Blythe was only gone for one weekend, but something changed. Something was always changing, and she didn't know how to make it stop, couldn't make it go back to the way things had been.

Everything was always changing now, and there was nothing she could do but watch.

John had changed.

When he'd come back to them, she'd been shocked to see him. His hair had gone gray in the months they'd been apart. He'd had a little gray mixed in with the brown before he left – a sprinkling of it in his short Marine buzz cut. Now the gray outnumbered the brown, aging him in a glance.

And there were deep lines cut across his forehead, wrinkles that seemed to give him a permanent scowl, so different from the fine lines around his eyes from too many hours spent squinting into the sun.

He'd gone quieter and darker sometime when he was over there too. She'd seen it the first time he'd done a tour in Vietnam, the way he took everything too seriously, the way he found it hard to trust anything, the way he'd wake in the middle of the night and just sit in the dark staring out the windows.

It hadn't lasted then. Now it was always there, and even more intense, his hard edges becoming brittle. He'd sit alone with a glass of whiskey as day turned to night, his eyes dark, and mouth set in a hard line.

Once they were settled into their base housing at Beaufort, he didn't want to step beyond the fence line. He gripped the steering wheel tightly the few times he drove past the guard shack into the civilian world.

John yelled at Greg for making too much noise, then yelled that he was too quiet and shouldn't sneak up on him.

Greg had changed too. Blythe hadn't realized how much he'd grown until she had him stand back-to-back with John, and saw he was only a half a head shorter than John now. His voice had changed, and the baby fat in his face had left him, exposing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw.

Blythe would catch John staring at him sometimes, as if he wasn't sure if Greg had been replaced, or as if he was trying to memorize the man that Greg was growing into.

When Sarah invited Blythe to stay with her for a cousin's wedding, Blythe almost turned her down. John hadn't been home for long, she'd said. They needed more time together.

John was the one who convinced her to go, told her that he could use the time alone with Greg.

"Before long, he won't want to spend any time with the old man," he'd said, and Blythe had given in.

When she got home, no one came out to greet her. She let herself in the back door. All the lights were off except for one bulb burning above the sink. She walked through into the living room and saw John silhouetted against the moonlight shining through the window.

"Have a good time?" John asked. She heard ice tinkling against a glass as he turned toward her and turned on the light.

"It was nice," Blythe said. "Jessica caught the bouquet."

Something felt different, though she couldn't say what it was. The living room was tidy, all the magazines stacked in place on the end table, the rug positioned in straight line between the walls. Someone had organized the books in the shelves until they were all in perfect alignment with the front edge of the shelf.

"Where's Greg?" Blythe put her overnight bag on the sofa. John stood up and kissed her, then picked it up.

"I told him to clean his room."

Blythe took off her jacket, and hung it in the closet. "I didn't think it was that messy before I left," she said. There were usually a few books open on his desk, jeans stuffed in drawers and a shirt or two that had fallen off of its hangar. She tried not to nag, to let him have the room as his one private place, and as long as he made the attempt to keep it clean, she usually let it slide.

"It wasn't regulation," John said.

"We're not due for an inspection," Blythe pointed out. She followed John down the hall. He placed her bag on the bed.

"You never know when we'll get a spot inspection," John pointed out.

Inspections were part of life on a base. The first one had taken Blythe by surprise, the white gloves that scanned for dust on windowsills, in corners and above door frames. She'd learned the rules since then – knew what needed to be done, and what they'd overlook.

John watched her unpack, then headed back to the living room. Blythe paused at Greg's door, and knocked softly.

"I missed you," she said when he opened the door.

He gave a half-hearted shrug in response to her hug.

Blythe looked beyond him. The books were all closed and put away on the desk, except for one open on his bed. The bed was made with the blankets tucked in tight. His shoes were placed carefully under the bed, rather than tossed in a corner. "It looks nice." She smiled at him, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Did you two have a good weekend?"

Greg looked up at that, a quick flick of his eyes, some dark response that he couldn't – or wouldn't say out loud.

"Sure," he mumbled. "Fine."

Blythe sat next to him, but he scooted back until he was against the wall. All she could reach was his leg and and his right foot. She placed her hand on his shin, feeling the hard edge of bone through denim.

More changes. More secrets. She knew she could make him tell his secrets, but if she pushed too hard, he'd only pull further away the next time.

"Greg?"

"It was fine," he repeated. He bent his knees, pulling his legs in toward his body, and Blythe's hand slipped onto the mattress.

Greg leaned against the wall and sat there silently for a few moments, then finally looked at her. "I'm glad you're home," he said.

Blythe put her hand back in her lap, and forced a smile onto her face. "So am I."