Chapter 6

6

QUILLON

T he road curled up the mountain like a vine, creeping through the lush expanse of the forest. Countless pines stood sentinel on either side of the road, offering the comfort of evergreens, even when snow still covered the ground. The thrum of the car's engine reverberated as York navigated each bend with practiced ease, yet he gripped the steering wheel with unmistakable tension—a touch too firm, knuckles whitening with every shift of gears.

I gestured out the window. "Beautiful view."

York offered a terse nod, his gaze fixed on the unfolding road. "It's always been a scenic drive."

Something was wrong, horribly wrong, and my gut told me it had everything to do with his parents…and his brother. My first thought had been that he feared his parents' reactions to him coming out by introducing me—even though it was fake—but that didn't ring true. Whatever troubled him ran much deeper. But I wouldn't ask, wouldn't push. He'd erected walls, and I wouldn't bulldoze through them without invitation.

The gravel crunched under the tires as York pulled up to The Lodge, its rustic charm unfolding like a page from an old storybook. He'd grown up here, he'd told me without uttering one word more than necessary. Three stories tall, the log cabin structure blended in with the surrounding forest. York tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he stared at the house, internally battling whatever dragons lay in wait.

"Ready?" I asked, keeping my voice light.

He nodded, a sharp exhale pushing past his lips as if he were about to dive underwater. "As I'll ever be."

We stepped out into the crisp mountain air, the scent of pine needles sharp and invigorating. In the background, the gentle clattering of a waterfall echoed. "There's a waterfall?"

"Yeah, it's behind The Lodge. The second-floor rooms in the back offer a great view."

With purposeful strides, York approached the front door, which opened before he could knock or ring a bell. The likeness between York and his mother was evident. She was a tall, wiry woman with silver-gray hair, but she had the same brown eyes. "Hello, York. It's good to see you."

York leaned in and kissed his mom on the cheek. "You too."

Beside her, his father stepped forward, a thin man whose hands shook with the unmistakable signs of Parkinson's. He watched us with cautious eyes, emitting an aura of silent introspection. "York."

York shook his father's trembling hand. "Dad."

Then he gestured me forward. "This is Quillon. My boyfriend."

The word hung between us, charged and pulsing with newness. Surprise flickered across their faces, but his parents didn't show disdain, more a reserved acceptance. They exchanged brief, unreadable glances. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Quillon." His mother extended her hand to me.

His father repeated the words as he shook my hand, and that was the introduction. No drama, yet everything felt wrong and off and false.

"Welcome to The Lodge," Mrs. Coombe said, her smile taut at the edges.

"Thank you." I put as much sincerity as possible into the words. Jesus, I'd traversed glaciers warmer than this welcome.

We settled in the family room, where a stone fireplace begged for winter nights and stories. Plush sofas invited conversations while a large, handcrafted rug anchored the space. It looked homey, cozy, and warm, though the air felt chilled with frost.

"Can I get you boys something to drink?" Mrs. Coombe broke the stillness.

"Water would be great, thanks," I said.

"Water for me too, please," York murmured, watching his parents with an analytical eye. He seemed to be gauging their reactions, like an antelope keeping a watchful eye on a lion, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble.

Lining the mantel was a series of framed photographs, each capturing moments frozen in time. York as a gangly teenager, his smile more tentative than confident. Another showed him at what must have been his high school graduation, his cap slightly askew.

But my attention was drawn to the collection of photos of another man—Essex Coombe. His image was everywhere, from his childhood to what looked to be a prom night, his graduation picture, and countless photographs of him in his Marine uniform, commanding and proud. He'd been handsome, though too much of a slick charmer.

"How did you two meet?" Mrs. Coombe asked. She'd brought us both water, the first sign of normalcy since we'd arrived.

"At a Star Wars convention," York said. "We hit it off instantly."

"That's good. We've been hoping you'd find someone. You've been alone for far too long."

I had the weirdest feeling of being stuck in a bad movie where actors were reciting their lines but without the expected emotion behind them. Nothing about this meeting made sense.

"Quillon, what do you do for work?" York's father asked.

We had rehearsed that too. I could hardly tell them I was a bodyguard. "I work for a company that sells security systems." I stuck as close to the truth as possible.

"You have a technical background?" Mr. Coombe asked.

"No, I'm more of a hands-on guy. York wows me with his knowledge and math skills."

"Essex was also a hands-on person," Mrs. Coombe said. "York spent his childhood with his face in a book, but Essex was always outside, doing stuff. He had a group of close friends, and they would go exploring together everywhere."

"Quillon knew Essex in the Marines," York said with a desperate edge to his voice.

His mother's expression shifted while his father's shoulders tensed as if bracing against a blow. "You did?" she whispered.

"We were in boot camp together and served in the same unit for a while, but our paths diverged. But we met several times throughout his career. He was an exemplary Marine."

"Could you…" She choked at the swell of emotions. "Would you share a memory of him? Anything. We don't get many visitors who knew our Essex."

York's parents leaned in as though my words could bridge the chasm that loss had carved into their lives. I glanced at York, whose eyes conveyed a plea: tread carefully. I felt like walking through a minefield, knowing I could step on an IED at any moment.

"Sure." I squirmed a little under the weight of their gazes. "One time, we were on deployment when he was temporarily assigned to my unit as a sniper. We were sent out on patrol and quickly ran into trouble. A group of combatants had us pinned down, and we were unable to fight our way out because we were outnumbered. Essex managed to slip away and somehow scrambled to a rooftop. He provided us with the necessary cover, sniping off hostiles one by one until we were able to escape. He saved our asses that day."

Every word of that was true. He'd also bragged about it for weeks, never missing an opportunity to lord over us that without him, we'd be dead.

"Thank you," his mother whispered, her hand pressed to her heart. "He was always our protector. Even when he was little, he'd stand up for his brother, wouldn't he, York?"

York made a noncommittal sound.

The intensity of the moment hung heavily in the air, a tangible burden that seemed to press down on me as much as their grief. I had seen loss, had felt it coil tight around my heart after losing Charlotte, but this—this was something else. Raw and unyielding, a sorrow that hadn't dulled with the passing years.

"Essex was…" York's father stopped as if the right words were just out of reach. His wife, her eyes glistening with fresh tears, reached across the space between them and intertwined their fingers in a silent pact of shared pain.

"Would you like to see his room?" York's mom asked.

"Of course." The words tumbled out before I could consider the implications. York shifted beside me, a tension in his frame that hadn't been there.

"I'll wait here," he said.

I followed Mrs. Coombe down a narrow hallway lined with more pictures of Essex, each one a chronological step toward an end that everyone knew was coming but no one could prevent. The door opened with a creak, revealing a room suspended in time.

Everything was as Essex must have left it: the bed made with military precision, medals and trophies displayed on shelves, a model airplane half-assembled on the desk. The sense of him here was so strong that, for a moment, I expected to see him walk through the door, ready to flash his cocky grin.

"Nothing's been touched." She straightened a stack of books that didn't need straightening. "We keep it this way because…because it feels like he might come back if we do."

"Thank you for showing me," I said, my throat tight with empathy. I couldn't begin to imagine what it was like to be trapped in this endless cycle of mourning, nor could I fathom the effect it had on York, who lived every day in the shadow of his larger-than-life brother.

"York doesn't like to come in here," she mumbled almost to herself. "Says it's too much like a museum."

"Maybe it's both," I said gently. "A place to remember but also a reminder that life has to move forward."

"Perhaps." She heaved out a sigh that seemed to carry decades of unshed tears. "But some things you never move on from. You learn to live with the loss."

I didn't think she was right. My parents had moved on after their loss, and even though they'd always miss Charlotte, her death didn't dominate their lives anymore. But I kept those thoughts to myself.

We returned to the family room, where York sat as I had left him—a statue on the couch, sharing an uncomfortable silence with his father.

"I'm sure you must be proud of what York has achieved in his work." I sat in the chair. "His research on control systems is really groundbreaking." I was determined to steer this sinking ship toward safer waters.

His mother nodded absently, her gaze tethered to the pictures on the mantel. "Yes, he's always been bright, our York. But it was Essex who…"

Her words trailed off and the conversation slipped back into the gravitational pull of their lost son, as if Essex's legacy demanded all the air in the room, leaving no space for York's present achievements or future dreams.

I glanced at York, whose jaw was clenched, the taut line of his mouth a barricade holding back an ocean of responses. The subtle shake of his head was almost imperceptible, but I caught it—an unspoken plea laced with resignation. I wanted to fight for him, to shout his worth from the rooftops, but the hurt darkening his eyes was a clear command: let it be.

I took his hand and laced our fingers together, the only sign of support I could offer, but Jesus, I wanted to hug this man. Where those strong feelings originated from was something I'd rather not think about. "Essex was special."

In conceding, I acknowledged the imbalance that the scale would always tip in favor of the son and hero lost to war, leaving the living son unnoticed.

We waded through more polite exchanges—the weather, the drive up, York's curt explanation we'd be staying in Forestville for a while—but each word felt like a stone skipped across the surface of a deep lake, never meant to delve beneath.

When we eventually stepped out of The Lodge, the fresh air hit me like a wake-up call. I had never been happier to leave a place, and that included some of the world's most dangerous areas. I'd take a gunfight or battle over this cold war any day. At least in a fight, I could face our enemy and have a chance at taking them out. In there, we'd been battling ghosts. How did you defeat something you couldn't see? How did you drive out ghosts of the past when people were so determined to hang on to them?

I had no answers. There were a thousand things I wanted to say to York, a thousand reassurances I wanted to offer, but I had no words. As York started the engine, I put my hand on his. He glanced sideways, and the pain in his gaze was so staggering it took my breath away.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, his voice cracking as he averted his eyes.

"I know."

"I can't."

"York…" I waited until he looked at me again. "I know."

He breathed out, put the car in reverse, and drove off.