Back to You

by Jessica Scott

  “Is he okay?” In that instant, her son was no longer angry with his father. Concern filled his voice, making him sound older than he was.

  She wished she knew. She brushed her palm over his damp cheek, wishing she had more reassurances. But the look she’d seen on his face had terrified her. She honestly didn’t know the answer to her son’s question. But he didn’t need to know that. “I’m going to go find out, okay? Go eat?”

  * * *

  She found Trent in their closet. Leaning against the wall, his glasses thrown on the floor, he’d drawn his knees up to his chest and sat with his head bent onto his folded arms. Her heart broke for him all over again.

  She could leave him there. She could rail at him for yelling at their kids. For not being there and then acting like some stereotype out of a bad movie.

  But she wasn’t going to do either of those things. In the last few days, she’d seen more vulnerability in this man than she’d ever realized existed. He’d been running from their family, from her for so long he honestly didn’t know how to be there anymore.

  He wanted to be. No matter what she’d thought before—that he was home because of the court-martial, that he would leave again as soon as he got the chance—the fact was she was no longer certain. He was hurting. Badly.

  So she did the only thing she could.

  Fear, not unlike the fear of approaching a wild animal, slithered through her veins but she forced it down. Forced herself to face the wicked realization that her husband had completely lost his shit and terrified the living hell out of her children and her as well.

  She never thought she’d fear this man but for one brief moment, she had.

  But she loved him more and she couldn’t leave him. Not like this, shattered and broken on their closet floor.

  It took everything she had to kneel next to him, careful to move his glasses. His breathing, ragged and harsh, was the only sound over the beating of her heart. She bumped into the pile of uniforms on the floor near his hip. One of the orange bottles poked out from beneath a sleeve.

  She took a deep breath and swallowed. Then she reached for him.

  “Hey?” She slid her palm over his forearm. Felt the crisp hair on his arms against her skin. Felt the heat. The strength. The power that had terrified their son.

  Here was a man who’d given the army everything, and the fear in a child’s eyes had reduced him to this. It was a hard thing she did, simply sitting there with him. There was no excuse for violence; she knew that. But even as his temper had snapped, he hadn’t hurt the kids. A little plastic dinosaur hadn’t been so lucky. But she could fix that.

  She didn’t know how to reach him through the tangled guilt and shame radiating off him in palpable waves.

  She couldn’t leave him there. Not like this. He’d never let her in, never lowered his guard enough to let her fix whatever was eating at him. Maybe, she could see him through this.

  Maybe.

  He tensed beneath her touch, pulling away to rub his hands over his face, leaving them there. She didn’t miss the taint of moisture beneath his eyes. Her heart ached for the pain she saw there. She slid closer, until she could lean against his bent knees. She rested her chin on one, pressing against him.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I broke the window in the kitchen?” she said, breaking the silence the only way she knew how. She shifted again, sitting so that her shoulder rested against his knee. The contact bolstered her flagging courage. “Ethan had just exploded out of his diaper and used it as paint in the hall.” The memory raced back, bringing with it the long forgotten anger and frustration. “I’d been up all night with Emma.” She released a hard breath. “I just lost it. Something snapped and I threw the entire diaper pail.”

  He lowered his hands, banging his head back against the wall. She flinched, knowing that had been hard enough for him to see stars.

  “Did you see his face, Laura?” His voice was scratchy and raw. “He was terrified of me.” She slid her hand up to rest on his knees. He opened his eyes. “I fucking terrified my son.”

  “Trent, we all have bad days.” She squeezed, waiting until he met her gaze, needing him to hear her. “All parents lose their shit sometimes. It’s part of raising kids.”

  He looked away, disgust carved into his face. “I should be better than that.”

  She scoffed quietly, then reached for him, brushing her fingers over the stubble on his cheek. “Says who? Who says you’re supposed to be a perfect father? Trent, none of us is perfect.”

  He opened his eyes then and she was stunned by the depth of the recrimination and bleak guilt she saw looking back at her. She shifted up to her knees, leaning forward and cupping his face in her hands. His skin was cold, clammy. His nostrils flared slightly at her touch, his body tense.

  “I need you to hear me on this.” She lifted his chin until his eyes met hers. “You didn’t hurt him.”

  His throat tensed as he swallowed. “I broke a dinosaur.” A ragged guilt for something far worse than breaking a child’s toy.

  “That we can replace for three ninety-nine at Target,” she said. “He’s fine.” She stroked one thumb over his cheek, finding it damp. “Trent, you didn’t hurt him.”

  He didn’t look away from her but she saw the doubt, the shame fill his eyes. “All I could think about was getting him to stop yelling and listen,” he whispered.

  “I know. Believe me, I know.” She gentled her fingers, keeping the contact, afraid to let him go lest he shatter there in her arms.

  He lifted one hand, covered hers where she held him. “I’m sorry.” He pressed his lips together, his throat moving as he swallowed. “I’m so goddamned sorry. I’m a mess. I should be better than this.”

  She smiled gently. “Yes, you are a mess.” His cheeks were stiff with stubble beneath her touch. “But you’re home for the first time in a long time. Rough spots are normal.” She swiped both thumbs over his cheeks before she let him go. His hand lingered over hers for a moment too long.

  “How can you forgive me so easily?”

  “Because I’ve been there, too.” Her fingers were hot beneath his touch. “But I know when they’re getting to be too much. I can walk away before I let my temper get the best of me. You have to learn those things,” she said quietly.

  “What if I can’t?”

  “You can.” She leaned down and brushed her lips with his.

  He closed his eyes, shifting until he could rest his forehead against hers. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid of how I feel around the kids.”

  “You’ve been gone a long time. You have to give yourself time to adjust,” she said.

  “You’re not worried?”

  What could she say to that? She had been. She was. But there was something between them now that was more powerful than worry. “I am.” A slide of her fingers over his cheek, a soothing caress. “But I have faith in you.” Faith she’d lost but faith she’d start to find again. One piece at a time, but it was more than it had been.

  And it was enough to keep her there with him as the time ticked past and the kids were late to school. Until the fear and loathing in his eyes faded. Until he looked at her and she saw the man she was coming to know. Not the man she’d married. Someone different.

  But someone that she could no longer walk away from.

  She slid her hand from his and retrieved his glasses, handing them to him before she stood and offered her outstretched hand. He looked up at her from where he still sat. A thousand emotions flickered across his face. Fear. Uncertainty. Guilt.

  But he slipped his hand in hers and pushed to his feet. They stood there for another moment, until he reached for her, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her oh so gently on the mouth. It was meant as an apology, nothing more, but it twisted into something else. Something filled with passion and need and a thousand unsaid things.

  It was Laura who eased back this time. “I have to get the kids to school,” she whispered.

  He
rubbed his thumb gently over her bottom lip. “I’d like to apologize to him first.”

  She smiled up at him, her heart swelling in her chest. Knowing it was stupid and savoring the feeling anyway. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  A spark of understanding passed between them, a hint of common ground. She squeezed his fingers then let him go, knowing he was no longer at risk of breaking in her arms.

  For now.

  Chapter Eleven

  Trent was late. He hated being late but that’s how it went sometimes when one was dealing with Fort Hood traffic. Some jackass had just rear-ended some other jackass at the Clear Creek gate and he’d sat on the bridge over Highway 190 and seethed for forty minutes.

  He was supposed to be meeting Shane and Carponti at the Community Events Center to make sure things were on track for the wedding reception. It was going to be a small affair but Shane wanted somewhere small that they could have to themselves.

  Carponti had suggested Hooters. Shane had not been impressed.

  Trent parked in front of the Events Center next to Carponti’s bright red truck at the edge of the parking lot and headed toward the front door. The parking lot was crowded from a bunch of conferences being held in the Events Center all this week. They’d be lucky to see the room at all if the sheer amount of rank walking through the parking lot was any indication as to the madness inside.

  Trent stuffed his cell phone in his pocket and reached for the door at the same time as another soldier.

  He stopped. His skin went cold.

  Lieutenant Jason Randall. The weasley little bastard who’d been a pain in Trent’s ass since the day he first arrived in Trent’s formation. The hackles on the back of his neck rose and he took a single step forward before he remembered that Randall was with a general officer and one simply did not assault one’s former lieutenants in front of general officers.

  Trent badly wanted to know what ass Randall had kissed to get an assignment escorting a general around when he was pending many of the same charges as Trent.

  Trent stiffened as General Ledbetter looked at him. He felt like a hamster being watched by a feral cat. “So you’re Davila.”

  “Sir?” Trent kept his tone neutral, his body at the position of attention.

  “I’m sure you two have lots to talk about.” He opened the door and Trent spotted a sign for a Warfighter Commanders’ Update Brief.

  “Roger, sir.” Randall looked like he’d rather eat glass.

  Trent waited for the door to close completely before he spoke.

  “Nice to see your ass-kissing skills haven’t atrophied, LT,” Trent said, his voice lighter than it had any business being.

  “Fuck you. Sir.” Randall’s face flushed deep scarlet.

  “No, you’ve already done that,” Trent said dryly.

  “You deserve whatever happens to you. You gave me nothing but shit from the moment I started working for you.” Randall lifted his chin.

  “So sue me for expecting more from my officers than skating by on their daddy’s name. Your father earned that reputation. You did not,” Trent said. He clenched his fists, badly wanting to lay his ass out flat. Just once and he’d get it out of his system.

  “Maybe if you were a better commander, you wouldn’t be under investigation. The army can’t find things if there’s nothing to be found.”

  Trent smiled coldly. “And how exactly are you planning on beating the charges against you? Because, as you said, the army can’t find things if there’s nothing to be found.”

  Randall flushed and clenched his fists by his sides. “I’ll never get why the troopers followed you so blindly.”

  Trent took a single step closer. “See, that’s the problem with you, LT. You never figured it out.”

  “Figured what out?”

  “That no matter how highly ranked you become, the boys will always see through you.” Trent took a single step forward and rubbed the tip of his finger over the black thread that made up the lieutenant rank on Randall’s chest. “They’ll respect your rank because they have to. But they’ll never respect you,” he whispered. “No matter who your father is.”

  They stood toe to toe for an eternity. Trent wanted so badly to hurt him that it felt like battery acid burned through his veins.

  “Fuck you. You knew what I was doing.”

  “No, I didn’t. And I never would have allowed you to put our boys at risk so you could make some extra money selling weapons parts.” Trent stroked his hands over Randall’s collar. “But you’re still under investigation, too. Tell me, does Daddy know you married one of your subordinates?”

  Everything happened all at once. Randall hauled off and swung at Trent just as the doors to the Events Center burst open. Carponti and Shane dragged Randall and Trent apart before the blow could land.

  Randall yanked away from Carponti, straightening his uniform. “Still the same undisciplined bunch of roughnecks you’ve always been,” he spat.

  “God, it’s so nice to see you, LT.” Carponti reached forward to flatten the collar of Randall’s uniform. Randall slapped his hand away. “Tell me, has your sense of smell changed from having your nose buried up General Ledbetter’s ass?”

  “Fuck you, Carponti. Shove your fake arm where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  Carponti lifted his prosthetic and studied it for a moment, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “How about I shove it up your ass instead?”

  “Carponti!” Shane’s sharp reprimand was a long familiar refrain with them, and Trent almost grinned. “LT, get back inside before you get hurt.”

  Randall turned to head inside then paused. His fingers clenched by his sides for a moment and then he turned back to face them, his eyes zeroing in on Trent. “You’re not going to win this one.”

  Trent rubbed his finger down the side of his nose then adjusted his glasses. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Ta-ta for now,” Carponti said from behind him, waving his prosthetic. Trent shot his friend a look as the LT disappeared into the Events Center.

  “Why the hell was Randall allowed to be that guy’s escort? He’s still under investigation.” There was real anger in Carponti’s voice, a rarity for him.

  “Randall’s father called in a few more favors, I guess,” Trent said. He glanced at Shane. “Let’s go make sure this wedding of yours still has a place to party. I need something good to replace the slime that fucker left on my skin.”

  * * *

  “So how are things going with the kids?” Emily sat in one of the comfortable chairs perpendicular to Trent.

  The office door was closed. His back was to the wall. Still, he felt a level of vulnerability he hadn’t felt since his first deployment, when incoming rounds had kept him from sleeping—and when he did, they’d exploded so frequently and so often, he’d only slept bits and pieces at a time.

  This was his second session with Emily and already he was unearthing things he didn’t want to feel. Things he didn’t know how to process. Things he’d run from since he’d gotten hurt.

  “They’re… tough,” he finally admitted. He told her about the other morning and his explosion with Ethan.

  “So you’re still feeling a lot of anxiety around them?” Emily’s voice was calm and quiet. Smooth. She made him want to relax.

  “Yeah. And when I get anxious, my temper gets short.” He twirled his glasses in his hand, avoiding her gaze. “I feel like I’m failing at everything. Being a husband. Being a father. I can’t get ahead back here. The only thing I’m good at is being a soldier.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Emily said. “If it were true, you wouldn’t be here, now would you?”

  He glanced up sharply. “I guess not,” he said. “When is it going to get easier?” he asked. “When is it going to feel normal and not like I’m one egg short of a dozen?”

  “It takes time, Trent. You’ve only been home, really allowed yourself to be home, for a really short period. You can’t expect miracles.” She tipped
her head at him. “This isn’t the same thing as preparing for a deployment,” she said.

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? This isn’t a paint by numbers event, Trent. It’s going to take years for you to get your normal back. It’s a slow decompression. You’ve had ten years to wind yourself up, to get used to a certain kind of stress. This is the same thing. New stress. Different stress. Not life-threatening but stressful all the same.” She shifted, crossing one leg over the other. “Was there ever a deployment when you came home and things felt more normal than they do now?”

  He frowned, staring down at his hands in his lap. He’d deployed so many times. Each time he’d thought he couldn’t wait to get home. Each time, he’d rushed back out the door as soon as he could. “Nothing has ever felt right since I got shot,” he whispered after a silence that stretched until forever.

  “Do you want to tell me about that?” she asked gently.

  The memories rose up, sharp and poignant. He could smell the stinking sulfur, hear the screams of his men. The fire that ripped through his skin as the round that had damn near killed him tore him apart.

  “I should have died that day,” he whispered.

  “You did die, Trent.” He looked up at her. She tapped his file on her lap. “Your medical records show your heart stopped. You were medically dead.” He looked back down at his hands. There was a weight pressing down on him. Like an elephant sitting on his chest. Too much, too many memories. A thousand faces stared back at him, swirling around him, taunting him that he should have been better, faster, smarter. Should have seen the bomb that had taken out their truck.

  “Trent?” Her voice penetrated the racing thoughts. He looked up at her. “You came home. But you don’t feel like you deserve it, do you?”

  Her words settled on his shoulders like a heavy, wet blanket. Thick with recrimination that seeped into his bones. And though he tried, there was simply no way for him to wriggle out of this conversation since she’d laid it so plainly in his lap.

  “Maybe I wonder what’s the point. Good men go to war. They don’t come home.” He looked up at her. “I didn’t deserve to come home. I’m a shitty husband. A shitty father. There are good men, good fathers, who didn’t come home. Why the fuck did I?” Harsh words, ripped from his soul.