by Natalie Dean
It wasn’t so dripping with money and fanciness that she was uncomfortable, but boy was it nice. There was the perfect amount of lighting, and a pleasant sort of rustic feel that probably cost more money than she would ever see in her lifetime.
He whisked her in, her arm once more wrapped through his, and a host in very crisp, white, button-down shirt and black slacks walked them over to a table. After that, their waitress arrived in an equally pressed and pristine outfit. Missy had no idea how they managed it. Even cooking ramen usually left her with at least a spot or two on her shirt.
“So, do you have any recommendations?” Missy asked nervously, a bit intimidated by the thick menu in front of her. Was that leather? It seemed like leather. Wow. This certainly wasn’t the town diner.
“I was thinking of just getting the all-American burger.”
Missy couldn’t stop her snort.
“What?” he asked, looking up at her ruefully.
“Nothing. It’s just…” She paused to try to take a breath and center herself. “The all-American burger? Really? You don’t think that might be a bit on the nose, Mr. Apple Pie and Patriotism?”
“Mr. Apple—Really?”
She snickered, and the nervous feeling from her unfamiliar surroundings settled a bit more. “I mean, come on, you gotta know that you’ve got the whole iconic thing going for you.”
“What, you mean mental illness and a relatively loose understanding of geography?”
She rolled her eyes. She didn’t mind self-deprecation, but usually, she preferred it when it was in jest, and she was pretty sure that Bart believed the negativity he was uttering.
“No. I mean chiseled jaw, rippling muscles, eyes that are way too intense to be legal, knows how to work a gun, dedication to the country, oh, and literally lives on a massive ranch. You’re like, American icon personified.”
He rolled his eyes at that, but she noticed the light coloring to his cheeks. Good. In her opinion, a lot of really nice men weren’t given compliments as much as they should be. Everyone liked to hear that they looked nice every once in a while.
“American icon?” He shook his head.
“It’s a great compliment. You’re the personification of everything that our country thinks is great.”
He outright snorted at that. It seemed he was picking up on her habits, and she couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry about it.
“I dunno, if anyone here is classic Americana, it’s you.”
She scrunched up her nose, giving him a dubious look. “What? How?”
Now it was his turn to smile. “I know you’ve seen all those World War Two posters with the pin-ups and homemakers that were specifically typed to inspire men and stop them from spinning off into a morale-less void.”
“Well yeah, but—”
He gestured up and down to her seated body. “There. You. Classic Americana.”
Another snort. If anyone was listening nearby, they probably were quite concerned with the quality of the conversation going on.
“I am not classic Americana.”
“Really? How beautiful you are in that classic dress would indicate otherwise.”
She rolled her eyes, but she felt her cheeks coloring too. “I’m pretty sure it takes more than the right dress to be a pin-up.”
He chuckled again, and she found herself wanting him to make that sound more and more. It was a nice sound. A safe sound. And if she didn’t think too hard about why she liked it so much, then maybe her heart would calm down.
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got it all.”
“Do I?” She braced herself, waiting for comments on her figure. She knew that was where the conversation had to go, and she knew that she was goading him toward saying something that she wouldn’t like. Why? She didn’t know. Maybe she just wanted to sabotage things early so that her heart wouldn’t be broken when it inevitably went down in flames.
“Yeah. I mean, you’ve got the hair, the smile, and that look in your eyes that’s kinda daring someone to try to talk to you.”
Oh. That hadn’t been what she was expecting. “Are you saying that I’m hard to talk to?”
“Only you would take it that way,” He leaned forward a bit, as if they were speaking conspiratorially. And she liked it. “Beautiful, intelligent women are always hard to talk to. They’re intimidating.”
Missy preened at that. Which was probably weird, but she liked the thought that someone might be scared to talk to her because of her sharp tongue. It was like a gold star. “Huh, for being intimidated, you certainly seem to have an easy time talking to me.”
“Oh, so you admit that you think you’re beautiful and intelligent?” he said taunting, wiggling his eyebrows at her.
Goodness, she didn’t think they’d ever been so relaxed around each other, and it was doing a whole lot for her.
She flicked a bit of water at him and laughed. “Of course. Has there ever been a doubt of that?”
“Huh, and there’s that cockiness from all those posters too. Proof that of the two of us, you are definitely the epitome of Americana.”
Missy shook her head, having way too much fun. “This is a really bizarre conversation.”
“Yeah… yeah, it is. But I’m glad you’re here to have it.”
And her whole face flushed all at once. What was happening? She was not normally this… reactive to people. But interacting with Bart made her feel like her entire body was all one raw nerve, sensitive and tense. In the best way possible.
Their waitress brought their drinks after that and then took their order. Not too much later, they were stuffing their faces while regaling each other with stories of old. She told him about high school, and how she rescued her first animal when she was ten. She touched on pretty much anything that wasn’t too depressing. Or at least depressing in her opinion, but sometimes Bart’s expression changed to mildly upset or angry, which told her maybe her scale of judging things wasn’t the most accurate.
He told her about the mischief he got into when he was younger, as well as a ton of stories about his brothers. The only thing he completely avoided was any military stories beyond basic training. She didn’t mind, and she certainly didn’t ask, but she hoped that one day he would be able to think about those memories without pain.
The conversation went on long after the meal ended, and the minutes quickly turned to hours. Before Missy knew it, the waitress was coming by to say they were just fifteen minutes away from closing.
“Wow, how did that happen?” she asked, standing and looking around feeling guilty.
“Good conversation,” Bart answered matter-of-factly, pulling two hundreds from his wallet and placing them on the table. “Hopefully that will make up for camping so long.”
Missy gave him another look over. “You’re rich. How do you know what camping is?” Sure, it was a pretty common phrase in her world, but in her experience rich people live in their own kind of reality where they didn’t think about how them hogging a table might affect a tip-reliant waitress.
He laughed quietly. “Ma wasn’t always married to Pa. She waited tables when she was younger, so she drilled all that proper dining-out etiquette into us since we were old enough to understand what money actually was.”
“Huh.”
“Huh?” he repeated, coming around the table to give her his arm again. “What does that mean?”
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
The top of his killer cheekbones colored ever so slightly again. “Maybe. I’m trying to keep them to the good surprises kind of thing.”
Without thinking, she pulled him closer so that their sides were almost flush. Huh. That was bold of her. “You’re definitely on the good side so far.”
“Good.”
They headed out toward his truck again, and Missy was tempted to rest her head on his shoulder. But she wasn’t exactly sure if that would feel great considering that they were in motion, and before she could decide one way or
another, a booming voice called out from behind them.
“Ay, Miller! Is that you?”
They both turned, and she saw another strapping man with a pretty woman walking with him. He was shorter than Bart, but much broader, with so many muscles on his shoulder that he had that kind of froggy-looking, overly built aesthetic to him.
“Jacob?” Bart asked, looking to the man with the most shocked expression that Missy had ever seen him wear.
“Yeah man, it’s me! Oh man, I haven’t seen you in forever. How have you been?”
Before Missy could really figure out if this chance encounter was a good or a bad thing, the man was crossing the space to them quickly. Like an old friend, he hugged Bart tightly, his big hands clapping him twice on the back. Hard, in a brothers-in-arms kind of way.
Missy saw Bart stiffen, and she figured out that no, it wasn’t a good thing, real fast.
The man—Jacob—pulled back, but his grip was still strong on Bart’s arms. “I’m sorry we lost touch, but man, it’s good to see you here!” He turned and looked to the woman next to him. “I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for this guy. We were driving along one night when suddenly it was a whole firefight. He practically threw me under cover because I was so green that I froze on the spot. Would have gotten swiss-cheesed for sure.”
“I’m so sorry,” Missy cut in, alighting her hands on one of his and tugging on it. “But I think Bart would rather not talk about his time overseas right now. And he doesn’t like being surprised by touch.”
“He doesn’t… what?” To the man’s credit, he did back away. “Bart, who’s this? What’s she talking about?”
“I…” Bart gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. She knew that look. It was the same expression he wore when he broke out of the haze that had made him attack her. But given the situation, she was pretty sure that he was sliding into that place instead of freeing himself from it. “This isn’t—”
The man crowded Missy again, trying to reach his friend, to comfort him. Missy understood the sentiment, but it wasn’t the place or time.
“Hey, buddy, you all right?”
But Missy knocked his hand away before he could touch. She could feel the tension from Bart behind her, drawn so tight that she was afraid one more thing would have him shattering in dozens of little pieces.
“Please,” she murmured. “He’s still adjusting.”
“Adjusting?” Finally, the man backed off, but he seemed plenty hurt.
Missy wasn’t sure if it was because he was perceiving this as some sort of rejection, or if it was because he was looking at what very well could have happened to him.
Jacob gave one last attempt. “All right, buddy. Maybe we can talk later?”
Bart didn’t say anything, but Missy didn’t want this Jacob to never be able to connect with him. What to say and still protect his privacy?
“There are a lot of group meetings at the VA support center in this city,” she said. “Maybe sometime you guys will run into each other there.”
“Support center? All right. You be safe, okay? I miss ya, buddy. I’d like to catch up sometime.”
“I’m sure he’d like that too. But we should really get home.”
“Right. Goodnight, Miss…”
“Dominic,” she answered firmly. “It was nice to meet you, Jacob.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that.”
Jacob and his lady skirted around them, heading off in the other direction. With the distraction gone, Missy turned to Bart to see that his face was pale, and his eyes were scuttling back and forth, like he was trying to figure out what was real and what wasn’t.
“Bart,” she asked quietly. “Where are you right now?”
He took a ragged breath, and it cut her right down to the bone. “I don’t know.”
“Okay. That’s all right. You’re somewhere safe. Whatever you’re seeing, wherever you think you are, I promise you’re safe.”
“I…” How was it possible for someone to look like he was in so much pain? “I can hear it. All of it.”
She didn’t need to ask him what “it” was. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she forced herself to only exude calm and comfort. It wasn’t easy.
“Bart, honey, can you hear me?”
He nodded, swallowing several times. He looked so scared. She didn’t want him to have that fear inside of him anymore.
“Okay, I’m going to touch you now. I’m going to take your keys from your pocket. Is that all right?”
He didn’t answer, but it seemed like he still heard her. She was acutely reminded of what happened the last time she had tried to initiate contact when he was in a fugue, but she pushed that aside. Bart deserved her trust.
Her hand shook as she reached out, but this time there was no lash, no recoil as her fingers gently traced the edge of his pocket. It only took a little bit of wiggling before her digits found a keyring, and then she was pulling them into her grasp.
“Come on,” she said, her hand gently alighting on his elbow. “Let’s just go to the truck.”
“No good. The trucks gone.”
“What, no it’s not, it’s just—”
He shook his head vehemently. “It was a mine. Blew the back half off.”
Oh. Right. Something entirely different was happening for him. She didn’t want to know what memory he was seeing. She just wanted him out of it.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize,” she murmured. “What transport do we have, Bart? What’s safe to take?”
“The end of the caravan. We can provide cover while we fall back.”
“All right, let’s do that then. We’re falling back.”
She walked him slowly, carefully, until they reached the parking garage. Bart didn’t say much, his body stiff and jerky like he was a robot, and she felt like she was a pile of jelly by the time they reached the side of the truck.
She opened the passenger side and pushed him in, careful as she buckled him in. “We’re gonna get you home now, okay?”
“What about the others?” he asked. “We have to check for them. I don’t want anyone caught under the wheels. We don’t leave people behind.”
Wow. That was a whole lot to unpack there. But she didn’t have time to. She needed to take care of the man in front of her.
“You got them all,” Missy said, gently cupping his face. “I promise, you saved all of them. No one is left behind.”
“No one?”
“No one.”
He nodded, his eyes scanning the garage, but she knew he didn't really see it. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“Yeah, let’s do that.”
She closed the door and rushed around the car, her fingers shaking as she turned the key in the ignition. Gripping the gearshift, she headed for the long drive home.
To his credit, Bart seemed way more lucid than he had been the first two times she had met him. Back then he had been shaking, and non-verbal, his eyes empty of anything other than pain and fear. Now he could kinda talk, and he seemed to react okay to stimuli, such as red lights or another driver cutting them off.
That was good, right?
Missy didn’t know, and she wished she had done even more research on PTSD. Bart’s didn’t exactly express itself as her father’s had.
“Where are you taking me?” Bart asked, suddenly sitting up and nearly giving Missy a heart attack only fifteen minutes into their drive.
“Just home, Bart. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
“Home? No. This is the wrong way.” His tone grew sharp and angry. Not like her Bart. Oh geez, she remembered reading about the suspicion and aggression that sometimes set in. “Take me to the camp.”
“We’re going to the camp,” she tried to say assuredly.
“No! This is wrong. It’s all wrong.” His hand reached over to grip the wheel. Missy steeled both of her arms, holding on for dear life as he tried to yank.
“Bart! Bart, I need you to calm down. We’re going the right way, I promise.”
He looked at her, his hard pull easing slightly. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s okay. I promise. I’m taking you back to camp.” His fingers lightened a bit again, and Missy scrambled for something to soothe him. Her mind went back to that first night when she hadn’t known what to do besides hum the same lullaby that had helped her when she was younger.
Carefully, softly, she started singing, somewhere just above a whisper.
His eyes widened ever so slightly, and he sat back. “I don’t understand,” he repeated.
“I know,” she said, her heart aching and hammering at the same time. It wasn’t a very pleasant sensation. “But don’t worry. I’ve got you.”
She went back to humming, and he settled back into his seat, his eyes eventually drifting shut. His body stayed tense, however, so she tried to give him his space.
Occasionally, his hand would reach out, brushing along her arm, or gripping her shirt, but that was as far as it went. It felt like more of a way to ground himself rather than attack her, so she let him do whatever he needed.
After what felt like forever, she was on the long driveway to the house. Skipping the path to the flat expanse she normally parked on, she pulled right over the lawn and up to the porch steps.
She risked a quick beep on the horn, which startled Bart into an upward position, but thankfully that was it. Hurriedly, she hopped out of the driver’s side and went around to his door.
Footsteps sounded behind her, and soon she was flanked by more tall bodies.
“What happened?” the eldest, Ben, asked.
“He’s having an episode,” Missy answered, trying to keep her voice level like it wasn’t a big deal. “He ran into one of his old military buddies who accidentally triggered him.”
“Triggered him how?” That was Benji, the middle one.
“Couple of hard slaps on the back, a tight hug, hands on his arms, and talking about an old fight.”
“Crap,” Ben hissed before leaning into the car. “Hey, little bro. It’s me. Think you can come out now?”
Bart looked to him blearily, clearly quite confused. “Ben, how are you here?”
“It’s not a big deal. How about we go in and put you to bed?”