Out of Love

by RC Boldt

  A weak smile formed as I read my sister’s text. Laney McBrainy. You’re a perv. You know what I meant.

  Laney: Fos, hurry up and get your head out of your ass. Please. I want the happy Noelle back and I want my brother back.

  Frowning, I typed, What do you mean? I’m here.

  Laney: I’m going to call you. I think I’m calm enough now.

  Before I knew it, the screen of my phone lit up, my sister’s name flashing.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, loser.” I heard the affection in her tone even as I rolled my eyes at her greeting. “I’m saying I want my brother back. You know, the one who’s happy, has that light back in his eyes and actually smiles. The one you’ve been for the past few months? I want him back.”

  Shoving my back against the couch with a grunt, my eyes fell closed. “Laney.”

  “Foster.”

  “I told you. I’m working on it.” Eyes still closed, I felt Harley approach and the weight on my leg when he set his chin on my knee. Reaching out to rub behind his ears, I glanced down to see his soulful eyes watching me.

  “So you’re … talking to someone?” The tentativeness in Laney’s voice combined with the fact that she knows—without me ever saying a word about what happened back in Iraq—said it all. I’d thought I had been flying under the radar all this time when, in fact, the people closest to me had known and, apparently, had been waiting on me to step up to bat.

  God, I really was a grade A moron sometimes.

  With a sigh, I answered. “Yes, I’m talking to someone.” When there was a long beat of silence on the other end, I moved the phone away to check to see if the call dropped. But, no, it was still connected.

  “Laney?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” Her voice sounded choked. “I’m just,” her voice broke then, so filled with emotion, “so glad to hear this. I’m proud of you for doing this, Fos.”

  My sister’s words found their way deep inside to a part of me, wrapping tightly around it, creating a warmth, a reassurance I’ve not experienced before. Before I could manage a response, my sister went right back to her ball-busting self.

  “Now, hurry up and get your shit together so you can get your woman back, okay? Otherwise, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  Even as a smile played on my lips at Laney’s demands, I worried I might not be able to convince Noelle I’m working on being good enough for her.

  I worried she’d come to her senses and realize I’m not. Because while I’m working on a part of me that’s needed some long overdue healing, I know, without her, I’ll be dealing with a wound I won’t ever recover from.

  My heart.

  Coming back to the present, watching as Noelle slides into her car, starting it up, and adjusting the air conditioning to battle against this summer heat, I do what I know I probably shouldn’t. I send her a text message.

  Have I told you yet today how incredibly brave you are?

  I don’t expect a response even though I crave one.

  And I try to ignore the ache in my heart when it never comes.

  * * *

  “Tell me more about Noelle.”

  I’m sitting in the oversized leather chair that’s actually more comfortable than it appears. I refuse to sit on the large couch Dr. Givens has—on principle alone. As much as I know I need to be here to get myself right, I don’t have to like it or embrace the whole Lie back on my couch while I dig, poke, and prod around in your mind thing. It creeps me the hell out.

  “What do you want to know?” I offer, trying to figure out his angle for this conversation.

  The older man smiles, crinkling the corners of his eyes, laugh lines becoming more pronounced. He’s a former Marine Sergeant and far more lighthearted than I ever expected.

  “I don’t have an angle for this conversation, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Damn. See what I mean? Creepy mind reading shit freaks me out. “I just know her name has come up before, and I think we should talk more about her. About what role she plays in your life.”

  Resting my forearms on my knees, linking my fingers together, I stare down at my hands. “She doesn’t play any role in my life.” After a pause, I add, “Not anymore.”

  “Ah.”

  My eyes raise to meet his. “Ah? What’s that mean?”

  “You pushed her away.” He delivers this calmly, not as a question but as a statement. Like he already knows the answer.

  My lips twist as I look away with a curt nod.

  “Why did you push her away?”

  Rising from the chair, I begin pacing the room. “Because of what I’ve done. Who the hell wants to be with a guy who’s done what I have? I mean, she’s this incredible woman who’s been through some seriously awful shit. She doesn’t need me adding to it.”

  “And you’re certain you’d add to it?” I stare out the window of his office at the parking lot below, watching people come and go. “What are you really afraid of, Foster?”

  I take a moment to answer, bracing my palms against the glass window, my voice barely audible. “I’m afraid she’ll wake up one day and realize she can’t stomach being with me—being with someone who’s done what I’ve done.

  “And that,” I swallow past the emotion rising, tightening my throat and force out a humorless laugh, “would likely kill me—hurt me far more than any Taliban RPG fire ever could.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Noelle

  I shouldn’t be here.

  Scratch that. I really don’t want to be here. Maybe I can just fake a headache and head home. Yeah, that sounds legit, especially since I’ll be changing jobs soon and—

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  Aaaand, I’m busted by Laney. I blow out a long breath, eyes meeting hers. “I’m sorry. It’s just … I know I’m not the best company right now.”

  “Too bad. I’ve missed seeing you and your I’m avoiding everyone ass. But now you’re here. You’re not leaving yet.”

  Well. Not only am I antisocial these days but I’m also a super sucky friend. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

  In my defense, the two of us are sitting out on Laney and Zach’s deck out back and she’s talking about Hendy, Foster’s friend who was killed. I hadn’t met him but Laney has been entertaining me with stories, reminiscing about him.

  Her lips twist in a sad smile. “The guys are having a celebration of life kind of thing for Hendy. Just hanging out and talking about him, sharing memories.” Her voice fades toward the end, her eyes misty.

  Speaking softly, she looks off toward the ocean. “The first time I met him, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard before in my life.

  “Hendy would always look after me when he’d come to visit; he and Foster and I would go out to the bars.” Laney fiddles with her wine glass, eyes downcast, one corner of her mouth tipped up. “Intimidating anyone he deemed not good enough for me.”

  “Which was—let me guess—everyone?”

  “You guessed it.”

  “I don’t know him—I only know of him—but he sounds like a pretty amazing guy.” I’m not sure what makes me offer this, but I feel compelled for some reason. “His … death has definitely impacted Foster.”

  “Hendy’s always been like a brother to me and Foster. I know he’s taking it hard.”

  We fall silent, lost in our own thoughts.

  The blinking light on my cell phone sitting on top of my purse beside me, indicating that I received a text message, draws me from my own thoughts. Reaching for it, I swipe the screen and see a few text messages from Foster.

  8:58 PM: Have I told you yet today that you’re absolutely gorgeous?

  9:15 PM: Have I told you yet today how much I miss you?

  9:26 PM: Have I told you yet today how much I love the way you feel in my arms?

  9:47 PM: Have I told you yet today I really

  I frown, thinking something likely happened, and he didn’t get to finish that text. When I scroll to the next one,
it makes sense.

  10:00 PM: He’s getting pretty lit, and we’re all feeling raw over Hendy. I’m taking his phone away from him for now. Mac

  10:45 PM: Have I told you yet today how much I miss you?

  “My brother?” My head jerks up to find Laney watching me.

  “Yes.” My eyes return to the screen, my heart aching as I reread his words. Pushing to my feet, I shove my phone into my purse. “I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”

  I don’t miss her concerned look as we say our goodbyes. But as I walk down the steps of the house to my car, I’m torn. Because as much as I love these messages from Foster, a part of me hates them, too. Because he’s refusing to let me move on.

  But I have no choice, because the man who doesn’t want to be my future has to be left in the past.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Foster

  I’m fucked. Currently, in more ways than one. My heart feels like it’s breaking into a million pieces. I’ve had far too much to drink—as have the others—and the raw ache won’t go away.

  “I recall the time Hendy came out of his room in our apartment the morning after we’d gone out after getting back from another long deployment. He sat down across from me at the kitchen table where I was eating breakfast, looking exhausted as hell. Just when I was about to mention it, his bedroom door opened and out came three chicks. Three.”

  Miller’s telling a story about Hendy’s womanizing. “Each of them sauntered over to him and said stuff like, ‘Baby, you want us to cook you some breakfast? Or give you a massage after you worked so hard last night?’”

  He lets out a short laugh at the memory. “Next thing I know, the three of them whipped up this massive feast of pancakes, eggs, toast, sausage—you name it. Most delicious thing I’d eaten in God knows how long.”

  We all chuckle, knowing Hendy always had a way with the ladies. He was the smoothest of smooth talkers.

  And now he was gone.

  Looking down at my beer—who knows how many I’ve had at this point trying to numb the pain—I quietly voice my admission. “I still don’t want to believe it’s true. Can’t believe it’s true.”

  My comment is only greeted with silence, and I know it’s because they feel the same. Doc, who has been nursing the same beer since we got here, finally speaks.

  “Hey, Fos.” I lift my head to look at him through eyes that are bleary not only from the alcohol but from the tears I’m doing my damndest to hold back. “You get the feeling Hendy’s not really gone?”

  “Wait just a fucking min—” Miller protests.

  Mac throws up a hand. “Let him finish.”

  Doc looks out toward the Atlantic Ocean from where we’re sitting on Miller’s deck. He’s silent for a moment before turning back, his eyes flitting to each of us. “He always had a keen sense of things. Always reminded us to go with our gut. Well,” he leans forward in his chair, linking his fingers, “I have to admit. Deep down in my gut, I don’t feel like he’s really gone.”

  The silence is heavy as he lets his words sink in. After a long beat, Mac is the first to speak.

  “I know it sounds crazy as hell, but I swear he’s still out there somewhere.”

  There’s no way I can mask my sharp inhale at his words because that means… “You realize what you’re saying?”

  He nods slowly. “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

  Miller stands abruptly, moving to the railing of the deck, bracing his hands on it, his back to us. “You guys don’t—” he breaks off, his voice cracking with emotion. “That can only mean one thing.”

  “That he’s out there somewhere. Possibly—likely—on his own.” This comes from Doc. “Being tortured or hunted through the damn desert,” he adds quietly.

  “Fuck.” I run my hands over my hair, tugging at the short strands in frustration. “He was the one who told me he figured he’d go out in a blaze of glory.”

  “Either way,” Miller adds, turning, his somber gaze meeting mine, “no matter how you cut it, he’s either out there on his own now, trying to survive or—he’s done his best to go out the way he wanted.” Lifting the bottle of beer to his lips, taking a swig, he lets out a long sigh full of the sadness we’re all feeling. “Regardless, we need to be smart. Can’t get our hopes up.”

  We sit in silence for a moment before Doc turns, lifting his chin in my direction. “So, since we’re already veering into the emotional realm, why don’t we talk about you and how you fucked up the best thing that’s ever happened to you?”

  I rear back. “What the fu—”

  “Watts,” Mac interrupts, his tone full of warning. And, hell, it’s a warning all right. Doc is one of the few guys who’s always been referred to by his nickname and never by his last name.

  Until now.

  Doc, not appearing the least bit bothered, shrugs, fingers toying with the neck of his beer bottle. “I’m calling it like it is. We all know it.”

  Miller sinks back down into his chair, leaning back, taking a swig of beer while eyeing me. “You’ve been pretty damn moody, man.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I grit out the words through clenched teeth.

  “She’s leaving and you’re doing what? Just planning on letting her leave your sorry ass behind?”

  Instantly, I’m pulling Doc up by the front of his shirt, my face barely inches from his. “I’m fucking dying inside, asshole! But I can’t do anything—can’t be enough for her—until I get my shit together!”

  “Then get it together, damn it!” He shoves at me, his palms hitting my shoulders hard. “You’re going to piss everything away! You know you fucking love her!”

  “Hey! Break it up!” Mac and Miller pull us apart as I hold Doc’s hard stare, my chest heaving. Staring back at my friend, I know what he’s doing, know he cares. That he’s not only scared shitless about Hendy but he’s worried about me, too.

  Backing away, I run a hand down my face, troubled. Because Doc is right—as he usually is. Noelle’s last day is fast approaching and will be here in less than two weeks.

  I have to figure my shit out before it’s too late.

  Fuck that. I’m Foster Kavanaugh. Even if it’s too late, I’m going to damn well follow in Hendy’s footsteps and do whatever it takes to succeed.

  Whether it means I go down in a blaze of glory—and heartache—or not.

  Chapter Sixty

  Noelle

  This is it. I’m really doing this.

  Or so I keep repeating mentally as I pack up my things from the office. I haven’t been here for very long—just shy of two years—but it seems like far longer. Especially when I think of how much I’ll miss Kane and Miller harassing Foster and one other.

  I also wonder about the text messages. I’ve been getting one every day—today’s the exception, of course. I guess since it’s my last official day here he’s finally calling it quits. The messages have been random, kind of all over the place—some of them kind of funny and others sweet.

  I don’t want to admit how long I’ve sat and stared at them each time they’ve come in. When I have those weak moments—which happens far more often than I’d prefer to admit—I scroll through some of my favorites because I miss him so damn much.

  Have I told you yet today that I can’t look at a supply room the same way ever since that night at Shenanigans?

  Have I told you yet today that I had prosciutto and cheese but it didn’t taste as good without you?

  Have I told you yet today what an idiot I am?

  Have I told you yet today how much I miss your smile?

  Have I told you yet today how much Harley misses you? He’d tell you himself … if he could speak English or human. Not sure which is the right way to say it.

  This one actually made me smile a little. Because I really miss Harley, too.

  Have I told you yet today that I used the bodywash you left in my shower? Because I missed you so much. And I don’t even care if you tell Kane this. Even thou
gh he’ll give me shit for days.

  Have I told you yet today how much I loved sleeping next to you? That I’d sometimes watch you sleep? Go ahead and call me a creeper. But you were so peaceful and beautiful. Like a piece of heaven right beside me.

  The last one made me cry which, in turn, pissed me off. Because I was trying my hardest to not reside in full-on ugly cry mode for the rest of my life. But this? This got to me. Even so, I didn’t respond. Even to the one where he admitted he’s an idiot—which he is, of course.

  I open up my Amazon music library on what will soon no longer be my computer and adjust the volume as music begins to play from the small speakers. I don’t want it to be too loud but I need something to try and mask the eerie silence of the office. It’s rarely this quiet and my lips tilt up at the corners thinking about how there’s always conversation taking place, whether if it be about a site we currently have under contract, a new program implementation possibility, current events or just the average shit-talking amongst them.

  As I place items in the box on my desk, my mind floods with memories. Of the time Kane gave Miller crap about Tate before the two finally mended things; when Lee was hired on and how we all witnessed her open up—to everyone; when Laney all but forced me to join the groups’ outings and I got to know—and come to love—the crazy bunch; when I was invited to witness Laney and Zach get married and, at the same event, was forced into slow dancing with Foster by Momma K.; the times when Doc discreetly took me aside to ensure that I was okay after everything happened with Brad; Kane and his sweet talking, teasing ways; all those dinner nights at Momma K.’s.

  Blinking back the tears threatening to spill over, I mutter, “Snap out of it. It’s not like you’re moving to Timbuktu. Just changing jobs.”

  Even as I say this, I know it won’t be the same. I won’t witness everything that goes on each day with my coworkers. I won’t be here to know when Kane’s likely going to have to take off early because he’s showing signs of those wicked migraines he gets out of the blue. I won’t be here to hear the guys go back and forth over whether Lee and Lawson should elope to Vegas or do the courthouse thing and go backpacking in Peru to see Machu Picchu—the latter being Lawson’s idea, of course, simply because he says it’s fun to say Machu Picchu.