Chapter 11 Two Years After
2 years after Penny
The late summer evening is warm, the kind that makes the air heavy and sweet with cut grass. The kind of night where people linger outside because it feels like summer doesn’t want to end.
I hadn’t planned on being here. Mila had texted earlier, right after rehearsal: Hey, can you pick me up?
I was already stretched out on my couch, half-thinking about going to the gym, half-thinking about doing nothing at all. But I saw her name light up my phone and didn’t even hesitate. Yeah, where are you?
Ten minutes later, I was parked outside the studio, watching dancers trickle out, their hair slicked back, sweat still shining on their faces. Mila came out last, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, her dark hair falling loose now that practice was over. She waved, looking both exhausted and relieved.
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said as she climbed into the passenger seat.
“I better be,” I teased. “You bribing me with ice cream, or what?”
She grinned, kicked off her sneakers, and leaned back in the seat. “Obviously. Ice cream fixes everything.”
So that’s how we ended up here, in the park, with paper cups in our laps.
Mila and I sit on a bench of our own, plastic spoons in hand, the air filled with the mix of laughter, car horns in the distance, and the splashing of the fountain. Families are packing up their picnic blankets, kids are still running wild despite the hour, and couples have staked out the best benches with arms draped around each other.
Mine is already half gone, the chocolate melting faster than I can eat it. Mila, though, is still nibbling at hers like it’s homework she doesn’t want to do.
“You’re eating that like it’s punishment,” I say, nodding at her cup.
She scrunches her nose. “I’m savoring it. You inhale.”
“Not my fault chocolate melts faster than vanilla.”
She rolls her eyes but hides a smile, twirling her spoon slowly through the soft ice cream. We're silent, like that, just for a little while.
“I swear,” she says eventually, stretching her legs out in front of her, “this routine is going to break me. I’m too old for this.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Mila, you’re twenty-two.”
“Exactly. Ancient. In ballet years, anyway.” She points her spoon at me like she’s scolding me. “You should know better. Also, aren't you almost too old to be a SEAL?”
I smirk. “Yeah, you got me, I'm basically on my last leg. What’s the cutoff for you, then?”
“In ballet?” she says, tilting her head. “Usually, by now you’re either making it or you’re retiring. Or both. It's really hard on the body and the joints, especially if you've been dancing since you're a little kid.” Her tone dips a little. “Look at what happened to Penny.”
Her words hang there. I feel my chest tighten.
My mind flashes back, uninvited, to last year.
Penny in the hospital bed, eyes red from crying, her hands trembling as she clutched mine. Her knee, wrapped and braced, ruined from one wrong landing in rehearsal. She had back from her third tour, the one she was so proud of, dancing across cities, building the kind of career most only dream of. The one she worked so hard for. And then—snap. The knee shattered.
Asher had been gone training troops that weekend, unreachable. Mila called me instead. I didn’t think twice. Drove like hell, left my truck in a restricted zone right at the ER doors, didn’t care when the security guards came to tell me they towed it.
I got to her just before they wheeled her in for surgery.
“Is this it, Boomer?” she kept whispering, her voice cracking. “Is it over for me? Is it all over?”
She was shaking, and I just… I kept brushing her hair back from her face, telling her no, that she was strong, that she’d be fine. That the world didn’t end with one bad fall. I whispered it like I could will it into truth. And I really wanted to.
And then the nurses took her away, and all I could do was sit in her room afterward, hold her hand while she slept, and promise her she’d get through it.
Hours later, Asher finally showed up, pale and frantic, and took over her bedside. And that was it. My role ended.
The memory burns, sharper than I want it to.
“Boomer?” Mila says, pulling me back.
I clear my throat, shift in my seat, dig my spoon into what’s left of my ice cream. “Yeah, but you’re not injured. And you’re great at what you do.”
She studies me for a beat, then smiles softly. “Thanks. That means more than you think.”
We fall quiet for a while, watching a kid chase pigeons across the path. Mila breaks it first, her voice lighter. “Actually… I do have a small show coming up. Nothing huge. But my parents will be there, and it still counts for something.”
“That’s great,” I say, nodding. “I’ll be there too.”
Her smile widens. “You better be. You can even bring your parents if you want.”
The words land like a rock in my stomach.
I hesitate, staring down at the half-melted chocolate swirling in my cup. “Yeah… hmm. I haven’t really talked to them in a while.”
Mila tilts her head. “What’s a while?”
My jaw tightens. I swirl the spoon through the melted ice cream, buy myself a second before I answer. “Five years.”
Her eyes widen. “Wait. You haven’t talked to them since you were eighteen?”
“Yeah.” The word is clipped, final.
She blinks. “Boomer—”
But I’m already shifting, standing, tossing the empty cup into the trash bin a few feet away. I start walking down the path a little faster than usual, shoulders tight.
Mila jogs a step to catch up, eyes narrowing. She knows me well enough to recognize the signal. Conversation over.
We walk in silence for a while, her soft sigh the only sound between us.