Chapter 80
Eric
I want to hold her forever.
Hattie buries her face in my chest, arms locked around me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish again. And part of me wants to vanish, to be invisible, so that I don’t have to speak the words that will break hearts.
But the moment doesn’t last—
“No….”
The word is barely a whisper, riding on a breath of disbelief. Mrs. Monroe is standing on her porch, her apron stained rusty blood red. Her hands are full of rags and bandages. Her voice grows louder as she steps forward, a kind of dread rising like smoke from a fire. She drops the linens, takes off running, and by the time she reaches me, she is screaming.
“No! No! No! No!”
Each word is a blow…. By the last one, she has nothing left and submits to the pain of reality.
Hattie steps aside to give us space. Mrs. Monroe beats my chest with her fists. Not hard enough to hurt. She is just trying to fight grief away, and I can’t blame her. Her sobs fill the air around us. I don’t try to stop her. I only wrap my arms around her and let her grieve the way she needs to, pressing her face to my shoulder like I can absorb the weight of her loss.
The realization hits Charlie, who collapses right where she stands, knees in the dirt, a soundless gasp leaving her mouth before she doubles over and covers her face. Hattie darts to her side and folds her into her arms, whispering something I can’t hear. Her eyes are on me, though, red and full of sorrow.
Mr. Monroe doesn’t say a word. He just lowers his head, shoulders shaking under the weight of grief. Stepping down off the porch, he comes to collect his wife.
Mrs. Monroe has gone limp in my arms, her sobs still coming in waves. I lift her off the ground. Colin and I help carry her inside. The Monroes’ home usually smells like wood smoke, bread, and herbs, but today the scent of blood is overwhelming.
We help Mrs. Monroe to her bedroom and into the bed. Hattie appears at the doorway, still holding Charlie, who runs over to the bed and lies next to her mother. The two of them weep, trying to console one another. Mr. Monroe steps into the room, and Hattie and I give them their privacy. He closes the door behind us, but we can hear the wailing from the other side.
Hattie and I walk out onto the porch. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, and when she looks at me, she steps forward. I pull her into my arms again. This time, we don’t speak for a long while.
My brothers and I take over for the Monroes helping Hattie care for the wounded all day. We check on them often and make sure they all drink water and get something for dinner. The children have been told of their brother’s death and their tearful, little faces pull at the strings of my heart.
When the sky begins to darken, and the wounded men who live nearby begin to return to their own homes, the others to their cots, Hattie takes my hand.
“Will you tell me what happened?” she asks quietly. “Please?”
I nod, escorting her to the edge of the field where the grass is long and wild, hiding us from the view of the house. We sit down on a patch of soft earth, the tall blades bending around us like a curtain. I take Hattie’s hand in mine and inhale deeply.
“I still hear the bayonets striking bone. Still smell the powder, mud, and blood. And in the middle of it, John, fighting like hell. We held them off twice. They came up the hill, and we drove them back. The third time we were out of powder. We had almost nothing. Our captain told us to use our bayonets, rocks, our fists, anything we had left. It was utter chaos. Smoke so thick you could barely see your hand in front of your face. And then they broke through.”
Hattie’s fingers tighten around mine.
“I stuck close to my brothers. And John.” My voice falters. “He was… God, he was brave. He didn’t want to quit. We were out of ammunition, and he didn’t want to give up, no matter how much I tried to convince him to retreat with me before we were given that command.”
“You tried to save them? And yourself? You took what I said to heart? For me?” she asks.
“I would do anything for you. And Hattie, you were right. You were right about everything. I still don’t know how, but you were.” I stroke her cheek.
She says nothing, but she’s biting her bottom lip, which makes me think she’s considering saying something.
I continue before I lose the ability to do so. “Just as we were turning to run, he got shot. Up by his collar bone. It didn’t take him long to die.” I can barely force the words out.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
We lie side by side in the field for hours, wisps of battle smoke clinging to the air like a veil, blurring the stars above us. Hattie’s red curls fan out across the grass, catching what little light filters through. Her hand is in mine, warm and still. We’re too tired to speak, and that’s just as well. Lying here beside her is enough.
Somewhere in the distance, a whippoorwill cries, and for a second, the world doesn’t feel like it’s ending. I study her profile in the dim light, how her lashes rest against her cheek, the curve of her mouth, the smudge of wood stove ash still clinging to her jaw. She’s been through hell, too, and she’s still here. Still kind, beautiful Hattie.
For the first time in days, I feel my breathing settle. There’s still blood under my nails, and my shoulder aches from carrying more weight than one man should. But Hattie’s sweet spirit is the one breath of innocence his war hasn’t ruined. Everything else feels worn thin or half-broken, but she’s still light, soft and steady, like a wildflower growing where no one thought life could take root.
“Hattie?” I break the silence, leaning up on my elbow. “I don’t know what tomorrow will look like. Not anymore. Not after what we saw. But I do know this....”
She sits up then, eyes locked on mine, and I almost don’t say it. The words gather, but fear nearly stops them. Not of her answer, but of daring to want something this good in a world that keeps stealing all that’s good away. What if saying it out loud makes it easier to lose? But then she shifts closer, her hand brushing mine again, and that tiny touch is enough to remind me that if I don’t ask, I’ll regret it forever.
“I don’t want to wait until the war is over. That might never come. This land is charged with friction, and there have been battles here for years. It won’t be easy, but I want to build whatever comes next with you. I want to wake up beside you when the worst has passed, and even when it hasn’t. I want you beside me in whatever version of the future we are destined for. Will you marry me?”
She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t gasp. She just leans in, presses her forehead to mine, and lets the silence answer first.
“Yes,” she says, soft but certain.
I close my eyes and kiss her deeply. What I feel is not exactly relief but something deeper, and we are so overcome with grief, it feels like the earth could swallow us whole. But we have each other.
Tomorrow, we’ll help the Monroes properly bury their son, my greatest friend and the bravest man I ever knew.
Tonight, there are beginnings of something that might just be strong enough to survive whatever comes next.