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He doesn’t flinch. “I don’t care what you think you need. You’re going to sit in that damn office and talk to a grief counselor. And before you start arguing, I can keep it off your record.”

I clench my jaw. “I don’t need a counselor.”

“You do.” His voice is level but firm. “And you’re going.”

I open my mouth to fight him on it, but the words don’t come. Something in his eyes tells me that if I push back too hard, he’s going to make this a hell of a lot worse. And somewhere deep down, I know he’s right. Not that I’m saying that shit out loud.

“You’re not alone in this, Logan.” Townsend’s voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, like steel wrapped in understanding. “But I need you here, mentally. Physically, you’ll heal. But the rest? You need to put in the work.”

I look away, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I’m not broken,” I mutter.

Townsend tilts his head slightly. “You’re not broken, Logan. But you’re damn close.” He pauses. “Set up a meeting with the counselor. After that, we’ll talk again.”

Hampton, Virginia

June 29, 2024

10:02 a.m.

Lila

The phone feels heavier than usual, the screen lighting up with my mom’s name. I stare at it for a moment, hesitating, but then the familiar warmth of her voice floods through.

"Hey, sweetie. How are you holding up?" Her voice is always a comforting balm, but today it only reminds me of the ache in my chest.

I swallow hard, trying to force the tightness in my throat to go away. "I'm...managing, I guess." My voice cracks, betraying me, but I quickly try to cover it. "You know, just taking things day by day."

A couple of days after Logan left, I finally faced the music and called my parents. The moment I heard my mom’s voice, the dam broke—I told them everything. How Logan had known Lincoln, how he had been there when my brother died, how he had kept it from me until now.

To my shock, they already knew.

My dad had looked into the demo team months ago, piecing things together from the details I’d shared about the man I was seeing. He’d figured out the truth before I ever had because he recognized Logan’s name instantly since he’d been Linc’s wingman. I was furious—first, that they had investigated Logan instead of just trusting in my choices, and second, that they had kept something so earth-shattering from me.

But when I confronted them, their answer was simply that it wasn’t their story to tell. It was Logan’s. Since I can’t be mad at everyone, I’m working on moving past this.

There’s a pause on the other end, then a gentle sigh. "You don’t have to be strong for me, honey. You can tell me the truth. You know I understand."

I press the phone tighter to my ear, as if it can offer me some relief. "I’m not sure what the truth is anymore, Mom." My words come out quieter than I intended. "I—" I stop myself, choking on the weight of everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. "Logan…he’s haunted by everything he’s been through. I saw it in his eyes."

My mom’s voice softens, a concerned edge creeping into her tone. "I can only imagine how hard this must be on him." Of course she sees it as a mom. As much as I appreciate the lack of Logan-Bash-Sessions my friends and family have attended, it would probably feel good to call him an asshole or something.

"Yeah, but he..." I trail off, fighting the lump in my throat, tears threatening to spill, but I hold them back. I’ve been crying so much lately, and I’m tired of it. “He lied, Mom.”

“Yes he did, baby. And I know that had to hurt you terribly,” My mom answers, but it sounds like she wants to say more.

“He knew Lincoln. How are you not more upset? He was there when Linc died. He didn’t tell me. He let me fall—” I cut myself off.

“Everything you’re saying is true. Dad and I were shocked and a little uneasy to say the least. But I don’t think he wanted to hurt you. I think he stayed quiet as long as he did because he was scared of doing exactly that.” Her voice is even and I want to scream. How is she so calm?

“Lincoln died because—”

My mom cuts me off before I can regret the words on the tip of my tongue. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence without thinking it through. Do you think for one second if there were any way to get Lincoln back, I wouldn’t take it? Do you think if there was even a possibility someone did something wrong, if we could blame anyone other than enemy insurgents for your brother’s untimely death, that your father wouldn’t have gone to hell and back to make sure it happened?”

I sigh, remembering that Dad said he had downloaded and printed all of Logan’s Air Force records right after Lincoln’s accident. That he scoured through them trying to be able to blame him for what happened. Then last week he admitted he did it a second time—downloading fifteen years’ worth of information—when he realized Logan’s who I’ve been dating.

All he found—either time—was a laundry list of achievements. My mouth had fallen open as Dad recited them over the phone.

Graduated at sixteen from high school. Top of his class at the Air Force Academy. Top of his class in UPT—Undergraduate Pilot Training—guaranteeing him a fighter slot. Top of his class again in IFF—Introduction to Fighter Fundamentals—moving on to fly F-16s. Where he met Linc. Earned several medals for aerial flight, heroism, joint task force missions, even one from NATO.