The Last Post: A Novel - Softcover

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Renée Carlino is a screenwriter and the bestselling author of Sweet Thing, Nowhere But Here, After the Rain, Before We Were Strangers, Swear on This Life, and Wish You Were Here. She grew up in Southern California and lives in the San Diego area with her husband and two sons. To learn more, visit ReneeCarlino.com.

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The Last Post

1. Jetpack

LAYA

“You want me to go to France this weekend?”

“Laya, it’s Mont Blanc. It’ll be like a second honeymoon. We’ll do all the romantic things people do in France.”

“Cameron, we’ve been married for a year and we’ve gone on three second honeymoons.”

It wasn’t hard for my new, beautiful husband to talk me into jetting off to exotic locations every week for his job, but I was still working in California, trying to finish my surgery residency. I didn’t have the freedom to just pack up and go. But he was convincing; I’ll give him that.

“There will never be enough honeymoons with you. I know you have to work. I promise, it’ll be three days on Red Bull’s dime. We’ll hit Paris first—I’ll take you to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I’ll kiss you on le Pont Neuf.”

“The new bridge?” I said.

“See, your French is spot-on. That’s the literal translation, but it’s actually the oldest bridge in Paris. It’s beautiful. You’ll love it! Say you’ll go with me. Please, Laya?”

We were standing in our tiny kitchen in the San Francisco studio we rented. Cameron stared at me with puppy-dog eyes while I wiped down the counter. I wanted to go with him to France, but I had asked for time off once already that month, and I was still just a surgery resident at the hospital.

“What is the stunt you’re doing?”

He came up and wrapped his arms around me from behind, brushing his lips against my neck. “Just gonna”—he ran slow kisses all the way from behind my ear and down to my shoulder—“do some . . . skiing,” he said.

I turned and glared at him playfully. “Just some skiing, huh?”

Cameron did dangerous stunts for his sponsor, Red Bull. He also did dangerous stunts for fun, too. It was in his DNA.

“The Louvre,” I finally said, straight-faced.

He kissed my cheek. “It’s very touristy. It’s where the Mona Lisa is. Kind of overrated, Laya.”

“I know.” I rolled my eyes at him. “That’s my one condition. I’ll get the time off if you promise to take me to the Louvre.”

“Mona Lisa, here we come.” He smacked me on the butt before turning and walking down the hall.

A week later I was racing to the airport to meet Cameron. My Uber driver was going at least ten miles an hour below the speed limit. I was scrolling through my phone, trolling Facebook, when a notification popped up.

CAMERON BENNETT to LAYA BENNETT

Waiting for you at the airport and staring at all your gorgeous pictures. Get your buns down here. Three. Two. One. See ya.

Every time I met Cameron at the airport, he would run up to me, yelling like we hadn’t seen each other in years.

I saw him the moment I walked through the glass doors leading to our terminal. With his arms outstretched, he shouted, “Laya! Is that you? Laya Bennett? My god, you’re as stunning as ever.” He picked me up and swung me around. I was still wearing scrubs with my hair in a bun and no makeup on.

“Put me down—everyone is looking at us.”

“Everyone is looking at you. Everyone is always looking at you ’cause you’re so goddamn beautiful.”

“Cameron, this is the last trip I can take with you for a while. I’m in hot water at the hospital.”

“Okay, okay. I won’t beg again. Or maybe I will.” He was still holding me in the air, kissing every inch of my face.

“And, seriously, put me down.”

He finally listened, but he dipped me first like we were doing the tango. When he popped me up, he said, “You’re not excited to see Paris? You’ve never been. First thing we’ll do is go see the Mona Lisa, and then we’ll just hang out naked in the hotel room after that.” He said the last bit with overexaggerated enthusiasm, well aware I wasn’t buying it.

“I know you. You can’t sit still in a hotel room for more than an hour, naked or not. Let’s go.” I yanked on his hand and pulled him toward the security line.

We had first-class seats on the plane. Red Bull spared no expense. Both of us were exhausted by the time we began taxiing toward the runway. We skipped the welcome champagne and fell asleep on each other’s shoulders. My dream was vivid, more of a memory than anything made up. It was from the day Cameron and I had met in a tiny triage room at the hospital where I worked.

“How did you shatter your arm, Mr. Bennett?” I asked Cameron. He lounged on the exam table as if he were resting at home and not at the hospital.

“Skydiving.”

“Do you skydive often?”

“As often as I can.”

I popped Cameron’s X-ray onto the light board and studied it. “So, did you have a rough landing?”

“Yeah, you can say that. I need to get back to skiing soon, though. What can you do for me? How long do you think the recovery will be?” He shamelessly winked at me and smiled.

“I’ll need to check with the surgeon. We’ll take X-rays over the next week to see how you’re healing. You may not need surgery at all. I’ll order an MRI. If the ligaments are intact—”

“I have a thing in two weeks.”

“A thing?”

“A skiing thing.”

I chuckled, then stopped abruptly when I realized he was seriously considering skiing with a shattered arm. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think you’ll be skiing anytime soon.”

“Yeah, but I don’t use poles, so you know, my arm’s not really a factor.” He sat up, the white paper crinkling underneath him. “By the way, you have magical eyes.”

“Okay, I’m a little confused. Do you think you’re actually going skiing in two weeks with four fractures in your arm?”

“Hairline fractures.”

“Ummm, not really.”

His lips turned up at the corners. “Will you go out with me?”

I had started choking, and then a miserable coughing fit ensued, so he got down and started patting my back with his good hand. It was a wildly unprofessional scene. “Excuse . . . me.”

“Was it something I said?”

“Mr. Bennett—”

“Cameron.”

“Mr. Bennett,” I reiterated. “I would really advise you not to do any sporting activities until your arm is fully healed.”

“It’s my job, though, Doctor Marston.” He had emphasized the formality of my name as if to prove a point.

“I’m going to get your regular doctor to take a look at this and evaluate it.” The moment I turned toward the door, my face broke into a smile. I was already putty in his hands, but I still tried for a while to hide it. We got married a year later.

* * *

WHEN I WOKE up on the plane, we were already making our descent into Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. I lifted my head and blinked against the sun beaming through the window. Cameron was awake and watching me.