by L. A. Witt
“She got remarried a few years ago,” I went on, “and I couldn’t be home for that either. It’s . . . hard, you know?”
“She understands, though, right?” Diego asked softly. “Why you aren’t there?”
I nodded. “She does, but it’s still put a strain on things between us. We were close growing up. Then I wasn’t there while her husband was dying, and I wasn’t there when she got married again. She doesn’t resent me as far as I know, but it does make it feel like we’re really distant. More like two classmates who were super close in school and say hello at their class reunions but don’t really have anything to do with each other anymore.” I laughed bitterly. “My sister is pretty much an acquaintance because the Navy kept me away from home so much, and my ex-wife is one of my best friends because the Navy isolated us from everyone else. Fucking ironic.”
Diego whistled. “That’s the Navy in a nutshell, isn’t it?” He sounded even more bitter than I had.
“Yeah. Kind of is.” I swallowed, then looked into his eyes. “I get why it’s a deal breaker for you. I really do.”
“You know, I keep trying to tell myself it’s still a deal breaker, but I don’t want it to be. And I don’t . . .” He held my gaze for a moment before he slid toward me. Cupping my cheek, he whispered, “I don’t think it is.”
And then he kissed me.
It was a chaste kiss, gentle and light, but it sent warmth through my whole body. I wasn’t getting turned on—I doubted either of us had the energy for anything like that tonight. It was just so comforting to be touched this affectionately after I’d laid bare all my sins. I’d had no idea how much I needed that comfort until I had it.
Diego held me closer, the kiss still soft and undemanding, and I draped an arm over his waist, basking in his body heat and his embrace. I hadn’t realized until tonight how afraid I’d been of being rejected for everything I’d done during my marriage. Like someone might be interested in me but then take off the minute they realized I’d spent a few years as an unrepentant adulterer. I’d practically convinced myself Diego would be gone. Right when I was finding my emotional footing too.
But here he was. He’d bent—hell, broken—his own rule to be with me, and now he knew I’d cheated on my wife, and he was still lying beside me and kissing me. Maybe I had finally done something right.
Eventually, he broke away and met my gaze again. “We should probably try getting some sleep.”
“Yeah, we should.” I trailed my fingers down his cheek.
“Get the light?”
“Okay.” I paused, then slid my hand up into his hair. “In a minute.”
Diego didn’t object.
The conversation didn’t help me sleep. Not that I’d expected to sleep, but now I had a different excuse for lying there staring at his ceiling.
Knowing how much the Navy had affected Mark’s life, I felt like a dick for ever making the Navy a deal breaker. Yeah, the Navy had burned me, but it wasn’t like anyone made it through a career or even a four-year enlistment without paying some kind of price. Divorces. Injuries. Alcoholism. PTSD. Suicide.
A buddy of mine had been one of those Marines with the Semper Fi tattoo and matching bumper sticker on his pickup. Married, kids, two combat tours under his belt. He’d loved the Marines, but they didn’t need him anymore after a sniper in Afghanistan cost him the use of his right arm. Now he was divorced, depressed, and unemployed. Last I’d heard, the only thing keeping him from drinking himself to death was that he couldn’t afford to buy food, never mind booze.
Then there was the senior chief at my last command who’d sailed through the ranks and had one of those careers every enlisted guy hoped for—as long as you ignored the two divorces and forgot that he dropped dead of a heart attack a month before the end of our Afghanistan tour.
So it wasn’t like I was the only one who’d been damaged by the military. And the damage could have been a lot worse. Mark’s ex-wife could have been a widow.
I shuddered.
I hated what the military did to people. I’d watched it happen to other people, and it had happened to me. It had happened to Mark. Okay, Mark had lucked into an XO job after getting promoted by surprise, but he’d also lost his marriage and missed his brother-in-law’s funeral and his sister’s wedding. Nobody came off active duty unscathed.
So how the fuck was I supposed to deal with Mark? He and the Navy were as tied together as I was to my scars. Like it or not, they weren’t going anywhere.
But I didn’t want to go anywhere either. I’d already decided I liked him—a lot—even before he’d seen this side of me without flinching.
I gazed at his profile in the darkness. Maybe giving military men a second chance hadn’t been a bad idea.
So why couldn’t I shake the feeling this was eventually going to blow up in my face?
Because everything eventually did.
I sighed. No, I was not going to be a grouchy pessimist about this. Mark was a good guy. I barely even thought about the military when we were together, and I wasn’t going to let the military fuck this up. I wasn’t going to let myself fuck it up.
I want this to work, I decided, and ran my hand up his shoulder. He murmured in his sleep but didn’t wake up. We can do this.
My heart sank a little, and I couldn’t resist giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Yeah. We can do this.
As long as my ghosts don’t scare you away.
Fuck.
Fuck, I hated days like this.
My heart wouldn’t stop racing. Every sound made me jump out of my skin. My shoulder itched. Everything itched.
It had been a week since that text from my boss had set off a PTSD chain reaction. I’d mostly come back down from it, but it took a while, and after an episode like that, I was usually on a hair trigger for a while. Things that didn’t normally set me off could kick me into a panic attack in seconds. Like a few years ago when I’d had a really bad episode a week before the Fourth of July. No amount of noise-canceling headphones or blasting music could keep away the sounds of fireworks and the memories of exploding artillery.
This time, I’d thought I was in the clear. Close to it, anyway.
I’d been wrong.
This morning, on my way home from Mark’s, I’d had a near miss at an intersection. Brakes had squealed and gravel had flown, and somehow we hadn’t hit each other. In the chaos, I’d caught the briefest glimpse of a cell phone flying through the other car. Texting, probably. That would explain why they’d blown the stop sign.
We hadn’t made contact. After a moment, the other driver had waved an apology, I’d waved back something to the effect of yeah, okay instead of a well-deserved finger, and we’d gone our separate ways, me muttering every insult I could think of in English and Spanish.
A block later, I’d barely been able to hold on to the wheel because my hands had been sweating so badly. Then they’d started shaking. So had my knees. I’d finally had to pull over and pull myself together, and even now—hours afterward—I was shaky.
It wasn’t because I’d almost been in a wreck. That had worn off pretty fast.
It was the glint of a windshield in my peripheral vision.
Something about the angle, the distance, the speed—something had tripped the synapse that had never forgotten the vehicle the insurgents had used to ram my disabled convoy.
Hours later, I was still ready for the explosion to follow. The concussion. The heat. The pain. The dark. Every time there was a sudden noise or jerky movement, or someone dropped something or slammed a door, I jumped out of my skin.
It was a slow night, fortunately. Tuesdays usually were. Not a lot of people or activity or orders—all good.
Mostly good, anyway. At one point, a flashback had almost gotten the best of me, but I’d shoved a hand into the ice bin and concentrated on the cold. The ache tugged my focus back into the present. The past was still holding on, but the deeper the chill set in, the less the desert could k
eep me.
Breathe. Focus on the cold. Stay here. Just breathe and—
Someone slammed a bottle down on the bar, and if I hadn’t already been paralyzed by the flashback trying to close in, I’d have instinctively taken cover.
At least someone had tipped me off about using cold to anchor myself. Had I gotten that from the internet? Or one of my friends who’d actually had therapy? I couldn’t remember anymore. Couldn’t remember much of anything with any kind of clarity except desert . . . blood . . . gunfire . . . a broken chaplain at the end of his rope . . .
I shook myself. I slipped an ice cube out of the bin and closed my fingers around it before I headed into the back.
My hand was wet, but so was the rest of me. My shirt clung to the sweat on my shoulders and along my spine. A cold drop slid from my hair, down the back of my neck, and under my collar.
I desperately needed to strip off these clammy clothes and take the longest, hottest shower my apartment could offer. Of course, that would have to wait—my shift wasn’t over for a while. How long? I was afraid to check the time. I didn’t want an actual tangible number. Maybe if I just kept my head down and did my job, I’d be pleasantly surprised when the place was suddenly empty and we were cleaning up. A man could dream.
By closing time, I’d barely been able to stand.
I went home afterward instead of going to Mark’s, which sucked. I desperately wanted to spend the night next to him.
Tonight, though, I didn’t have it in me to even get to his place. I’d need to shower and change clothes and then drive again, and just thinking about all that made my eyelids heavy. I was wrung out, and my body hurt all over from being on edge. Especially my knee. The knee that had never been the same after that vehicle had rammed the convoy.
No, definitely not going to Mark’s tonight. I needed sleep. And there would be nightmares—bad ones—so it was just as well I wasn’t going to be next to him. They’d be worse tonight. They fucked with my sleep, but they didn’t need to fuck with his.
So I’d texted him, bowed out, and gone home to pass out.
The next day was my day off, so I spent a few hours doing everything I could think of to calm the panic that wouldn’t stop jittering under my skin. My landlady had a list of things she needed done around the house, and I did what I could, which pretty much meant fixing the sliding glass door that was sticking in its track and picking up the dead leaves that had finally fallen from the big maple in the backyard. The Christmas lights would have to wait another day or two. Being up on a ladder when my knee gave out or a flashback kicked in would be . . . bad.
Especially since my knee still wasn’t doing so hot. Everything still ached, but that old injury was acting up like a motherfucker. Not enough to keep me from working tomorrow night, but it was going to be annoying for a while.
Days like this I wished like hell I could go down to Newport and visit the VA clinic. I had veteran benefits, after all, and those places knew how to help combat vets who were fucked in the head like me.
But I knew of two guys who’d gone to the VA and wound up getting reported and deported, so I was too scared to go.
Sometimes I wondered if that was the worst thing that could happen. Except I didn’t have the money to make my own travel arrangements, so I’d be at the mercy of whatever the US government gave me, which meant they could dump me off in Tijuana or something and wish me the best of luck. Wasn’t like they’d send me home. There wasn’t even any guarantee they’d send me to the same border town where they’d dumped my family off when they’d been deported. Not that I wanted to go there. Juárez had been getting better, enough that I’d been tempted a few times, but now my mother and brother warned me the crime was getting worse again. It was bad there. No matter how much I wanted to be near my family, they urged me to avoid the place they hadn’t been able to leave.
At least I knew my way around Anchor Point, and I had a place to live, some kind of income, and a truck that usually ran. In a good month, I could even spare a little money to send to my family. I’d be fucked if the government dumped me off in some border town with whatever I could carry.
So, I stayed away from the VA. In every aspect of my life, from my job to my health care, I flew as far below the government’s radar as I possibly could. God knew how long I could keep that up, especially since some days were a lot harder than others. Days like today.
I’d be all right, though. One way or the other, I would be all right.
I was still off-kilter when I got off work the following night and headed to Mark’s. Better, though. Not great, but better.
All the way to his house, I concentrated on breathing and keeping myself as calm as I could. The less he noticed, the less we’d have to talk about it. Just had to keep it under the surface. Out of his sight. Out of the way. Easy.
Yeah, right.
Keeping everything as hidden as I could, I walked up the concrete path to Mark’s porch and climbed the wooden steps as I took a couple of deep breaths. I could do this.
Before I could knock, the door opened, and Mark appeared with a cute, asymmetrical smile on his lips. “Hey.” He put a hand on my hip and kissed me hello.
Forcing a smile, I said, “Hey.”
We exchanged glances, and though he was still smiling, I didn’t like the furrow in his brow. It was like he was reading me. Seeing what I was trying to hide. I fought the urge to swallow nervously.
Then he gestured into the house, and as we stepped inside, he said, “Listen, um . . .”
I braced.
“It’s been a really long day,” he said quietly, almost sheepishly. “Would you be opposed to a low-key night?”
“Low-key, how?”
“Just pizza and a movie, maybe?” He shook his head. “I think that’s about all I’ve got.”
I almost breathed a sigh of relief. “No. Pizza and a movie sounds kind of nice, actually.”
Mark smiled. Then he picked the remote up off the coffee table and handed it to me. “Here. See if there’s anything on Netflix. I’ll go order us a pizza. Any preference for toppings?”
“Not really. Just no fish.”
“So, the extra anchovy special is out?”
I wrinkled my nose.
He chuckled, then headed to the kitchen.
I exhaled. Oh thank God. He didn’t know I was a mess, but he wanted a chill night? Fuck yes.
While he was out of the room, I did a search for comedies. I was glad he’d let me pick out the movie. I had a mental list of films I could handle even when I was at my most brittle, and a much longer list of films I couldn’t. Before the other day’s near fender-bender, I would have been okay with some action or sci-fi movies. Now that I was this edgy, I had to keep it to movies without explosions, gunfire, car chases, any kind of crashes, or shit jumping out at me. Which sucked—I fucking loved horror movies. The more twisted, the better. When my PTSD wasn’t being such an asshole, I could practically binge-watch shit like that. On a night like this? Not so much.
I settled on Grown Ups. It wasn’t one of my favorite movies, but I’d seen it enough times to know it wouldn’t trigger anything.
Once the movie was queued up, I went into the kitchen where Mark was wrapping up his call.
“Forty minutes? Sounds good. Thanks.” He hung up and turned to me. “They’re a little busy tonight. You okay to wait?”
“What else are we gonna do?” I half shrugged. “Go down there and tell them to hurry up?”
He chuckled, snaking an arm around my waist. “I’ve yelled at enough people today, so I’ll leave that to you.”
“Yelled at people?” I raised my eyebrows. “What happened?”
Mark groaned. “The ship has, shall we say, a disciplinary problem.” He rubbed his eyes. “I spent almost all day doing XOI.” Dropping his hand to his side, he shook his head. And yeah, he looked tired. “It’ll be the same shit tomorrow. I’m glad we don’t have any aircraft aboard right now, because I promise you I would have
a pilot explaining to me why he was drawing dicks in the sky.”
I laughed. “Damn. Do they send you guys all the fuckups or something?”
“No, but the upper chain of command was almost entirely fuckups before me and the new CO got there. So now we get to unfuck all of it.” He waved a hand. “Anyway. It’s work. It can stay at work. I’m just glad to be home with you so we can relax.”
Warmth radiated through me. Even after I’d been such a train wreck . . . “Yeah. Me too.”
We hung out in the kitchen until the pizza finally arrived. Then we settled in the living room with the box, a couple of beers, and paper plates balanced on our knees.
We ate while the movie played, and when the pizza was gone, we settled back against the couch to finish watching the movie. Mark slung an arm around my shoulders, and I leaned into him.
And damn . . . I felt pretty fucking good.
There was no magically making this feeling go away, and there’d be more nightmares tonight for sure, but spending the evening like this—relaxing without anything that might trigger me—would sure as shit help. Having Mark’s warm, solid presence wouldn’t hurt either.
By the time the credits rolled, I had relaxed against his side. Hell, I’d pretty much melted into it. Enough that I was getting a crick in my neck. I sat up and stretched.
Mark’s hand ran up and down my back. “Feeling better?”
I turned to him. “What?”
“You were having . . .” Mark hesitated. “An off day, I guess?”
I swallowed, staring at him. “How did you know?”
He trailed his palm along my spine. “Gut feeling, I guess?”
“And it didn’t bother you?”
“It . . .” He cocked his head. “Of course it bothered me. I don’t like seeing you hurting. But it wasn’t going to make me chase you out, if that’s what you mean.” He said it like that was the most absurd thing he’d ever imagined.
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
Mark scowled. “Yeah, no. Not gonna happen.”
“So . . . all this.” I gestured at the pizza box and the remote. “That wasn’t because you had a long day?”