life to come.
    But how could she be? Without him, without Mike, her future was bleak. Her heart could not imagine loving any other man. Not one.
    She might not be the love of Mike’s life, but he was the love of hers.
    She sorted through her keys, fighting tears, fighting to keep hold of the numbness. She thought of Ali. He had an appointment late this afternoon at the church’s grief center. The last thing she wanted was for him to be late to that.
    She started the engine and blinked until the world came back into focus. She put the vehicle in gear and drove off, as if today was like any other day.
     
    The tears in Sarah’s eyes haunted Mike. Through the afternoon, he fought to stay distant. He fought to stay unaffected. Not even his defenses could handle the strain. I still love you. Say you still love me, too. Please, can you forgive me? Her vulnerable, heartfelt declaration had hit him like a cluster bomb, fragmenting the cool control he prided himself on.
    Don’t think about Sarah. He pulled into his driveway and into the garage. He wished he could shut off his thoughts as easily as the truck’s engine. He pocketed his keys, grabbed his gym bag and the two plastic grocery sacks from the back and hiked into the house.
    Empty. His steps, his movements and the rustle of the bags settling on the countertop echoed in the empty rooms. He pulled out the plastic containers of potato salad and rotisserie chicken. After washing his hands, he pulled a knife from the drawer and got right to work slicing vegetables and bread and chicken. The lonesomeness pressed on him like the ocean on a submarine.
    I’ve always loved you. Can’t you see that I was afraid to lose you? Sarah’s voice resounded in his head. He forced it to silence right along with the ache echoing within him. She hadn’t loved him enough then; she certainly didn’t love him enough now. She was lonely; that was all. And so was he.
    Within minutes he had a salad bowl filled and a dinner plate reheating in the microwave. He poured a glassful of juice and carried everything past the table into the living room. He had a TV tray set up in front of the television. With a click of the remote the screen blazed to life, chasing away the silence.
    He stabbed into his salad, spearing a cucumber and lettuce. Why couldn’t he get rid