by Louise, Tia
I take it from the pack and walk to the living room to put it on the coffee table. My fingers trace the worn leather, and I open it, allowing the sight of her smile to shred my insides again.
Even in the dark, I can’t stop thinking of her. I can’t stop thinking of what I need to do. Before I’d unpacked my clothes, I’d taken the bouquet of sunflowers out of my suitcase. They rode with me from the shop in Dover.
I take them off the counter and step into the garage again.
It’s time.
Chapter 7
Drew
My plate of noodles sits half-eaten on the bar in the kitchen.
Dad’s is untouched. He never came down, and when I went up to knock and check on him, I heard him snoring.
A glass of wine sits on the counter in front of me, and I sip it when my phone buzzes.
Ruby’s silly smile appears on the screen, and I scoop it up. “Awfully early for you to be calling it a night.”
“Scratch Timber off the list.” I hear the slamming of cabinets in the background and the squeak of a cork. “He wanted me to call him Falstaff.”
“Because he’s a fat alcoholic?”
“He says he’s funny and a bad influence.” The noise of sloshing fills my ear. “Cheers.”
I hold up my glass. “Good timing. I finally opened that Pinot we bought in Napa.”
“God, that was so long ago. Can we do that again? Now?”
“I think we have to give our patients two week’s notice or something.”
“Your patients,” she grumbles.
“Hang in there. You’ll build your practice.”
“If I don’t starve first.”
“You live with your mother.”
“Exactly.”
I take the goblet over to the window seat and lean against the wall, looking out. “So Falstaff was a bust? I have to say, his reasoning doesn’t sound too bad.”
“He drank two whiskey doubles then started grabbing my ass every time he’d tell a joke.” She sips loudly in my ear. “He was sweaty.”
“Ew.” I wrinkle my nose. “How did you leave him?”
“I told him I had to go to the bathroom.”
“You sneaked out the window?”
“Walked out the front door.” A ping sounds softly. “Look, he’s texting me now.”
“Need me to let you go?”
“I’ll answer him on my laptop.”
Clicking sounds fill the space. “Are you telling him he’s a sweaty grabber?”
“He’s asking where I went. He thought I went to the bathroom.”
I tap my fingernail on the side of my glass waiting. “What are you saying?”
“Short and sweet. I am in the bathroom. The one at my house.”
She exhales and flips her computer closed. “That’s the fifth Timber date I’ve tried. I’m done with that app.”
“What’s left?”
“Let’s see, I’ve tried Timber, Doodle, and RightyAphrodite.”
I inhale so fast, I start to choke. “That’s not… real…” I manage between coughs.
“Yes, that’s a real name. Don’t die on me.”
Shaking my head, I blink the tears out of my eyes. “What happened with the other two?”
“How much time do you have?” I hear her flopping on her couch, and I can just see her swirling her glass as she thinks. “First there was the guy who started out by telling me he thought he might be gay, but he needed to have sex with a woman to be sure.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I take a long sip.
“I only wish. I’m pretty sure I saw him out last week.” She pauses to take a drink.
“With a guy?”
“With another girl. It’s like that’s his go-to story for getting in a girl’s pants.”
“What a sleaze.” I walk to the kitchen and pour another half glass. “It’s like a reverse damsel in distress.”
“You really are too smart for words.” Muffled voices sound in the room behind her. “No, Ma. I ditched my date. He was sweaty and pinchy.”
Fussing sounds come from the background, and she’s back. “Where was I? Oh, there was the guy who said he didn’t date Asians.”
“Don’t you have a profile picture?”
“I have a whole gallery of pictures. He thought it was a joke, like a cosplay or something.”
“What’s that?” My nose wrinkles.
“No, the fuck, way.” I hear another, louder noise from her mom in the background. “Ma! I’m a grown woman! I just discovered something I know that smarty pants Drew doesn’t know.”
“Rude.” I can’t help laughing. “I guess your name isn’t super Asian-sounding, Ruby Banks.”
“It’s a stripper name. I know. It’s okay to say it.”
Again, I almost snort pinot noir through my nose. “Trashy hooker.”
“Oh, that reminds me of the guy who asked if I was a geisha.”
“To which you replied you’re Korean.”
She barks a loud laugh in my ear. “As if that redneck would know the geisha are Japanese.”
I take another sip of wine, thinking about what my dad said earlier. “How are you dating so many different people in Oakville?”
“I don’t date guys from Oakville. These guys are all in Timmons and Fireside.”
Nodding, I walk to the window, and my eye catches the flicker of lightning. “Hey, I’d better go.”
“I know. The minute you see lightning, you’re off the phone.”
“You can get struck through the receiver!”
“And I thought you were smart. It’s an old wives’ tale.”
“See you in the morning.” I disconnect and go to the side door, sliding the glass open and stepping out onto the patio.
I’m facing the same field I observed from my father’s study. Down the hill a little ways is the family cemetery. It’s just a minute or two walk from here. The wind picks up, and I smell rain. I feel the change in the air. It’s a little crisper, a little cooler. We’re on the cusp of fall.
I don’t like being cold. I much prefer baking in the hot sun, but it was Danny’s favorite time of year. My throat tightens at the memory, and I take another, longer sip before setting the glass on the small picnic table.
My stomach is burning from the wine, and my head feels a little buzzy. I walk through the soft grass in my bare feet. I changed into jeans and a pale pink sweater that falls off one shoulder when I got home.
Another gust of wind carries the metallic taste of rain to my nose and tongue. Tightness is in my chest that moves up to my neck and shoulders. A dry ache is in my throat. It’s a pain I can never quite swallow away. I can never quite drink it away…
Or jog it away.
Or meditate it away.
Or deep-breathe it away.
Or any of the other therapeutic techniques I tell my patients.
As I walk, mist fills the air. It isn’t rain, but it dampens my cheeks. It’s cold on my face and in my hair as I get closer to the marble monuments standing in the flickering moonlight like sentinels, guarding the dead.
My pace slows the closer I get. In the back of the three-row cemetery is a small tree, a crepe myrtle. Under it is a white concrete bench.
“Oh!” My heart jumps and skitters like a rabbit.
Before the moon disappeared again behind the fast-moving cirrus clouds, I was sure I saw someone sitting there. Fear is somehow stronger than misery, and I freeze in place, waiting a few paces from my brother’s grave for the light to return.
“Who’s there?” My voice is a whisper, not quite loud enough to be heard.
I don’t believe in ghosts, which leaves only one other option. Someone is lost, or a homeless person or a person with bad intentions is waiting out here. I should turn and run… but for whatever reason, I hesitate.
The dark form rises from the bench, and my insides lurch.
This time my voice isn’t a whisper. “Who are you?”
No response, bu
t the figure slowly walks in my direction. My lungs are like bellows pumping hard, forcing me to breathe. My head is light as I watch him move, as his shape draws closer.
I fight against what my memory is telling me.
It’s been four years, but I still remember the way he moves, the way he walks.
I still remember the way he ducks his head when he’s sad or unsure.
Danny’s grave is steps in front of me, but I can’t go any closer. The wind pushes my hair off my shoulders, and the clouds uncover the moon.
The moment I see his gray eyes, dark in this light, hot tears spill onto my cheeks.
“Gray.” The word slips out on a broken whisper, loud enough so he can hear. “What are you doing here?”
His shoulders slump, and both hands are in his pockets. He blinks away from me and down to the headstone that reads, In the hollow of God’s hand…
“I needed to see it.”
The sound of his voice, the deep resonance, almost brings me to my knees. Another rush of hot tears spills down my cheeks.
I can’t speak.
I can only shake my head. My body aches for his touch. My entire being aches for him, but he’s holding back, defenses up.
“I didn’t mean to see you.”
My throat is so painfully tight, I can only utter one word. “Why?”
His eyebrows quirk up, and he takes a half-step away from me. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Were you hurt? They said it was an accident…”
We were told an IED, an improvised explosive device, took my brother’s life and five other men in their unit. Many died horribly, limbs blown off, bodies severed by the weight of the truck collapsing on them. Not being next of kin, I couldn’t get any details about Grayson Cole’s injuries.
Danny was lucky, they said. He was bleeding pretty badly, but the medical report said he died instantly of a blow to the head.
“Nothing serious.” He seems to trail off.
“Good.” This is so hard.
I don’t know why I’m being so formal. I want to run forward and hold him. I want to wrap my arms around his waist and finally cry all my tears. I want him to comfort me like he did after my mom died when I was only twelve.
Something is different, though. He’s not the same boy with open arms, ready to rush in and dry my tears. I don’t understand, and it’s breaking my heart.
I have to exhale slowly to stop my voice from shaking. “Are you back to stay?”
“I don’t know yet.” His eyes return to the headstone, and the muscle in his jaw moves. His hand twitches, almost like he wants to reach out. “I didn’t mean to trespass.”
“No. You’re welcome here—”
“I’m not welcome here.” His voice is harsh, and in this light, I can’t see his face clearly. He passes a large hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry.”
It’s the last thing he says before turning his back and walking away from me, quickly to the road. I don’t see a vehicle waiting. I can’t tell if he walked all the way here from… town? Was he at his uncle’s old place?
As much as I want to, I can’t chase after him. My legs are frozen. I stand as hot tears wash my cheeks, as he grows smaller, moving farther away from me. A sharp inhale jerks me. It turns into a wail as my knees give out.
The clouds rush to cover the moon, leaving me on all fours in front of the grave, my back bowing as the muscles in my stomach pull me into a ball. Resting my forehead on my hands, I sob, sadness ripping through my throat as the rain soaks my hair and my clothes.
Chapter 8
Gray
The force of the blast slams me against the window. My ears are full of cotton. I can’t hear the men screaming. I only feel the thuds of feet running, the tremor of the truck engine.
A high-pitched shrill is in my head, and my heart beats out of my chest. I gasp for breath, struggling to get my bearings through the chaos.
The truck lies on the driver’s side, where my head crashed against the window. I climb over the seat, doing my best to maneuver through the waves of concussion.
I climb out the passenger-side window and jump down. The moment I hit the ground, I fall to my hands and knees and vomit in the sand.
It’s mostly foam and bile. I wipe it away with the back of my hand, with my sleeve, using the front bumper to drag me to my feet.
Where is he? I’m desperate looking for him everywhere. My heart beats faster, the pain becomes more intense.
“Danny!” I scream at the top of my lungs, the noise shatters through my skull, but it doesn’t stop the shrill hiss. It’s driving me crazy.
I clutch the sides of my head with both fists, but I hear him. Clear as a bell, through the fog in my head, through the nonstop scree, I hear him.
“Gray…” He’s not shouting, he’s calling me. “Help me, Gray…”
His voice is weak. It tightens my throat.
He’s dying.
“Gray…”
“Danny!” I scream again, and again, the pain brings me to my knees. I’ve got to keep moving. I crawl forward, making it to standing.
I feel Warren’s hand on my leg, but this time I shake him off me. I’ve got to get to Danny. I don’t have time for a boy from Arkansas. My best friend, the guy who knows me about as good as anyone, the guy I promised to protect, is dying in the desert, millions of miles from home.
He’s my focus.
He should be my focus.
I stagger along the length of the truck, around the back corner.
“Lieutenant, you have a concussion. You could have brain swelling!” I push the medic away.
Danny’s voice is still calling me. It’s weaker, but I hear it.
“Gray…” It’s the last time he’ll call. I’ve been here before.
The bodies part, and there he is, lying on his back, his blond hair spread around him in the sand, hazel eyes staring at the sky.
I try to rush forward, but I fall and vomit again. The medic is at my arm, but I push him off me.
“Danny…” My voice grows louder until his name tears like claws through my throat. “Danny... Danny…”
I wake with a jerk, sitting straight up. I’m covered in sweat, my throat aches, and I’m lying on the floor in the living room.
The sun blasts through the blinds, and I’m disoriented.
It happened again.
Standing on shaky legs, I go to the kitchen where the bottle of meds sits, the PTSD medication. I’ve been trying to wean myself off it. I’ve been trying to follow the self-help steps.
Last night was a setback.
I came home, had a few stiff drinks, then collapsed on my uncle’s unmade bed with visions of Drew swirling in my brain. She was so beautiful standing there in the mist, tears in her gorgeous blue eyes. Her hair hung in those long waves I used to bury my face in and inhale deeply, taking in her scent and committing it to memory. The jeans she wore hugged her curves, and even though she wore a baggy sweater, I could tell her body was the same as I remembered, soft in the right places, molding to mine.
She was miserable. She was crying.
The pain of what I’ve done, of what’s become of me, had crashed down on my head, forcing up the walls, and pushing me away from her.
As I lay on the bed, waves of exhaustion rolled over me, forcing my eyes closed. It was a killer cocktail of grief mixed with anxiety mixed with regret. I’d known it would be this way since the day I decided to come back. Still, I had to do it.
I needed to see his grave. I needed to ask for forgiveness even though his ears would never hear it. I needed to come here so I could try to forgive myself.
I’d hated him for what he’d said that day. I’d hated him almost as much as I’d hated their father for saying it years before. I’d worked so hard to prove I was good enough, but he would never let me be.
Then Danny had shown he felt the same way.
Maybe I did want him to die for those few minutes.
I never believed it woul
d happen.
All that anger. All that hatred. Years and years of bad feelings pent up in my chest… Now it’s only emptiness.
She wasn’t supposed to be there, taunting me with memories.
I had planned to pay my respects at his grave, tell him I was sorry for my words, for my feelings, for driving that truck, for not keeping my promise to look out for him… For not wanting to keep it.
Then I saw Drew, and everything slammed into me like a freight train, like the force of the blast that blew us off the road.
I hadn’t just made the promise to Danny. I’d made it to her as well. Every time I signed off on a text, I told her I’d protect him.
In that moment I knew the truth: Forgiveness is going to be a long road.
I came back here, went to sleep, and I was right back there again.
Staggering into the kitchen, I flick on the old drip pot my uncle had since the stone age. I open the drawer and find filters still waiting. A canister of coffee is on the counter behind the pot. Opening the stainless lid, I take a sniff. No scent. It’s got to be two years old.
“Old coffee is better than no coffee.” My voice sounds like gravel.
My mouth is dry, and I note the empty bottle of tequila on the counter. It was only half-full when I got here. I feel like shit. Probably how I ended up on the floor in the living room. I started in my uncle’s bed then sometime in the night, I tried to return to my old quarters.
As the coffee drips, I take a quick shower. I’m just having my first mug when a knock on the door sends my insides into turmoil. Drew wouldn’t come here…
I’m not sure.
A pair of faded jeans hangs around my hips, and I snatch my old tee off the back of the chair, pulling it over my head before opening the door.
I step back when I see a skinny kid with long, shaggy brown hair hanging to his collar. Long bangs, parted in the middle are in his eyes. His black sleeveless tee has Metallica across the front.
“Who are you?” My deep voice is sharper than I intended, but the kid doesn’t seem fazed.
“Name’s Billy. I heard you were looking for help.” He looks at my shoes. “I need a job.”
“How did you hear that?” Shit, I haven’t even put the word out yet. I haven’t even been in town twenty-four hours.