Page 90 of The Upside of Falling
Chapter Thirty-Three
COLBY
Ayear and a half later . . .
My feet sink into the wet grass, the dreary Colorado day an abnormality amid the normally sunny days.
But today is different.
I keep my eyes pinned to the ground, unable to take in the sea of black surrounding me, or the dress blues poised and ready to salute.
Someone is speaking, but the words float by me, never truly connecting as I think about the phone call I received five days ago . . .
“Is this Colby Brooks?”
“Yes,” I spoke, out of breath from trying to find my phone in my locker.
“This is Janice from Mountain View Nursing Home. I have some bad news. Your grandfather passed away in his sleep last night.”
I didn’t hear anything else as I sank to the floor of the squadron locker room, the phone slipping from my hand, my body turning completely numb.He can’t be gone. He’s the only person I have left. He can’t be gone.
And any feeling has yet to come back to me.
Standing on either side of me, my boys from my squadron—Bent, Colt, and Rowdy—offer their support. Not saying a word, but being there for me, like we’re there for each other in the sky, watching out for one another, covering each other’s six.
Bent, my best friend in the squadron, the guy who has taken me under his wing and taught me everything he knows, squeezes my shoulder as the honor guard starts to fold the flag that was draped across my grandpa’s coffin.
Motionless, I feel a part of my life being taken away from me with each fold. A man I relied on for moral support and for love, taken away from me, stolen from my life, just like every other thing I’ve ever cherished.
My dad.
My plane.
Rory.
Gramps.
All fucking ripped from my grasp, leaving me a bitter, empty man.
I don’tlivea life. My life is flying. My life revolves around my F-22 and controlling the powerful machine, eating up the feeling of the controls being pushed and pulled by my tired and worn-out forearms.
The sound of gravel under polished shoes sounds out as a man in uniform who I don’t know walks toward me, holding a folded flag in the shape of a triangle. When he reaches me, he hands me the flag, then salutes me with his white-gloved hands, and finally turns on a dime marching away as guns fire off.
One.
Two.
Three.
Three shots in unison into the air, all hitting me directly in the heart, resounding and impacting with each blast.
And then in the distance, the sound of “Taps” fills the sullen air, electrifying the atmosphere with unspoken bereavement.
Looking up for what seems like the first time, I scan the crowd standing across from me. Black suit coats and dresses, intermingled dress blues, and a quiet appreciation for my grandpa, a man who wasn’t perfect, but he was damn near close in my eyes.
Scanning the faces, I notice some from the nursing home. Janice stands to the left, a handkerchief in her hand, blotting her eyes, an elderly woman next to her in a wheelchair, tissue clutched to her chest. To the right, I spot an old neighbor from before my grandpa moved to the nursing home.
Across the way, I find a familiar pair of eyes staring straight at me, and my stomach does a flip.
