Chapter 2: Citation for a Broken Heart
The streetlights flickered on one by one as Riley rolled through the intersection, the Mustang's engine purring low and mean beneath her. She'd borrowed it from a buddy at the base—a 2019 GT with a growl that made her feel seventeen again, back when she'd spent her nights drag-racing on the back roads with kids who never spoke to her in the daylight. The smell of lilacs hit her through the cracked window, sweet and cloying, mixing with the stale beer clinging to her shirt from the bar.
She hated that smell. Always had.
Her father's street was six blocks ahead, past the elementary school where she'd learned to keep her head down, past the church where the pastor had once prayed over her during Sunday service while her mother stared at the floor. Riley's hands tightened on the wheel. She didn't need to drive this way. Could've taken the highway, cut fifteen minutes off the trip. But something perverse in her wanted to see it all—every landmark, every corner, every crack in the sidewalk that still remembered her sneakers.
The stop sign came out of nowhere.
It leaned crooked against a bush, its paint chipped and faded, like it had been there since before she was born. Riley caught it a second too late, her foot slamming the brake as the nose of the Mustang crept past the white line. She cursed under her breath. Stupid. Fucking stupid.
The blue lights bloomed in her rearview mirror before she'd even finished the thought.
"Goddamn it."
She pulled over, the Mustang rumbling against the curb, and killed the engine. The night went quiet except for the low hum of the patrol car behind her and the distant chirp of crickets. Riley kept her hands on the wheel, watching the officer approach in the side mirror—a slow, deliberate walk, hand resting on the belt, shoulders squared.
Then the face came into view.
Blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. Blue eyes that widened for half a second before snapping back to neutral. A jaw that went tight, then slack, then tight again.
Kenzie.
Riley's stomach dropped, then hardened into something cold and heavy.
Kenzie stopped at the window, her flashlight beam cutting through the darkness, sweeping over Riley's face. Neither of them spoke. The air between them thickened, heavy with the smell of lilacs and something else—something that tasted like bad timing and worse memories.
"License and registration," Kenzie said. Her voice was steady, but the hand holding the flashlight wasn't.
Riley reached for her wallet, slow and easy, her eyes never leaving Kenzie's face. She pulled out her military ID and the car's registration, passed them through the window. Kenzie took them. Looked down.
And froze.
The mask cracked. Not all at once—a hairline fracture, a falter in her breathing, a flicker in her eyes as they scanned the name on the license. Riley watched it happen. Watched the color drain from Kenzie's cheeks. Watched her lips part, just barely, like she was trying to form a word that wouldn't come.
"Riley," Kenzie said. Not a question. A recognition. A confession.
"Kenzie Kipling." Riley's voice was flat, almost bored. "Haven't seen you in a while."
Kenzie's hand trembled around the license. She didn't return it. She just stood there, flashlight beam pointed at the pavement, her whole body gone rigid.
"I didn't—" Kenzie started, then stopped. Swallowed. "I didn't know you were back."
"I didn't know you were a cop."
"Three years now."
The silence stretched between them, thick as oil. Riley could see it all playing out on Kenzie's face—the sleepover, the kiss, the cold shoulder in the hallway the next morning, the way she'd looked straight through Riley for the rest of junior year. The way she'd never said a single word about it. Not one.
"You remember." Riley's voice was quiet. Not angry. That was worse. "The sleepover. Your room. Your mom's vanilla candles. We were sixteen and you kissed me like you'd been waiting your whole life for it. Then the next day you couldn't even look at me."
Kenzie flinched. "Riley—"
"I'm not done."
Kenzie shut her mouth.
"You ignored me for a year. A whole year. I sat behind you in English and you never once turned around. You let me eat lunch alone. You let everyone call me the dyke queen of Westbrook High and you just—" Riley paused, her jaw working. "You just watched."
Kenzie's eyes glistened under the streetlights. "I was scared."
"I know you were scared. We were all scared. But I didn't have anyone else. My own mother wouldn't look at me, and you were supposed to be my best friend."
"I'm sorry—"
"Two nights ago." Riley cut her off. "In the bar. You didn't know who I was, and I didn't know who you were. We were just two strangers. And that meant nothing."
Kenzie's breath hitched. "It didn't mean nothing."
"It meant exactly nothing." Riley held out her hand. "My license."
Kenzie stared at her for a long moment. The blue lights flickered across her face, catching the wetness at the corners of her eyes. Then she placed the license in Riley's palm, her fingers brushing against Riley's skin—warm, brief, accidental.
"No ticket," Kenzie said. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Didn't ask for one."
Riley started the engine. The Mustang roared to life, a growl that shook the already fragile air between them. Kenzie stepped back from the window, her face a mess of shame and something else Riley couldn't name.
"Riley—"
But Riley didn't wait. She hit the gas and peeled away from the curb, the Mustang's tires squealing against the pavement. The blue lights stayed behind her, then faded, then disappeared altogether. She didn't look back. She never looked back.
Her hands were shaking on the wheel.
The past roared in her ears—louder than the engine, louder than the blood pumping through her veins. Sixteen years old, lying on a futon in Kenzie's basement, the two of them tangled in blankets while a movie played unwatched on the TV. Kenzie's hand finding hers in the dark. Kenzie's lips, soft and hesitant, pressing against her mouth. The way her heart had nearly exploded with something she hadn't had the words for.
Then morning. Then silence. Then nothing.
Riley had spent the rest of high school telling herself it didn't matter. Telling herself she didn't need anyone. She'd enlisted at eighteen, shipped out a week after graduation, and never looked back. She'd fucked her way through three deployments and half the bars on the West Coast without ever letting anyone close enough to hurt her again.
And now here she was, back in the town she'd sworn to forget, on the same street where she'd learned to hate the sight of her own reflection.
She pulled into her father's driveway and killed the engine.
The house looked exactly the same—the same peeling paint on the shutters, the same rusted gutters, the same cracked concrete steps leading up to the porch. A single light burned behind the living room curtains, soft and yellow and waiting.
Riley sat in the car for a long moment, her forehead resting against the wheel.
The bathroom stall. The drunk girl with the blonde hair and the hungry mouth. Two nights ago, when the world had been simple and her name had meant nothing.
She'd told herself it was just a hookup. Just a warm body. Just a way to pass the hours.
But Kenzie had looked at her tonight like she was seeing a ghost.
And Riley had looked back.
She got out of the car and walked up the steps.
Her father opened the door before she could knock.
Her father opened the door before she could knock.
He stood there in the frame, backlit by the living room lamp, older than she remembered but still built like a brick shithouse. Gray had crept into his buzz cut, and the lines around his eyes had deepened into canyons. But the smile—that slow, easy smile that had always meant you're safe here—was exactly the same.
"Get over here," he said.
Riley stepped into his arms and let herself be held. He smelled like motor oil and Old Spice and something faintly like the menthol rub he'd always used on his knees. His grip was firm, almost crushing, the way it had always been.
"You're late," he said into her hair.
"Got held up."
He pulled back, hands on her shoulders, eyes traveling over her face like he was cataloging every change. "Look at you. Gunnery Sergeant Riley Callahan."
"Not a Callahan anymore. I changed it back to Webb when I turned eighteen."
Her father's expression flickered—something complicated passing through his eyes—but he didn't push. He just nodded and clapped her on the shoulder. "Well, Gunnery Sergeant Webb, you look good. Tired, but good."
"Thanks, old man."
"Old man?" He scoffed, stepping aside to let her in. "I could still run circles around your ass. Don't forget who taught you to shoot."
The house was warm and cluttered, just like she remembered. Books stacked on every surface, a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, the TV muttering to itself in the corner. Nothing had changed. Not the faded family photos on the wall, not the worn leather recliner, not the smell of coffee that seemed permanently baked into the walls.
Riley dropped her duffel by the door and followed him into the kitchen.
"Beer?"
"God, yes."
He pulled two bottles from the fridge and handed her one. They settled at the small wooden table by the window, the one with the water stain shaped like Florida that had been there since she was a kid. Riley took a long pull from her beer and felt some of the tension in her shoulders start to ease.
"So," her father said, leaning back in his chair. "Gunnery Sergeant. That's what, E-7?"
"Yes, sir."
He raised an eyebrow. "Sir?"
"Sorry. Force of habit."
He laughed, a low rumble that filled the kitchen. "I remember when you couldn't even say 'yes, sir' without rolling your eyes. Now look at you. Outranking half the Marines I served with."
"Not you, though."
"Hell no, not me." He winked. "Master Gunnery Sergeant beats Gunnery Sergeant every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Don't you forget it."
Riley smirked, but there was warmth behind it. She'd spent years trying to outrun her father's shadow, trying to prove she was more than just his kid. But sitting here now, with the taste of cheap beer on her tongue and his familiar laugh echoing in her ears, she realized she'd missed this. Missed him.
"How's Mom?" she asked.
The question hung in the air, heavier than she'd intended.
Her father's expression shifted, the way it always did when her mother came up. He took a slow drink of his beer, buying time. "She's... she's doing alright. Moved to Arizona about three years ago. Has a new husband. Gary, I think his name is."
"Gary."
"Yeah. Sells insurance."
Riley snorted. "Sounds about right."
Her father studied her face, his eyes gentle but probing. "You ever talk to her?"
"No."
"Riley—"
"She didn't come to my boot camp graduation." Riley's voice was flat. "She didn't come to my promotions. She didn't call when I was deployed. She made her choice."
Her father sighed, running a hand over his scalp. "The divorce wasn't about you, kid."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Riley looked away, out the window at the dark street beyond. "She couldn't handle having a daughter who was gay. She couldn't handle having a daughter who was a Marine. She couldn't handle having a daughter, period. So she left. End of story."
Her father didn't argue. He just nodded slowly and finished his beer.
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant chirp of crickets outside. Riley finished her beer and set the bottle on the table with a soft clink.
"So," her father said, his tone carefully casual. "You seeing anyone?"
Riley felt her jaw tighten. "No."
"Nobody special?"
"No."
Her father leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Riley, I'm not asking because I'm nosy. I'm asking because you're twenty-five years old and you've got that look on your face like you're carrying the weight of the world."
"I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar."
Riley exhaled, long and slow. She wasn't ashamed of who she was—she'd never been ashamed, not really. Her father had known since she was fifteen, when she'd brought home a girl named Sarah for a study session and her father had taken one look at them and smiled. He'd never said a word about it, never made her feel different. He'd just kept loving her, the same as always.
Her mother was the one who'd cried. The one who'd prayed. The one who'd looked at her like she was something broken that needed fixing.
"I saw Kenzie tonight," Riley said.
The words came out before she could stop them.
Her father's eyebrows rose. "Kenzie Kipling? The girl you used to run around with in high school?"
"Yeah." Riley's throat felt tight. "She pulled me over. I ran a stop sign."
"Did she give you a ticket?"
"No."
Her father watched her carefully. "And?"
"And nothing." Riley's hands were steady on the table, but her chest felt like it was caving in. She could feel the memory pressing against her ribs—Kenzie's face in the streetlight, the tremble in her hand, the way she'd said Riley's name like it was something sacred. "It was nothing. It is nothing."
"Riley."
"I don't want to talk about it."
Her father held her gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, slow and easy, and pushed back from the table. "Come on. Let's go sit out back."
They moved to the porch, two beers in hand, and settled into the old rocking chairs that creaked with every sway. The night was warm and heavy, the air thick with the smell of cut grass and the faint sweetness of someone's barbecue. Riley leaned her head back and stared up at the stars, scattered like broken glass across the black sky.
Her father sat beside her, quiet and patient, the way he'd always been.
They didn't talk about Kenzie. They didn't talk about love.
They talked about everything else—her deployments, his retirement, the new roof he needed to put on the garage. They talked about the Red Sox and the weather and the neighbor's dog that wouldn't stop barking. They talked until the beer was gone and the crickets had gone silent and the only sound left was the slow creak of their rocking chairs against the wooden porch.
Riley felt herself start to unwind, the knots in her chest loosening one by one.
When she finally went inside, her father pressed a hand to her shoulder and said, "You're welcome here. Always."
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Her childhood bedroom was exactly as she'd left it.
The posters were still tacked to the walls—women with sharp jawlines and soft mouths, women she'd stared at in the dark and dreamed about in ways she hadn't fully understood. A faded picture of Michelle Rodriguez. A poster from a band she'd loved in high school. And on her desk, in a plain wooden frame, a photograph of her and Kenzie from junior year.
They were sixteen, arms slung around each other, grinning at the camera like they had no idea what was coming.
Riley picked up the frame and held it for a long moment. Kenzie's smile. Kenzie's eyes. Kenzie's hand on her shoulder, casual and possessive all at once.
She set it down and climbed into bed, the sheets musty but familiar.
The memory came for her before she could stop it—the sleepover, junior year, Kenzie's basement with the scratchy couch and the flickering TV. Vanilla candles burning on the coffee table. The movie forgotten somewhere around the halfway mark.
Kenzie had turned to her, eyes dark and searching. "Can I kiss you?"
Riley had said yes. She'd said it so fast, so eagerly, that Kenzie had laughed. Then they'd kissed—soft at first, then harder, deeper, hands fumbling and hearts pounding. Riley had felt like she was burning alive.
The next morning, Kenzie hadn't looked at her.
Riley closed her eyes.
And in the dark, she could still taste vanilla.