Chapter 179
Thomas' POV
I'd faced down warlords in three different war zones. Negotiated hostage releases with terrorists. Stared across conference tables at hostile governments and never blinked. But standing in front of my closet at 0600 on a Tuesday morning, I felt something uncomfortably close to panic.
Military dress uniforms. Six of them, hanging in perfect alignment like soldiers at attention. Class A's, dress blues, the formal mess uniform I'd worn to state dinners and award ceremonies. All impeccably maintained, all completely inappropriate for my son's wedding.
Behind them, pushed to the back of the closet as if ashamed of their civilian status, were four suits. Charcoal gray. Black. Navy so dark it might as well be black. Another charcoal gray. I pulled one out, held it up to the morning light streaming through the window of my Arlington apartment.
It looked like something I'd wear to brief the Joint Chiefs on casualty reports.
"Goddammit," I muttered.
My phone buzzed. Captain Mike Moore—retired, technically, but still "Captain" to me after fifteen years as my aide-de-camp—had let himself in with the key I'd given him for emergencies. His voice carried from the living room.
"Sir? You decent?"
"Define decent," I called back. "I'm dressed. I'm also having a crisis."
Moore appeared in the bedroom doorway, coffee in each hand. He took one look at me standing there in my undershirt and boxers, surrounded by rejected suits, and his expression shifted into what I'd always called his "tactical assessment" face.
"Wedding outfit?" he guessed, handing me a coffee.
"Wedding outfit," I confirmed grimly. "Moore, I have nothing. Look at this." I gestured at the closet. "I look like I'm running a very depressing funeral home."
Moore moved closer, studying the contents with the same analytical precision he'd once used to evaluate supply chains in hostile territory. He pulled out the least-offensive charcoal suit, held it up, tilted his head.
"It's not that bad, sir."
"It's terrible. I look like I'm about to deliver bad news to a widow."
"You look distinguished."
"I look like a pallbearer." I took a long drink of coffee, feeling the caffeine start to work its magic. "Elena used to handle this. Anything that required—" I gestured vaguely. "Social awareness. Understanding what normal people wore to celebrations instead of military functions. She'd just tell me what to wear and I'd wear it."
Moore's expression softened. "Mrs. Russell had excellent taste."
"She kept me from looking like a complete barbarian at social functions." I set down my coffee and pulled out another suit. Black. Equally depressing. "What do you think? Too funereal?"
"Honestly, sir?" Moore took the suit, examined it critically. "Yes. You look like you're about to attend a state funeral. Or conduct one."
"That's what I thought." I grabbed the navy suit—the one that wasn't quite black but close enough to be depressing. "This one?"
Moore made a face. "Better. But still very—" He paused, clearly searching for diplomatic phrasing. "Very serious. Very 'I have important business to conduct.'"
"Fuck." I threw the suit on the bed. "I'm a four-star general. Everything I own is serious business."
"What about the dress uniform?" Moore suggested. "The formal one? That's—that's celebratory, right? Awards and ceremonies and—"
"No." The word came out harder than I'd intended. "Absolutely not. I'm not showing up to Julian's wedding in my dress uniform like I'm—like I'm there in an official capacity instead of as his father. Like I'm representing the military instead of just—" I had to stop. Breathe. "Instead of just being his dad."
Moore held up his hands in surrender. "Understood, sir. Bad suggestion. Forget I mentioned it."
I slumped onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted despite the coffee and the early hour. "I haven't done this in seven years, Moore. Haven't been to any of Julian's events. Haven't had to figure out how to—how to show up as a father instead of a general. And now I'm supposed to walk into the ballroom on Thursday and look like I belong there. Like I have any right to witness his happiness after—" My voice caught. "After what I did."
Moore sat down beside me. We'd been through enough combat zones together that the usual barriers of rank had long since dissolved into something more like friendship. "Sir, permission to speak freely?"
"When have you ever waited for permission?"
"Fair point." Moore took a breath. "You're overthinking this. Julian invited you. He wants you there. The suit—" He gestured at the depressing collection on the bed. "The suit is just fabric. What matters is that you show up. That you're present. That you—" He paused. "That you look at your son and let him see that you're proud of him. That you're grateful he gave you this chance."
I knew he was right. Knew that obsessing over wardrobe choices was just a way of avoiding the deeper terror—that I'd show up and Julian would look at me and see only the man who'd chosen principle over his mother's life. That no suit, however perfect, could erase seven years of absence and guilt.
But still. I wanted to get this right. Wanted to look like a father attending his son's wedding, not a general inspecting troops or a bureaucrat attending a policy meeting.
"I need help," I admitted finally. "Professional help. Someone who knows—" I gestured vaguely. "Who knows what fathers wear to weddings when they're trying very hard not to look like they've spent their entire careers in morally ambiguous professions."
Moore's mouth quirked. "That's oddly specific, sir."
"I'm an oddly specific case."
He pulled out his phone, started scrolling. "There's a place in the Garment District. Castellano & Sons. High-end, discreet, can do rush alterations. My sister used them when her husband needed a suit for—" He paused. "Actually, never mind what he needed it for. Point is, they're good. And fast."
I took the phone, studied the address. "Castellano & Sons. Sounds expensive."
"You're a retired four-star general with a full pension and no dependents, sir. You can afford expensive."
"True." I handed back the phone. "Set it up. This afternoon if they can fit me in. And Moore?"
"Sir?"
"Thank you. For—" I gestured at the depressing pile of suits. "For not laughing at me. For understanding that this is—" I struggled for words. "That this matters. That I want to get it right."
"Of course it matters, sir." Moore stood, already typing on his phone. "It's your son's wedding. You're allowed to care about showing up properly. Even if you have spent your entire career being—" His mouth quirked. "Morally ambiguous."
"Get out of my apartment, Captain."
"Yes, sir." But he was grinning. "I'll text you when I have the appointment confirmed. And sir? For what it's worth? Julian wouldn't have invited you if he didn't want you there. The suit is just details. What matters is that you show up."
"I know." I did know. But knowing didn't make the terror any less real. "I'll show up. In something that doesn't make me look like a pallbearer or a general inspecting troops."
"That's the spirit, sir."