Still, there is no denying it.
Whether we all understood the importance of the truth she imparted, the words still hang around to haunt us.
Comfort us.
Lead us.
Whatever.
I try to focus in on what the minister is saying as we stand at Connor's graveside, but I really can't accept the peaceful words being offered. I've made my peace with him dying, just as I made my peace with Barb's suicide. They're both in a better place, as am I. In the end, I have to believe that all of us are happy now.
"Are you about ready?" Jillian asks as she squeezes my hand. I blink, noting that the casket is being lowered and people are coming up to say their final goodbyes. The McCanns are devastated as they accept condolences. Jillian and I will probably stay the night with them tonight so they won't be alone, but for now, she has to get to work.
Jillian started working at a pharmaceutical company, doing customer service calls. It certainly doesn't have anything to do her degree, and it isn't what she wants to do with her life, but she's thrilled to actually have a real job that pays money and makes her independent. It was a tough process, but her parents finally loosened their claws and fearfully let Jillian spread her wings. That really means she flew to my apartment to live with me, although we'll get out of my dump as soon as the sublease is up. I also just started a job at a local CrossFit gym that specializes in people with disabilities. I started out there as a member, but I made such amazing strides getting my body in shape that the owner offered me a job as a trainer and a motivational coach.
Crazy, right?
But as I look down to the best thing that has ever happened to me, I know I can't doubt my abilities to pass on the same lessons that she taught me.
"Sure, let's get going," I tell her as I bring her hand up to rest in the crook of my arm. But before we leave and because I note the wetness on her cheeks, I lift my half hand to wipe the tears away with my scarred fingers. I give her a smile, and she returns it.
Just as we start to turn away from the grave, a warmth settles over the top of my head, almost like a comforting palm pressing down in reassurance. It only takes me a moment to realize that it's gotten incrementally brighter, and I raise my face up to see a parting of clouds in the overcast sky.
A sliver of Carolina blue sky struggles to expand outward, and then a blast of sunshine surges forth, hitting me so hard in the face I have to close my eyes against it.
It burns against my skin, and I can't help but smile.
This.
This right here.
It's the hard truth.
Acknowledgments
If you've read any of my books before this one, you know that The Hard Truth About Sunshine is a complete departure from the sexy romances I write. It's been over two years in the making, but I had to write this book.
You see … there was this thing that happened to me in the Orlando airport a few years ago that rattled the shit out of me. There was a young marine veteran sitting across from me that was waiting to board the same flight I was on. He'd lost a leg and part of a hand. He was heavily scarred. I noticed people staring at him and the seats to his left and right were empty.
Now, I am no stranger to military veterans. My dad is a Vietnam vet and was wounded in action. I was raised in a Marine Corps community. I've had dozens of friends serve and some who were wounded. I am also no stranger to people that have had catastrophic injuries. During my sixteen years of practicing law, I've represented more than my share of victims that have been maimed.
I am a deeply patriotic woman, and I never miss an opportunity to thank a veteran or an active duty soldier for their service to our country. It's almost an ingrained habit with me.
This marine veteran in the Orlando airport (and I know he was a marine because he wore a scarlet t-shirt with the letters U.S.M.C. in gold) had been severely wounded. He still wore his hair in a "high and tight" so I had to assume he hadn't been medically discharged yet. Since he was flying to North Carolina, same as me, perhaps he was going back to his home base at Camp Lejeune. As I contemplated his service to our country and what he lost and what his back story may be, he stood up from his chair and walked around a little, perhaps just to stretch.
Perhaps to remove himself from the people staring.
I have no clue but he didn't go far.
I used that opportunity to get out of my seat and walk up to him, because I wanted to thank him for his sacrifice. He watched me approach warily but that didn't stop me from reaching my right hand out to offer a shake to his wounded one that was heavily scarred and missing some fingers. With a sincere smile I told him, "I just wanted to thank you for your service to our country" or something along those lines.
The young marine didn't take my hand. The first thing he offered me in return was a glare. The next was pure hostility when he snapped at me, "I don't need your thanks."
He turned around and walked away from me.
I was so stunned, I couldn't even move for a moment. I was embarrassed, because how many people just saw that? And admittedly, I was angry that he was so rude to me.
I thought about that marine over the next few weeks, trying to come to grips with his absolute right to not accept my thanks.
To be bitter, perhaps.
Angry over his circumstances.
Potentially suffering from severe PTSD. Or a whole slew of problems he may have been suffering that I couldn't see.
The conclusion I came to was the problem was with me, not the young veteran. I think I had fallen into this mindset where I tended to glorify military veterans. We see them walking through airports to cheers from strangers as they walk by. We read about heroic tales performed. We look up to them as inspiration and as role models for courage and bravery. We want to believe they do their job and are honored to make a sacrifice. Let's face it … they're almost like gods in our minds.
But I don't think I was even remotely close to understanding what really happens when a soldier returns home from war. I'm not naïve. I know about PTSD and the terrible rate of suicide among veterans. But those were just numbers to me. I hadn't thought really past that, and I had this belief that they needed to know they were appreciated.
In that airport, I encountered a man that wasn't just angry at me. I think he was angry at the world.
He didn't want my thanks or appreciation, and as I researched more about wounded veterans and amputees and those that suffer from PTSD, I started to understand how significant the emotional trauma is.
I no longer think that veteran was rude to me, but only that he was not able to accept what I was offering at that moment. He was being true to himself.
I knew I had to write a story based on this experience to help me to continue to make sense of what our veterans go through.
I want to give special thanks to my beta readers, Lisa, Darlene, Janett, Beth and Karen for encouraging me on this book. Sorry I made you cry.
To my dad, for his service. Semper Fi, marine!
And to all those that serve with bravery, courage and honor, I truly do thank you for your sacrifices. It's important you know that an entire country relies on you and our safe existence is only possible with you protecting us.