My hands shake from the force of my contained sobs when I pull his head forward, placing the clippers on the back of his neck and slowly guiding it up his head. I pray the sound of it will drown out my quiet cries. My tears fall, blurring my vision, but he just holds me tighter, his shaky breaths warm on my stomach. I shave his head, row by row, the ache in my chest all-consuming. His shoulders shake, his own cries muffled by his shirt that I’m wearing and when I’m done, we need a moment to recover. Still hiding our emotions, still faking our strength. I wipe my eyes on my shoulder. He wipes his on my stomach. We take another moment. And then many more. Until all the moments of silence consume us and we’re crying, openly, but unwilling to witness it. I grasp his head, keeping him to me. He grasps my legs, holding me to him. “I don’t want to leave you, Riley.”

And just like that, I find the strength I’d been searching for.

Because he said “I don’t want to leave you.”

He didn’t say “I don’t want to be apart.”

He didn’t say “I don’t want to go.”

He doesn’t want to leave me.

I take his face in my hands and tilt his head back, containing my sob when I see his eyes filled with tears, his face red from holding back his emotions. I run my hands through his clipped hair, just like it was when I met him.

“We should have talked about it,” he says. “I should’ve thought about you.”

I fell in like in my kitchen, surrounded by twenty wishes.

I fell in love in his garage, once when I kissed him, and then again when he wrote love on my arm.

I fell in forever right now, when a man I love put my happiness first and made me finally believe that I Am Worthy.

Through tears, through heartache, and through love, I find courage in my self-worth. “I’ll be okay,” I tell him honestly. “And there never has to be an either/or with us, Dylan. You can live your purpose. And I’ll create my legacy. We can still have each other. We can have it all.”

Thirty-One

Dylan

We pack and go to bed soon after.

We don’t sleep, though. I think it’d be impossible to find the calm needed to actually do that. We hold each other close and we talk. A lot. About everything.

We talk about our past, about how we met, and about our future. Because if we didn’t make plans for our future, it would feel like a goodbye.

And neither of us want or are ready for that.

We declare our love for each other, over and over, and show each other that love, over and over, beneath the flannel sheets of the same bed I once lay in, watching her cry and promising myself that I didn’t want to know what caused those tears.

It was a lie.

Even back then, I wanted her.

But I didn’t just want her. I wanted to give her a reason to stop crying.

And as I lay here now watching her sit up on her elbow, her gaze focused on the finger she’s using to trace the outline of a scar—a scar created from a bullet that brought me to her, I finally release the heartache that’s consumed me since I told her I had to leave. And when she looks up, her gaze locked on mine, and she whispers another I love you, I wonder to myself… what was The Turning Point? From me standing in my garage and writing love on her arm to this…

Who would’ve thought that finding my calm and creating my happiness would hurt so much?

* * *

Everyone’s already at the bus station when we show up. Dad, Eric, Holly and all my friends. We walk up to them, our hands joined. She releases me so I can say my goodbyes, first to the girls, then to the guys, then to Holly, and finally to Dad and Eric.

The words we speak are generic.

The feelings are not.

She waits at the end of the line, her head lowered and her hands clasped together.

I square my shoulders. “Hudson.”

She looks up, tears already forming in her eyes.

“I’m going to miss you the most,” I tell her.

She smiles and pushes on my shoulder. “You better,” she says quietly. “And you better stay safe, Lance Corporal.” Her voice wavers, betraying her light-hearted words.

“I will, baby.” I wrap my arms around her waist and bring her into me. “I have something valuable waiting for me.”

She sniffs back her tears and raises her chin. “I’m not going to cry over you, Banks.”

I chuckle. “I don’t expect you to.”

We fake it, because there’s only so many times we can say goodbye without actually saying the words.

She leans up, pressing her lips to mine. Softly at first, then both our emotions take over, our holds get tighter, our kiss gets deeper, and our love grows stronger.

We release each other only when the last-call announcement for my bus sounds over the speakers. “I’m not going to cry,” she repeats, more to herself than to me.

“Don’t cry,” I tell her honestly. “I couldn’t leave you if you did.”

She raises her chin and sucks in a breath, showing me the strength I know she carries. “I’ll be home before you know it, Ry.” Again, the words are generic. The feelings are far from it.

Her features soften, her act put aside. “I love you so much, Dylan.”

“Wait for me, okay?” I whisper, my weakness shown in words only she can hear.

“Dylan…”

“Promise me”

“Semper Fidelis. Always.”

Another announcement.

Another non-goodbye.

I pick up my bag. “I have to go.”

She nods as Jake stands beside her, throwing an arm over her shoulders.

I give everyone a casual salute before looking back at Riley. Then I cup her face, my thumb skimming across her lips when I force her to look at me. “I never told you.”

“Told me what?”

“That I’m glad you’re here, Riley. Not just here with me, but here in this world.” Then I nod once at Jake—an unspoken understanding, before turning quickly and walking away.

It’s not until I’m on the bus and the engine’s started and the brakes are off that I finally look back at them: At Dad and Eric standing side by side, at my friends in a line, all holding hands. At Holly, standing to the side of Riley. And Riley—crying in Jake’s arms, her head on his chest and his hand rubbing her back, letting her know what I always knew—that he’ll take care of her.

They all will.

If I wasn’t sure of it, there’s no way I’d be leaving her.

Riley

It’s the first time in a really long time that I’ve thought about drinking, but there’s a big difference between thinking about it and wanting to. I don’t want to. I won’t. Because Dylan was right. Whatever I’m looking for, I’m not going to find in the bottom of a bottle. I’m going to find it in him.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mom tells me, hugging me tight. “I have a client waiting for me. Will you be okay?”

“We’ll take care of her, Ms. Hudson.” Jake answers for me.

I look up at him, a little confused.

She’s holding out a glass jar, a single folded up piece of paper inside it. “Dylan wanted me to give you this.”

I release another round of tears as I take it from her, feeling the eyes and presence of everyone around me.