Page 55 of SEAL of Valor

I stop what I’m doing, struck by how badly I wanted this to be my every day.

Him coming home and me making lunch.

Serving him.

Loving him.

Being loved by him.

“I need to wash up,” he says, then starts toward the front bathroom.

“Yeah, of course.” I carry the plates over to the dining room, setting them on the table. And then I realize that I have no idea where we should sit.

Do I put him at the end of the table and me next to him? That seems too close.

But if I put us on opposite ends, that seems rude.

Across from each other? Is that safe?

Before I can continue to overthink this into awkwardness, I place his plate on one side, then mine directly across from him. I’m stepping into the kitchen when he comes out of the bathroom, hands clean, his face still slightly wet from the water he splashed on it.

“Do you want some lemonade? I made it this morning.”

“Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

“No problem. Have a seat. Either plate works.” I reach into the refrigerator for the pitcher of lemonade, then grab two glasses off the drying rack. After filling them up, I carry both into the dining room. Weston has taken the seat opposite the door, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s so he can plot his escape.

It’s laughable. A man like that wanting to run away from anything.

“Do you want to say grace?” I ask him.

“No, thanks. You go ahead.”

“Okay.” I try to force a smile, but my stomach churns. Is that another thing Weston Hayes lost? His faith? “Lord, we thank You for this meal. Please bless it and let it nourish our bodies. Thank You for being here with us always and for walking beside us. In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.”

I open my eyes and take a sip of lemonade.

Weston takes a drink, too.

“Good?”

“You always were the best at making lemonade.”

I grin. “Thanks. It’s my comfort drink.”

“I remember.” He takes a bite of his sandwich while I eat a chip.

“So, how are the horses?”

“Fine. Enjoyed their extra oats yesterday and today.”

“I bet.”

“How’s your hip?”

“Better. Mom made me go to urgent care yesterday afternoon, and they confirmed I didn’t fracture anything. Just a nasty bone bruise.”

“She told me.” He keeps his gaze averted, like he’s afraid to show me that he cared enough to ask. Or, maybe he didn’t ask, and she just offered up the information? Maybe he feels guilty for not checking in?