“Granite?” I repeated, lighting a cigarette. I was quiet for a while, and Trex let me stay there. Matt talked about buying a real home when he got back and remodeling it. It both excited and scared the shit out of me. Neither one of us had ever wanted to stay in one place too long. It was weird the things that reminded me of him. In that moment, it was granite, and how we’d spent hours in home improvement and design stores. We looked at so much granite. So many light fixtures. Brick. Cabinet pulls. Stains. Front doors. Faucets. Time invested in a future we’d never have.

“Granite’s nice, right?” he asked, pulling me back to the present.

“It wouldn’t have mattered if the place was a shithole. We’ve spent the night in far worse settings.” We’d used rocks for pillows and each other for warmth, staying awake to listen for the enemy, whoever that happened to be in the moment. But the difference between this house was it wasn’t the apartment I shared with Matt. “It’s not the apartment in Clovis,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

“I thought you liked New Mexico.”

“I did.” The cigarette between my fingers had nearly burned down to the filter, leaving a husk of ash.

“Never felt the same after, did it?” Trex asked, already knowing the answer.

The apartment I’d shared with Matt felt particularly small the night he died. I didn’t know what it meant at the time—for the walls to close in, to feel a sudden loneliness I couldn’t shake.

When the Marines in dress blues arrived at my door, I couldn’t be angry with him. Matt would’ve only left me for one thing: a sacrifice. I often wondered what that moment would feel like, if I’d fall to my knees, choke out sobs, or if I would be strong. I was none of those things. I was just numb.

I attended my husband’s funeral and then felt myself burn away, just like the husk of my cigarette. The only way to rectify my utter failure was to take his place. I wanted to be the woman Matt always thought I was, so two summers later, I saw Trex again, this time as a member of his unit. Two months after that, sitting in the back of a 1950s Russian-made pickup truck at two in the morning plugging Trex’s bullet holes with my fingers, I finally felt like me again.

Now, I was standing in my new house, my full duffle bag digging into my fingers, and my camo pack pressing my already damp shirt against my back, Trex following me in with another box.

“Thanks for letting me help,” Trex said, putting down the cardboard in his hand.

“Yeah,” I said, setting down the last of my things, “don’t make it weird.”