The Lucky One(38)

By that point, he’d matured. Not only had he been an excellent athlete in virtually every sport, but he’d taken up boxing when he was twelve. By eighteen, he’d won the Golden Gloves in North Carolina three times, and he sparred regularly with troops stationed at Fort Bragg and Camp Lejeune. It was the hours he spent with them that first made Drake consider enlisting.

He’d never been a great student, and he lasted only a year at a community college before deciding it wasn’t for him. She’d been the only one he’d talked to about enlisting. She had been proud of his decision to serve his country, her heart bursting with love and admiration the first time she saw him outfitted in his dress blues. Though she had been scared when he was posted to Kuwait and, later, Iraq, she couldn’t help but believe that he was going to make it. But Drake Green never did make it home.

She could barely recall the days immediately after she’d learned that her brother had died, and she didn’t like to think of them now. His death had left her with an emptiness that she knew would never fill completely. But time had lessened the pain. In the immediacy of his loss, she never would have believed it possible, but she couldn’t deny that when she thought of Drake these days, it was usually the happier times she remembered. Even when she visited the cemetery to talk to him, she no longer experienced the agony those visits once aroused. Nowadays, her sadness felt less visceral than her anger.

But it felt real right now, in the wake of the realization that she—like Nana and Ben—was drawn to Thibault, too, if only because she felt an ease with him that she hadn’t known with anyone since losing Drake.

And there was this: Only Drake had ever called her by her given name. Neither her parents nor Nana, nor Grandpa, nor any of her friends growing up had ever called her anything but Beth. Keith hadn’t, either; to be honest, she wasn’t sure he even knew her real name. Only Drake had called her Elizabeth, and only when they were alone. It was their secret, a secret meant for just the two of them, and she’d never been able to imagine how it would sound coming from someone else.

But, somehow, Logan made it sound just right.





11

Thibault

In the fall of 2007, a year after getting out of the Marine Corps, Thibault arranged to meet Victor in Minnesota, a place neither of them had ever been. For both of them, it couldn’t have come at a better time. Victor had been married for six months, and Thibault had stood beside him as best man. That had been the only time they’d seen each other since they’d been discharged. When Thibault had called to suggest the trip, he’d suspected that time alone was exactly what Victor needed.

On the first day, as they sat in a small rowboat on the lake, it was Victor who broke the silence.

“Have you been having nightmares?” his friend asked.

Thibault shook his head. “No. Have you?”

“Yes,” Victor said.

The air was typically crisp for autumn, and a light morning mist floated just above the water. But the sky was cloudless, and Thibault knew the temperature would rise, making for a gorgeous afternoon.

“The same as before?” Thibault asked.

“Worse,” he said. He reeled in his line and cast again. “I see dead people.” He gave a wry half-smile, fatigue written into the lines of his face. “Like in that movie with Bruce Willis? The Sixth Sense?”

Thibault nodded.

“Kind of like that.” He paused, somber now. “In my dreams, I relive everything we went through, except there are changes. In most of them, I get shot, and I scream for help, but no one comes, and I realize everyone else has been shot as well. And I can feel myself dying little by little.” He rubbed his eyes before going on. “As hard as that is, it’s worse when I see them during the day—the ones who died, I mean. I’ll be at the store, and I’ll see them all, standing there blocking the aisle. Or they’re on the ground bleeding as medics work on them. But they never make a sound. All they do is stare at me, like it’s my fault they were wounded, or my fault that they’re dying. And then I blink and take a deep breath and they’re gone.” He stopped. “It makes me think I’m going crazy.”

“Have you talked to anyone about it?” Thibault asked.

“No one. Except for my wife, I mean, but when I say those things to her, she gets frightened and starts to cry. So I don’t talk to her about it anymore.”

Thibault said nothing.

“She’s pregnant, you know,” Victor went on.

Thibault smiled, grasping at this ray of hope. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. It’s a boy. I’m going to name him Logan.”

Thibault sat up straight and nodded at Victor. “I’m honored.”

“It frightens me sometimes—the thought of having a son. I’m worried I won’t be a good father.” He stared out over the water.

“You’ll be a great dad,” Thibault assured him.

“Maybe.”

Thibault waited.

“I have no patience anymore. So many things make me angry. Little things, things that shouldn’t mean anything, but for some reason they do. And even though I try to push the anger back down, it sometimes comes out anyway. It hasn’t caused me any problems yet, but I wonder how long I can keep pushing it down before it gets away from me.” He adjusted the line with his fishing rod. “This happens to you, too?”