The Hard Truth About Sunshine

by Sawyer Bennett

  "Christopher," Jillian says as she steps into me, breaking my hold on her face. She places her cheek on my chest and wraps her arms around my waist. "I know there was a time you didn't believe it, but I think you can accept it now. You're an easy man to love."

  We stand like that for God knows how long. Her arms around my waist, mine tightly wound around her back. Her cheek on my chest, feeling my heart beat, and mine on the top of her head that was warmed by the summer sun.

  I have no delusions that my life will now be all unicorns and rainbows. In fact, I anticipate Jillian and I will have tough times ahead as life continues to throw its curveballs at us. But my heart has been softened and my mind has been opened, and I've learned some important truths about myself.

  A great gift has been bestowed upon me, and that is the gift of life. What I choose to make of it is all on me, but I can lean on my friends when I need to. I also know not everyone can reap the rewards of the life that's been handed to them, and some will lose it along the way, intentional or not. Those losses will forever be etched upon my soul.

  I choose to live.

  I choose to love.

  I choose to forge my path.

  Life is my choice.

  Epilogue

  Four months later...

  Death isn't pretty and because we loved Connor so much, it was uglier than normal. He held on for far longer than he should have, despite his parents begging and pleading his heavily drugged mind to just give up the fight and let go. Toward the end, he wasn't conscious. I'm not sure if he even knew we were there, but I'll never have a single fucking regret about Connor McCann being my friend, even though his loss was the most painful thing I've ever endured in my life.

  Jillian and I spent every bit of our free time with him, and I think we've officially been adopted by Mr. and Mrs. McCann. We had movie sleepovers at Connor's house, and when he was well enough, we'd take weekend trips to the beach or the mountains. Day by day, his cancer grew, spread, and started to deteriorate the healthy parts of him. His body became skeletal because he had no appetite, and his skin turned an ashy gray. Before he started getting hardcore pain medications that kept him almost coma-like, he'd be so tired he'd fall asleep in the middle of a conversation.

  But through it all, he always had that smile and his mischievous sense of humor that made it bearable.

  As we stand in the cemetery under gray skies and a misting rain that makes the tip of my nose feel like ice, I suppress a spinal shiver that has everything to do with the frigid December weather and nothing to do with the fact I find death to be an abysmally ugly condition.

  But this isn't our first rodeo--standing before a gravestone, I mean.

  Grieving.

  The McCanns generously buried Barb in the same cemetery, one plot over from Connor's so they can rest side by side. She had no family or friends. To prevent her from being buried a pauper by the state, well... I guess you can say the McCanns adopted her too.

  I'll never forget the day I last spoke to Connor before he went under the deep sleep before death. He'd told me that he was confident Barb would be waiting for him on the other side, so I wasn't to worry about it.

  I hope that's true.

  As the minister talks about the afterlife over Connor's casket, my eyes cut to the left to look at Barb's headstone. While the McCanns paid for her burial, I paid for the headstone. I wanted to do something nice for Barb, and I hope she appreciates it. Otherwise, if anyone ever had the ability to come back and haunt me from the grave, it would be her.

  Let's pray for the sun to shine its warmth upon us always,

  So we never forget the hard truth of it.

  Jillian came up with the epitaph for Barb's grave marker. It's followed simply by the words "Barbara H. Stiles. Our Friend."

  Nothing more needed to be said. We chose not to put the years she lived beneath her name. Frankly, we think she stopped living the night her uncle first abused her.

  Jillian squeezes my hand, and I look down at her.

  "What are you thinking?" she asks softly.

  "Whether Barb will haunt me at some point," I say.

  Jillian gives a quiet laugh. "I think Connor will keep her under control."

  God, I hope so. Standing here, among this plot of earth collecting souls and dried bones--my heart hurts for me, for her, for them--and I know I should feel some guilt because I'm the one who got a silver lining.

  All thanks to the girl with the glass perpetually half full.

  No... wait.

  That's not right.

  Jillian doesn't do half full. She's a brimming-to-capacity kind of woman.

  My kind of woman.

  I look back to Barb's headstone one more time and read the beautiful words Jillian chose. They're poignant and mean so much to me. When she said them aloud all those months ago as we watched the sun come out after a dark rainstorm, I never thought they meant anything more than a basic tenet of Jillian Martel's philosophy on life. I never realized they would have a profound effect on me. To others, they would fall on deaf ears.

  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 naive. 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.

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  About the Author

  Since the release of her debut contemporary romance novel, Off Sides, in January 2013, Sawyer Bennett has released more than 30 books and has been featured on both the USA Today and New York Times bestseller lists on multiple occasions.

  A reformed trial lawyer from North Carolina, Sawyer uses real life experience to create relatable, sexy stories that appeal to a wide array of readers. From new adult to erotic contemporary romance, Sawyer writes something for just about everyone.

  Sawyer likes her Bloody Marys strong, her martinis dirty, and her heroes a combination of the two. When not bringing fictional romance to life, Sawyer is a chauffeur, stylist, chef, maid, and personal assistant to a very active toddler, as well as full-time servant to two adorably naughty dogs. She believes in the good of others, and that a bad day can be cured with a great work-out, cake, or a combination of the two.