Then the double doors at the back swung open, and the volume in the room seemed to shift.

Lieutenant Mark Wyatt walked in. My half brother.

Even from across the room, he looked exactly like our father. He had that same square jaw, that same perfectly styled blond hair that defied helmet‑hair regulations, and that same swagger that said he owned the building. He was flanked by two other pilots, his wingmen in the bar if not in the air. He was laughing at something one of them said, slapping him on the back. He looked like the poster child for a recruitment commercial.

He scanned the room looking for a prime seat, and his eyes landed on me. He stopped. A confused frown creased his forehead and then it smoothed out into a smirk that made my stomach turn. He didn’t see a captain. He didn’t see a veteran. He saw his failed big sister.

He nudged his buddy and walked straight toward me, his voice cutting through the ambient chatter.

“Jalissa,” he said, loud enough for the first five rows to hear.