by Hazel James
“Hey.” He leans over the console and gently kisses me as he peels my fingers open, revealing tiny half-moons imprinted on my skin. “I didn’t tell you all of that to upset you. I just come with a lot of baggage and thought you had a right to know about it before we got too far into whatever this is between us.”
We still need to talk about “us,” but I’m not worried about his baggage. “One more question before we go inside. Why did you let me drive your truck? Ali said you’ve never let anyone drive it before.”
“Initially, it was panic. I wanted you as far away from Sheila as possible, but I couldn’t risk taking you home myself and having her wake up while I was gone. It was also for selfish reasons. I knew my truck would be safer at your house than at my apartment because she doesn’t know about you.”
“Is that why you never came to get it the next day?”
“Yeah.” He rubs the space between his furrowed brows and releases a breath. “And I was a little bit ashamed of what you’d think once you knew about this part of me. I’ve never told this shit to anyone except my family and my counselor. I didn’t want you to freak out and take off.”
“Don’t you remember? I’ve chased a tornado. I don’t scare easily.” I smile, but it turns into a yawn halfway through.
He lifts the console and slides me across the bench seat so I can exit the truck on his side. “Come on, Shawshank. Let’s get this over with so we can go back to bed.”
“I’m never living that down, am I?” I ask, as we cross the parking lot. He puts his arm around my shoulder and kisses the side of my head, then opens the door.
“Not a chance.”
Several sets of eyes turn toward us when we walk in, but DH carries on like it’s perfectly normal for us to be at a jail in the middle of the night.
“Hey Sergeant Fontz.” DH shakes the hand of a massive, red-headed police officer. Freckles cover every inch of his skin, and I briefly wonder if they make an SPF high enough for him. The poor guy looks like he could get a sunburn from the dome light of his cruiser. “Iniguez told me y’all picked up a couple of guys for B&E.”
“Yeah, it seemed like a standard call until we saw your address in the one guy’s pocket. That sent up some red flags. When we questioned him, he said he needed some work done on his car and one of his buddies recommended your shop.”
DH rubs his beard. “That seems plausible.”
“But he couldn’t explain why it said ‘around back’ underneath the address.”
I gasp and grab DH’s arm. “That’s where the door to your apartment is,” I whisper. He nods, and his lips form a thin line as he processes the information.
“Exactly,” Sergeant Fontz confirms. His eyes move between me and DH, but he doesn’t question who I am or why I’m here. “Hang tight. I’ll go get Iniguez so he can pull up the mugshots and the note.” He raps his knuckles twice on the counter and heads down the hallway that leads to the holding cells and some administrative offices, from what I remember during my brief stint here two nights ago. God, that sounds weird.
“This makes me nervous for you,” I admit. I may have wished for a DH voodoo doll more than once in the last forty-eight hours, but I don’t want anyone else actually harming him. “Do you think it’s safe for you to be at your apartment?”
“I have a concealed carry permit, Nurse Paige. I’ll be fine.” He winks, but it does little to alleviate my worry. I’ve seen the effects of machoism in the emergency room—it never plays out the way it does in the movies and nearly always involves more blood and broken bones… or worse. DH’s eyes move over my head about the time I hear two sets of shoes on the linoleum behind me.
“Holy shit, Tommy. If you look like that, I’d hate to see the other guy.” I turn around and see Sergeant Fontz and another police officer approaching us. His stature is dwarfed by Fontz’s hulking frame, but his bronze skin and jade-green eyes make up for his less-than-average height. This guy may be short, but he’s gorgeous, even with a butterfly bandage over his left eyebrow. He tries to smile at DH’s comment, but his split lip makes it difficult.
“You’re about to see the other guy.” He tips his head, and DH and I walk to a desk behind the counter. With a few clicks of the mouse, Tommy—or Officer Iniguez, according to his nametag—brings up a picture of each suspect. The guy on the left looks like he belongs in the Mugshot of the Month club. His neck is completely covered in ink, which complements the teardrop tattoo on the outside corner of his beady left eye. The guy on the right is sporting a hell of a shiner and a broken nose.
DH laughs. “Looks like he got it worse. Let me guess… he tripped and fell, right?”
“I hate it when perps hurt themselves,” Tommy chuckles.
“Which one had my address?”
Tommy points to the one on the right. DH leans in, examining the photo, and says, “He doesn’t look familiar.”
“What about the handwriting on the address? Do you recognize that?” Tommy enlarges the image of a piece of paper that looks like it was ripped from a yellow legal pad.
DH scans the small script and shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell, but I couldn’t tell you what Sheila’s handwriting looks like.”
“Are these guys going to be released?” I ask.
“Nope,” Sergeant Fontz chimes in. “Their B&E and resisting arrest earned them a trip to our five-star correctional facility. The amenities are shit, and the coffee’s even worse. It’s no wonder why we can’t bring up our Yelp score.”
We share a laugh, which turns into another yawn from me. DH leads us to the front of the counter and grips hands with both officers. “Thanks for calling me down, Tommy. I appreciate the favor.”
“It’s no sweat, man. I owe you anyway.”
DH shakes his head slightly and turns his attention to me. “You ready, Shawshank?”
“Oh my God. You can stop calling me that now.” I bury my face in my hands, hoping no one else can see the redness spreading across my cheeks.
Fontz snorts and asks, “This is the girl who was in here the other night?” My fingers only partially muffle my groan. Why won’t the floor open up when you actually need it to?
“Sorry guys, I forgot my manners. Paige, this is Sergeant Brian Fontz and Officer Tommy Iniguez. Guys, this is Paige.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder, making me feel marginally better. It’s like he’s saying, “She might be crazy, but she’s my kind of crazy.”
I space out my middle and ring fingers so I can see them, and mutter, “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Holy shit, I nearly pissed myself when Rattai told us what happened to Espinoza!” Sergeant Fontz doubles over and howls, slapping his knee with every new wave of laughter.
I groan again and lean into DH’s chest. “Alright guys. I’m going to get Cinderella here back to the castle.” DH gives Tommy a one-fingered salute off the corner of his right eyebrow and holds the door open for me.
“Why did Tommy say he owed you back there?” I ask, once we’re on the highway. DH runs a hand over his beard, something I’m learning he does when he’s thinking or when he’s uncomfortable.
“I helped his family out last year,” he finally admits.
“How? Did you loan him money or something?” I can see why he wouldn’t want to talk about that. Financial issues are embarrassing, and for as much as DH acts like a cocky bastard around women, he’s a humble guy when you get to know him.
“No. I sort of…” He mumbles something and coughs twice.
“I’m sorry, what?”
He stops at a red light and fidgets with the steering wheel. “I donated my bone marrow to his son, Christian.”
My jaw falls to the floor. DH and I have spent a lot of time together over the last several weeks, but truth-bombs like this remind me that there’s still so much I don’t know about him. “So let’s see… you’re an Air Force veteran, you’re trained in the medical field, you’re a mechanic, you chase tornadoes… and you save little boys’ lives?” I shake
my head in disbelief.
“Boy. Just one,” he clarifies, holding up his index finger. “Hey, how tired are you?”
I glance at the clock on his dashboard—it’s quarter after three. Today’s Friday, which means I’m working tonight. As much as I’d love to go back to bed with DH, I need to keep to my normal routine. “I’m tired, but it’s probably better if I stayed up and slept during the day so I can be ready for my shift.”
“Excellent.” He pulls a U-turn at the next light.
“You’re seriously going to eat all of that?” DH took me to a hole-in-the-wall diner in Oklahoma City that’s busier than I expected for going on four a.m. He glances up from his three plates of food—yes, three dinner-size plates—and gives me a ‘you’re kidding, right?’ expression.
“I was interrupted yesterday at breakfast by a food fight. I was too upset to eat lunch, and I skipped Maggie’s dinner to try to win you back, or at least get you to not hate me. With that last part being a resounding success, I proceeded to burn about three days’ worth of calories in and around your bed. Yes, I’m eating every single bite of this.” He flashes a grin, drizzles Tabasco on his tater tots and pops one in his mouth.
“What’s your obsession with salsa and hot sauce?” I dip my chicken strip in honey mustard and savor the first bite. I didn’t eat much yesterday, either… except for what I inhaled before our food fight.
“We rarely had food in the house. Kevin, my father, sold drugs to anyone and everyone, and one of his customers worked at a Mexican restaurant. He’d bring salsa, chips, and the house hot sauce when he’d come over. I started putting it on everything I could, just to have some flavor. I guess it just grew on me.” He shrugs a shoulder and picks up his burger like his words didn’t just pierce my heart. For the record, I fucking loathe DH’s parents.
He spends the next two hours telling me about his time in the Air Force, the explosion that ended Patch’s life and his career, his suicide attempt, and his weekend plans to go visit Kelsey and Abigail. I nearly cried a few times taking in everything he’s dealt with. I don’t know anyone who’s served in the military, so I’ve never thought about the sacrifices they make, both while they serve and in the years after.
“Are you going to be okay making that trip by yourself?” I ask, peeling apart the straw wrapper from my Sprite refill. How far away is San Antonio? What happens if he loses it and can’t get back safely?
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ve been preparing for this for a while. Clay, my counselor, is on speed dial if I have any trouble, and I can call and check in with you, too.” He reaches across the table with his left hand and brushes my fingertips with his own. “You know, it’s weird that this isn’t as weird as I thought it would be,” he murmurs.
“This?”
“Us.”
I take two deep breaths, which is just long enough for my veins to deliver that word to all the parts of my body. Us sounds beautiful in my ears. It feels like smooth satin on my hands. Us anchors my legs to the cracked vinyl booth I’m sitting in, which is great, because all my heart wants to do at this moment is float away.
“You said when we sat down that I could ask you anything. Is that still on?”
He nods his head. “That’s always on.”
I lean forward, searching his brown eyes, and ask the one thing that’s been weighing on my mind since yesterday. “Why me?”
DH shifts in his seat and rubs his beard with his right hand. “When Tommy first told us that Christian was sick, we were devastated. They went through a lot of shit. A lot of treatments. A lot of disappointments. I don’t remember the exact name of the cancer he had, but it was bad. He needed a bone marrow transplant. I ran into Tommy about a month after I attempted suicide and I’ve never seen a man so broken—not even when I looked in the mirror. So, I got tested during their bone marrow drive and got a call that I was a match. I thought maybe that’s why the tornado turned. Because I was supposed to live so that I could be Christian’s match.” He folds a napkin back and forth while he continues.
“Everything went well with the transplant, and now he’s perfectly healthy. I gave him a second chance at life, which is all I ever wanted to do when I was a PJ. I kept waiting for the flood of adrenaline that I used to get on scrambles, but it never came. When Christian started playing T-ball again, I went to his games just to watch him run around the bases, desperately wishing that something would click. Not too long after that, I asked Eric and Maggie if I could take Austin on man dates every week. We have fun, and it’s great watching him try new things, but it’s like I’m a bystander in it all. PTSD has robbed me of the joy that I used to feel. I saved a sick kid’s life, and I’m pretty sure I’m Austin’s second-favorite male after Eric, but I just can’t feel it.”
He leans across the table, forgetting his napkin, and takes both of my hands in his while I work to blink my tears away. “So to answer your question, you are the first thing to make me feel in more than seven hundred days. The last time I had a nightmare about my explosion, it wasn’t Patch’s screams that woke me up. It was your voice.”
MY VOICE. US. MY VOICE. Us. The words dance around my head like lovers performing a Viennese waltz on the way back to Moore. I know we’re headed south because the sun is rising out of DH’s window, painting the sky with streaks of purple and pink. My eyes flick from his profile to the view outside and back again. Photographers across Oklahoma are surely salivating at the beauty in the eastern sky, but it’s no match for the man in the driver’s seat. Yes, DH’s looks would make Michelangelo weep, but the small glimpses I’ve seen into his soul are breathtaking. Every brick that he removes from the wall he’s built against the world is a gift; I could spend the rest of my life receiving them and never run out of gratitude. My mother once tried to explain intimacy in a relationship and how it had nothing to do with sex.
Now I get it.
DH smiles and rubs his free hand over the back of his neck. “I can feel you staring at me.” His voice easily carries over the soft country song on the radio. Come to think of it, he hasn’t played rock music in a while. It’s such a nonsense thing, really, but it feels like another invitation into his life.
“You have red in your beard. How have I not noticed that before?”
“You can’t always see it—just when the light hits it a certain way. I actually had auburn hair when I was born. It got darker as I grew up, but there are still touches of it in my beard.”
“I bet you were a cute kid.” Auburn hair, brown eyes, and dimples in each cheek? I would have found a way to marry him on the playground if I could.
“I don’t want to brag, but I caused a fight on my first day of Kindergarten. Kim Greenwood wanted to be my girlfriend, but so did Melissa Garcia.”
“So who’d you choose?”
“Monica Lanier. She shared her peanut butter cookies with me during snack time.”
I let out a cackle as I picture a five-year-old DH breaking hearts. “How do you remember their names? I have a hard enough time remembering who I went to high school with, let alone Kindergarten.”
“My long-term memory is great, but my short-term sucks, thanks to the meds I’m on for my PTSD.”
Asking for help with something so personal takes an incredible amount of strength, but I hate that it comes at a price. “That makes me sad for you.”
He shrugs. “I’m used to it now. I write things down so I don’t forget, and Eric and Maggie have learned to text reminders to me if I’m supposed to do something like bring dessert for family dinners. But, in the interest of helping a disabled veteran out, feel free to tell me how handsome I am as much as possible.” He glances at me and flashes a shit-eating grin.
“And there’s the ego.” I laugh and roll my eyes, then dig in my purse for my lip gloss but come up emptyhanded. “Ugh,” I groan.
“What’s wrong?”
“First-world problems. I lost my lip gloss.”
DH opens the console and passes me a familiar pink and wh
ite tube. “Here.” I take it from him, mouth gaping like a fish on land, and gloss my lips.
“Where’d you get this?”
“I found it on my floorboard. Figured you dropped it and might need it. Maggie gets pissy when she loses hers. Girls are so weird,” he chuckles to himself.
“When did you find it?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“And that’s when you decided to keep it? Because I might need it?” My face lights up like the New York City skyline on New Year’s Eve. This is huge.
“I guess?” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down beneath his beard.
I turn toward him to savor the moment. “You saved my lip gloss because you liked me, even then.”
“I saved your lip gloss because I didn’t want to hear you whine about not having it,” he counters.
I cross my arms and pop an eyebrow knowing he’s about to go down in flames. “Because you liked me.”
He rubs his beard and sighs, then smiles in defeat. “Because I liked you.” I’m in the middle of a victory dance when DH says, “That’s new.” He tips his chin at a gray sedan parked on the shoulder of the two-lane highway. A woman is sitting in the grass in front of three bright white wooden crosses. “I was just out here a few days ago, and those weren’t there.”
As we drive by, I crane my neck to look at the picture and name attached to each cross. Several hundred feet past the memorial, I make the connection. “Stop!” DH glances in the rear-view mirror, then slams on the brakes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Go back!” My breaths come in shallow bursts, and I grip the door handle as if having something physically stable will make my vital signs return to normal.
“Paige, what happened?” he asks, putting the truck in reverse.
“Cooper,” is all I can manage. DH stops the truck in front of the gray car, and I fling the door open before he even gets the key out of the ignition. The woman sitting on the ground glances up at me, the steam from her coffee mug swirling into the warm June morning.