Ezoic
RHODES.
I grabbed the doorframe.
My knees buckled.
I knew that jacket.
I’d washed that jacket. Folded that jacket. Pulled that jacket off a man passed out on my kitchen floor at three in the morning. Put that jacket in a black garbage bag and set it out on the porch the night I changed the locks.
Ten years ago.
“Oh, God,” I whispered. “Nathan. What have you done?”
He was crying. He didn’t try to hide it.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I said.
He opened his mouth.
“Mom,” he said. His voice broke into pieces. “It’s Dad.”
I need to tell you about Greg.
Because none of this makes sense without Greg.
I met Greg Rhodes in 2005. At a bar in Lexington. I was twenty-three. He was twenty-six.
Ezoic
He’d just come back from his second tour in Iraq. Hundred and First Airborne. He had a buzz cut and a crooked smile and he laughed louder than anybody in the room.
