I went on Instagram out of habit and scrolled through pictures of girls I had known in high school who were now starting their adult lives or in the military themselves. Not a ton of people I went to high school with ended up going to college. For money or whatever reason, it just wasn’t the norm like it was in movies. I stopped scrolling when I saw a picture of a coast, bright blue water, and white sands. This was the backdrop to a couple of lounge chairs shaded by beach umbrellas, and in the corner of the photo, two hands clinking glasses of what I guessed were piña coladas. The caption read “OMG if you think this view is nice, wait till we post pics tonight!!! The sky here is sooooo beautiful!” with a bunch of heart-eye emojis. The account belonged to Josie Spooner, a onetime friend and a complete social narcissist who posted every time she left the house. Her daily coffee cup with a quote about how she’s “ready to kick Monday’s ass!” or “Ugh, people suck. So bad. Don’t feel like talking about it!” filled my feed often. What was the purpose of telling the world that she didn’t want to talk about it—why post it? I didn’t know why I didn’t just delete her, or my whole account. I hadn’t spoken to her since we moved from Texas. Then again, if I deleted everyone who annoyed me on social media, I would have zero friends.

I was mid–eye roll when I caught something out of the corner of my peripheral vision. It was Kael, dressed in his tan camouflage ACUs, striding down the grass and onto the sidewalk.

I rolled my window down and called to him. “Hey!”

He walked toward my car and leaned into the open passenger-side window. He had to duck down a little so he could see me. His eyes were bright in the setting sun. They were more than bright, they were striking. They were distracting; the unnerving cocktail of vulnerability and certainty in them seemed to sway me, to make me want to be kind to him.

“Where are you going? Was something wrong with the shower? I know it can be a pain in the ass. The water goes from boiling to freezing in like one second and—”

“Shower was fine.” He had one of his hands hidden in the pocket of his uniform pants and the other was resting on the window lining. The black ink tattoo on his forearm was in full view. I couldn’t tell what it was without staring, and he was way too close to not notice.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“To my company,” he answered softly.