“Understood.” Gripping my shoulder affectionately, and maybe even to let me know he was there for me, Bryce changed the subject.
My brother was wise like that.
“So, no Caylee tonight?” Brushing past me, he beat me to the fridge, and after twisting the cap off two bottles, handed me a beer. His gaze never left mine as we both tipped our heads back, savoring that first blissful mouthful.
Damn. Bryce might not always press for me to talk, but he rarely missed anything. He’d become a master at reading my body language.
While he hadn’t completely relaxed, I think he was also waiting for that moment when I announced Caylee and I were over.
Hell, it was something I thought about on a daily basis. She’d become such a vital and important part of my life. Once I’d acknowledged that to myself, a new fear had taken up residence in my gut—the terrifying fear of losing her.
Caylee had entered my life and in her wake, she’d left behind color—bright, vibrant, bold, messy streaks of it. It was impossible not to change, to let her in, although not fast enough according to her.
She made me vulnerable.
She made me hope.
And I loved her for it . . . loved her for believing in me.
Love.
I was still trying to wrap my mind around that concept. When I arrived home from Afghanistan, the ability to give my heart to anyone seemed impossible. She should’ve been impossible.
It didn’t make any sense, and I’d given up trying to understand it.
There was a saying I uttered a lot in those first few months . . . it is what it is.
Just five words, but for now, they were my truth.
“Shit, if you’re daydreaming about her while you’re standing here with me . . . warn me, okay? Will I get a cigarette after?” Bryce grimaced and pretended to shudder, but deep down I knew he was grateful to see me happy. There hadn’t been a lot to celebrate when I got home, despite my family’s attempts to focus on the positive.
I grinned around the bottle raised to my mouth. “Only if you wear something silky while you smoke it. I’d give you something of Caylee’s, but . . .” I cupped the air in front of my chest like I had tits. “Something tells me you wouldn’t fill it out as well as she does.”
It was difficult not to laugh as my perfectly timed retort coincided with him taking a long drink of his own beer.
“You asshole!” Bryce spluttered, the amber liquid spilling from his lips and coating his chin before dripping down his shirt. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He must have swallowed wrong, because his eyes were watering as he coughed.
“I know I should feel bad for that, but I don’t.” Shrugging, I drained my bottle and decided not to reach for another. The alcohol wasn’t sitting well on my empty stomach. “What’s for dinner?”
My brother rolled his eyes. “What do I look like? Betty fucking Crocker?”
“So take-out again?” I was already pulling the menus out from under the fridge magnet and thumbing through some of our favorites. Suddenly I didn’t feel like eating. What I needed was something else—someone else.
I tossed them on the counter top and rinsed out the empty beer bottle. I placed it with the others for recycling. Judging from the collection already gathered, I’d need to drop them off at the center within the next few days.
I tried to ignore the evidence of just how much I drank—choosing to worry about it another day.
Focus on what you can control, the thought whispered through my head. Life was hard enough without adding more to my plate.
“I think I’m going to call it a night,” I murmured, knowing I was still being watched. Sooner or later, Bryce would see whatever he was waiting for and stop. For now, it was his problem. I was doing okay. He didn’t need to be vigilant all the time.
“Fine. I’m going to run out to the store and pick something up. I’ll leave something for you on a plate just in case you change your mind.”
This time I did laugh. “Okay, Mom.” Leaning in, I puckered my lips and backed away only when he lightly punched my arm. “What no kiss goodbye?”
“Has anyone told you recently that sarcasm is the sign of a weak mind?”
“No, but what can I say? It’s a talent.” After watching him pat his pockets down for his keys and wallet, I tossed mine over to him. He was always misplacing them. If I weren’t there to help, he’d spend most of his time walking.
“Tell Caylee hello for me. That reminds me . . . call Mom. She was asking after you today.” Bryce was almost out the door. He paused long enough to cast one more glance back.
“She always asks,” I answered, smiling all the same. I loved my mother. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for her.
Shaking his head, he didn’t respond—the quit-arguing-and-do-what-your-told expression was enough.
Somewhere during the conversation, Lola had entered the kitchen, gently licking my fingers as her form of hello. For an animal, she definitely understood me, never pressuring me. She simply sat at my feet, looking up in an irresistibly devoted way that melted my heart.
She was another female I couldn’t say no to.
“Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, girl.” Ruffling the fur behind her ears, I didn’t wait for Lola as I padded out into the living room, pausing briefly to turn the T.V. off before heading to my bedroom.
You need to let Caylee study. Don’t call or text her. Be supportive. You don’t need to be distracting her because you miss her.
Kicking the door closed behind me, I flopped on my bed and grabbed my guitar as I fell.
“How about a little music?”
As my fingers began to strum against the strings, the melody slowly eased the remaining tension from the day. Music seemed to have that kind of power over me—each note skimming over my skin before it dipped inside and soothed my soul.
At first it was the familiar chords of a popular song filled the room—the tune that had been playing over the radio as I drove home—but it didn’t take long before it evolved into something new.
Something born from a little inspiration and a whole lot of desperation.
The arrogant asshole from earlier faded away until the only thing that remained was the opening strains of a brand new song.
Chapter Six
Caylee
“Dream of me.”
“Always.”
I’d said it as a joke the previous night—a kind of flirt before Cooper hung up from our inevitable phone call. It was inevitable because, despite agreeing to skip our daily ritual of telling each other good night, it happened anyway.
Bless that man’s heart. He’d tried, a valiant effort by his account, to give me the space he thought I needed. Truth be told, he didn’t even have to be in the near vicinity and he made it difficult to concentrate.
Luckily, my assignment was still completed, and while it had taken me to the last possible second to get it printed out, my thoughts kept wandering off in the direction of Cooper—curious to know if he was thinking of me, too.
Sure enough, with my own phone in my hand, thumb hovering over the next digit in his number, my heart began racing when his name flashed across the screen.
Synchronicity. That beautiful moment when you get a peek of the bigger picture and realize you’re in tune with another person . . . a very important person.
It was these incidences that added another drop of fuel to my hope. Dating Cooper wasn’t the easiest thing I’d ever done, but the rewards made it worth it.
Rewards. The word caused a shiver of anticipation to pulse through my body, even after the hours that had past since we’d last spoken. Before hanging up, Cooper had informed me he was currently creating a rather extensive list of things he’d like to show me . . . do to me.
It seemed distance did in fact make the heart grow fonder—just six hours after our last kiss and Cooper had called. Granted I’d been in the process of doing the exact same thing, but he didn’t need to know that
.
I thought it was adorable.
He thought it was cheesy.
Then he whispered one of the items on his worship Caylee list (his words, not mine) and it offered that missing oomph I needed to get my homework done, because come tomorrow, I was adamant nothing would keep us apart.
Now it was tomorrow. I had a reward to collect.
Another shiver washed over me—like a gentle taste of what lay in store. Cooper’s face flashed in my mind and I impatiently tapped my pen against the wooden desk I was sitting at.
Damn.
The middle of class was not the time to get lost in sexy daydreams—no matter how tempting the object of my fascination was. School was business, demanding absolute focus. My student loans would require cash payment. As much as I was falling in love with Cooper, his kisses wouldn’t pay my bills.
I groaned, a little too loud for my fellow classmates, a few turning around to see what was happening.
There was nothing wrong . . . if you didn’t count a lovesick fool who’d forgotten how to adult something to worry about. At this rate, I’d be stuck in this class for the rest of my life—unable to pass.
“And that’s it for today, everyone. Next class we’ll talk some more about Maslow’s hierarchy of human needs.” The clap of Mr. Chisholm’s hands startled me. He was dismissing us. The hour-long class was over. “Oh, and don’t forget to leave your assignments before you go as well.”
I was gathering my notebook and shoving it into my messenger bag when I heard my name being called out over the chatter and movement.
“And, Caylee Sawyer, come see me before you leave.”
“Oh oh . . . someone’s in trouble.”
A nervous giggle escaped me as I nodded at the pretty brunette in front of me. “Maybe he noticed my blank stare toward the end there,” I confessed.
“Late night?” she asked, hugging her textbooks to her chest.
I waved my assignment. “Yeah, I had a hot date with this bad boy.”
“I’m Stephanie, by the way. I think we’re also in the same Biology lab together.” Now that she mentioned it, Stephanie was definitely familiar. I remembered looking at her the other week and thinking I wanted a peek at her closet—her clothing totally cute and my style. With her chocolate brown hair pulled to the side in a braid, Stephanie’s welcoming personality whispered she was friend potential. Maybe we could even team up and study together.
She fluttered her own stapled papers. “I’d like to say I made this essay my bitch, but unfortunately, it totally kicked my ass.” Stephanie winced. “Pity I couldn’t count all the words and paragraphs I deleted. This thing would be a novel!”
“My gosh, yes!” I exclaimed. “And texts! I’m sure if I ever stopped, my service provider would send out a search party to find out if my thumbs were broken.”
My admission earned me a laugh from Stephanie. “Texting junkie, huh?”
“Guilty,” I answered, raising my hand and ducking my head slightly. “While I’m not as addicted as my roommate, I’m surprised I haven’t worn a hole in my screen from overuse.”
“Well, if it helps, you’re in good company. I’d die without my phone. It’s a constant attachment.” Sure enough, out came her Smartphone.
“We must be kindred spirits then.” Taking a deep breath, I ventured on. “Which I guess is some sign from the universe that we should become study buddies or something. Seeing we’re in the same classes,” I added.
“Absolutely. I could always use a little help, especially with bio lab. I was hoping to find a study group to join but this is much better.” I must’ve given her a confused look, because Stephanie blushed. “I’m not really a large group person. I was hoping coming to college would help cure me of my shyness, but yeah . . . you don’t need to know this about me.” Her self-deprecating chuckle revealed her vulnerability. I understood that.
“Then it’s a done deal!” Sticking my hand out, she quickly shook, letting out a sigh of relief. “Us introverts need to stick together, right?
“Exactly.” Stephanie cast a backward glance toward Mr. Chisholm. “Better not keep the professor waiting.”
As she turned to walk down the carpeted stairs—the media room set up in leveled tiers of desks and chairs—she paused mid-step. “It would probably help if we exchanged numbers.”
Giving her my digits, she keyed them in and a second later my own phone vibrated in my pocket. “That’s me. Let me know when you’d like to meet up . . . maybe before our upcoming test next Friday.”
I checked to see my new message. Stephanie Cleary. “Sounds like a plan.” Returning her farewell wave, I continued down to the front of the class, stopping long enough to let the student talking with Mr. Chisholm finish.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked, smiling. My stomach did a dip like the sensation when a rollercoaster drops right before hurtling you into a terrifying twist. I couldn’t think of any reason why he’d singled me out, other than he was the department chair for the scholarship I’d applied for.
I wasn’t expecting an answer yet, telling myself that these decisions took time and consideration. The department secretary didn’t tell me exactly how many people submitted for it, but the idea of getting enough money to cover tuition and book costs was a heady incentive.
Inwardly crossing my fingers, I watched as Mr. Chisholm’s grin broke across his face. A rough guess would put him in his sixties—his hair peppered with silver. One of the first things I noticed when he’d introduced himself was his eyes. Up close now, my impression was the same—he looked like he’d lived his life fully—glimpses of stories peeking out from behind his kind gaze.
I liked him, a lot. The experiences he shared brought each lesson to life, vivid examples to whatever the current discussion was about.
“Ms. Sawyer, yes. Thanks for waiting.” Gesturing for my assignment, he placed it in the pile he was gathering. “I won’t take too much of your time but I thought you might like to know . . . while it won’t be official until you get the formal letter, but the social studies department would like to extend to you the scholarship. Your essay was very impressive and moving.”
A lump formed in my throat at the mere mention of the thoughts and feelings I’d included in my paper. At first, my intention had been to skim lightly over my losing Owen and the devastation it left in its wake. I’d felt it was a very thin line between being genuinely honest and using that dark time to pluck at the committee’s sympathies.
In the end I simply had to trust my motivation—that I didn’t do it to claim some unfair advantage . . . the poor-Caylee-lost-her-soldier-husband card. People resonated with those they deemed heroes and the reality that the war made me a widow amplified that sentiment.
But I couldn’t worry about that anymore. I’d written from my soul and that was all that mattered. Judging from the compassion shining in Mr. Chisholm’s eyes, it had also left an impact on him.
“I just tried to answer the question as truthfully as I could. It kind of wrote itself, actually. Once I started, the words poured out.” My voice caught as I remembered the tears I’d shed.
“Well, congratulations. I can’t think of anyone more deserving than you. I know you’ll make good use of the funds.” His lips parted again, ever-so-slightly, the inhalation of breath signaling something else was on his mind, but he wasn’t sure whether to speak it.
Owen. While it wasn’t the time and place for such an emotional conversation, there were other insights I could offer.
“I want to help others like me . . . those who’ve suffered a great loss and don’t know how to bounce back from it,” I added, the beginning of a sincere smile forming. “And veterans. While Owen was killed, I know there are countless others who return home feeling lost, unsure whether they can fit back into the world they left. War changes our military—exposes them to things that forever alter them. Some are able to integrate into society again, others struggle being regular citizens.” It was Cooper that I thought of
as I shared my passion with my professor—the way I still caught a glimmer of something . . . old in Cooper’s gaze. Like serving had aged him considerably.
“Post traumatic stress disorder,” he murmured, nodding his head in agreement. “It was something I saw a lot of in my practice. I must say it’s commendable, Caylee.”
His response made me snort. “I actually think it’s a little selfish, if you ask me.” When his brows furrowed, I smiled. “Part of me thinks that by helping others, it actually helps me. Getting over Owen’s death has been one of the hardest and most painful things I’ve ever faced. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with it, but as each day passes, it gets easier to breathe.”
Man, I was a regular chatty Cathy. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d shared so much with a stranger, other than the essay. That wasn’t as difficult, though. Typing had always been easier than speaking those feelings out loud.
“And you don’t think that’s noble? To find meaning in your own suffering by helping others process theirs?” My answer had obviously surprised him.
Shrugging, I fiddled with my messenger bag strap currently slung over my right shoulder. “I guess, but I don’t see it that way. I simply want to help.”
Mr. Chisholm’s features brightened, pride twinkling in his gray eyes. “Then the scholarship is being awarded to the right person. You’re a remarkable young woman, Ms. Sawyer. Your late husband would be extremely proud of you.”
“I’m just being me,” I answered, trying not to burst into flames from all the compliments. My face felt like it was a thousand shades of embarrassed.
“Well, keep doing that. I have a feeling you’re going to make a wonderful difference in the world with a heart like that.”
“As long as it earns me an A in this class, I’ll be happy.” The moment I said it, I wanted to retrieve it. When he tipped his head back and burst into a hearty laugh, I relaxed. The professor had taken the comment the way I’d meant it—as a joke and not some way to wheedle myself into a grade I hadn’t earned yet.
“We’ll see,” he countered, scooping up the assignment papers. “But first I should grade these. I hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Caylee.”
Bittersweet Symphony (The Damaged Souls series Book 2) Page 6