“What is it?” I ask.

She smiles, warm and comforting. “It’s his heart, baby.”

The jar sits on my lap as I drive carefully, my anxiety building with each passing second. I pull into the garage next to his truck, now covered to keep it safe from dust. He said I could drive it, but the thought of being in it without him didn’t sit right with me. I get out of my car and go straight to his workbench—the second thing we brought over from his dad’s house along with all his tools. With the jar gripped tightly in one hand, I run the other over his tools, smelling the grease that comes to mind whenever I think about him. I wait for my heart to settle—a million thoughts racing through my head. When I feel like I can actually read his words without my heart shattering to pieces, I place the jar gently on the bench and stare at it. And that’s all I do. Minutes pass. I don’t move. I barely breathe. It’s his voice in my mind “Come on, Hudson!” that gives me the courage.

I unscrew the lid and as carefully as possible, I take out the letter.

Dear Ms. Hudson,

I’m sure you already know who I am. Or, at least, you think you do. Maybe in some aspects, you’re right. I am the boy next door. I am a Marine.

And I am hopelessly in love with your daughter.

You don’t know that last part yet.

Neither does she.

I’m hoping one day she’ll give me a chance to show her.

And I’m hoping even more that I can do that with your blessing.

So, I thought I’d write you this letter, introduce myself properly so you can get to know me—Dylan Banks—not the boy next door. Not the Marine. But the boy who loves your daughter.

I never knew my mom. She died during childbirth. Sucks, I know, but I’m not telling you that to gain your sympathy. I’m telling you because my dad raised both me and my brother on his own… he was both parents for us… and he did a damn fine job of it.

He taught us to be honorable men, to love and respect everyone equally, and he showed us, more than taught us, to love fiercely. My dad, though quiet, has always had a voice when it came to putting us first.

He left the military as soon as my mother passed and became the strength we all needed to move on from her death. Then took a job at a factory pressing metal so that he could support and raise us the best way possible.

I’m getting off track.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that my dad loves us something fierce and he’s always done what’s best for us. Which, I know now, is something you’d understand.

See, for the past few weeks, I’ve woken up every day and Riley’s been the first thing on my mind. She’s the last thing I think about when I go to sleep, and she’s pretty much all I think about while I’m awake.

Swear, Ms. Hudson, I’m not a creep. I just really like her.

She’s smart and witty and funny and a complete pain in the ass—which, I guess, just adds to her charm. And she’s pretty. Real pretty. And she’s so strong. The fact that she hasn’t had anything to drink the past few days (not sure if you knew that or not) just shows how strong she is. I’m sure you know all those things about her, though you may not have witnessed it since the accident, I just thought I’d remind you.

Riley told me about her dad (jerk, right?) and it kind of made me angry—that there was some guy out there who’d had a hand in creating such a perfect girl and he didn’t even know her. I felt bad for him—that he was missing out on all things Riley. Then I thought about Riley and how she missed out on having a father in her life. But then I realized, she didn’t miss out.

She had you.

To be completely honest, Ms. Hudson—and please don’t take offense to what I say next—I didn’t like you. Not at all. I didn’t understand why a mother would let her daughter drink her days away and do nothing to stop it. It wasn’t until you practically kicked my ass and called me out while I stood on your doorstep desperate to see Riley that it finally registered—you’re just like my dad: You do what’s best for your kids, and you love them something fierce.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that no, Riley isn’t now, nor will she ever be… how did you phrase it? “Another notch on my belt.”

Riley gives me a reason to wake up in the mornings.

She gives me hope.

She gives me answers.

She gives me the calm I can’t seem to find anywhere else, not even in my own head.

Yes, I will be going back to Afghanistan to serve my country.

Yes, I will be leaving her at some point.

Yes, I will miss her when I do.

But here’s the thing you may have misjudged about me: The reason for me joining the Marines wasn’t for the money or because it was some sort of family legacy. The reason I didn’t think twice about my answer when you asked if I’d be redeploying is simple:

One day I’d like to get married and have children. Lots of them. (Children, not marriages.) I’d like for my wife and my children to not be afraid to leave their homes or turn on the news at night after dinner and see warzone after warzone and wonder when it is that it’ll all end. I want to wake up in the mornings, our minds clear of hate and racism and injustice and terrorism. I want to kiss my wife, play with my kids, and know that I did everything I could so that we can be together without fear of what will happen when we turn ours backs.

Sure, I wanted all those things pre-Riley, but it wasn’t until I met her that all my reasons—my purpose—had a face.

I’m not saying that I’ll be the one to marry Riley one day (I could be so lucky). I’m just saying that the person Riley is—past, present and future—is the kind of person I’m fighting for. The reason I chose a career that puts my life on the line every day to serve my country.

I just want more, Ms. Hudson.

I want more for your family, and I want more for mine.

Don’t you?

Yours sincerely,

Lance Corporal Dylan Banks.

Thirty-Two

Riley

There are certain things a person does that you don’t actually realize are things until you start missing them. For example: Reach over you to silence your alarm every morning, and then become your personal snooze button. Or switch on the coffee pot while you’re in the shower so it’s ready by the time you got out. Or remember all the occurrences from the night before so you can find where the hell you misplaced your keys. These are all things Dylan did. All things I’d learned in the first half hour of the next day. All things I’d taken for granted now that he was gone.

I even walked to his truck, too preoccupied on my phone, and stood by the passenger door for him to drive me to work. I stood there for a good minute before realizing he wasn’t behind me. I hadn’t even closed the back door.

The days are okay.

The nights are hard.

We’d spent every night for the past five months together so it was difficult getting used to being alone. His friends, or ours, I should say—they message me often to check in on me and make sure that I’m doing fine but my work schedule doesn’t give us a lot of time to catch up. Besides, it’s only been three days. Three days. I finally get what Dylan meant when he said the time is identical for everyone, but at the same time it’s not. Because my version of three days feels like an eternity.