The Reality of Everything (Flight & Glory)

by Rebecca Yarros

  My head swam as a voice called my name. Please let it be him. Why was I still alive when someone as good as Will wasn’t?

  “I’ve never seen anyone look as beautiful as you do tonight, Morgan.”

  But that wasn’t real. That was two years and a lifetime ago.

  I shoved myself sideways and almost missed the running board as I fled the cab. The sand cushioned my feet after falling those last few inches, and I sidestepped only to collapse against the back door and slide to the ground, uncaring of the scraping sensation as my back raked across the running board before my butt hit the ground.

  Breathe. You have to breathe.

  My cell phone plummeted as I drew my knees to my chest. I braced my elbows and cradled my head, blocking my ears like that might drown out the sound of his voice.

  Another muffled voice—different this time—called my name through the raging cacophony of memories that wouldn’t shut up. Wouldn’t go back inside the box I kept them in.

  “Morgan! Look at me!” Strong hands gripped my wrists.

  My eyes flew open wide, taking in the set of ocean-blue ones only inches away. Tears leaked in a steady stream down my face as I struggled to get the air in, my breaths coming in quick, rasping pants.

  Jackson. It was Jackson who’d been calling my name. Will wasn’t here. He couldn’t be because he was dead.

  “Morgan, what’s going on?” Jackson asked, his brows furrowed in concern.

  “I can’t—” I managed to force out, then threw my head back, trying to dislodge the vise from my throat.

  “Okay,” he soothed, his grip softening on my wrists. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

  If it was that fucking easy, I wouldn’t be in this position.

  “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

  Our eyes stayed locked as his thumbs stroked a steady rhythm on the inside of my wrists, and slowly—so slowly—my breathing eased to match the pace of those strokes. My throat loosened in increments so small they couldn’t be measured.

  Minutes. Hours. I wasn’t certain how long he stayed there, kneeling in front of me, witnessing my utter meltdown, but soon another voice cut through the fog.

  “My phone,” I croaked. “Can you—”

  “Got it.” He grabbed my phone and put it to his ear, still stroking my wrist with his other thumb. “Morgan’s not feeling well. Can she call you—”

  “Help her.” Air filled my lungs in great heaps, but the immovable ache in my throat remained.

  “This is Jax Montgomery. I’m Morgan’s neighbor. She just asked if I could help you. What exactly do you need?” His brows rose slightly as he listened to the reply. “Got it. Morgan, do you want me to get the registration from the truck?”

  I nodded. “Glove box.”

  His lips pursed as he glanced between my eyes and the open door. “Will you be okay for a second?”

  I nodded again. It was safer than trusting my vocal cords.

  “Give me just a minute,” he said into my phone. Then he stroked the side of my face, brushing that thumb over my cheekbone. “Just keep breathing.”

  My metronome vanished as he climbed into the cab. I heard shuffling, then the sound of the glove box opening.

  His strong, sure voice read her the information she’d need to insure the truck properly, giving her the VIN number and then pausing before saying, “It’s registered to William Carter—wait, there’s a transfer signed here by Arthur Livingston, Personal Representative to Morgan E. Bartley. Right. I’ll tell her. Is that all? Okay, you, too. Bye.” The glove box snapped shut, and a few breaths later, I managed to turn my head to see Jackson step down from the cab, tall enough that he actually fit the damned truck. He was easily four inches taller than Will had been, wider in the shoulders, too.

  Stop comparing them.

  I tried to do the mental exercise I’d watched on YouTube, where I visualized myself shoving all my thoughts about Will into the neat little box in my head and slamming the lid shut.

  “All done,” Jackson said, dropping to my eye level.

  “Thank you.” I focused on the sand as my face flushed hot.

  “Look at me.”

  Slowly, I let my eyes travel upward until I met his.

  “You have panic attacks. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” His gaze bore into mine, driving home the sincerity of his words.

  “Anxiety attacks,” I corrected him. The ache in my throat flared, and I knew it wouldn’t recede until I took my rescue meds, which happened to be back at the B&B.

  His brow furrowed. “What triggered you?” When I didn’t answer, he guessed. “The truck?”

  I nodded. “I have to get back to the bed and breakfast. My meds are there.”

  He stood, then offered me his hand. I took it, and he pulled me easily to my feet.

  “Let me drive you.”

  “No, I’m fine.” My fingers busied themselves brushing the sand from my legs. “I can drive.” God, I had to get out of here before I embarrassed myself any further.

  “Morgan, really, let me drive you. Please.” He reached for my arm, then thought better of it, pulling his hand back.

  “I can do it myself,” I whispered as I pushed the lock button on the truck.

  “I just want to help,” he said softly as I walked past him to where the Mini was parked.

  “You did.” I slid into the driver’s seat and arched my neck as another wave of tension washed over me like an aftershock. I ran my hands over my steering wheel and sighed as my emotions lowered to a simmer. That was better.

  “Who was he to you?” Jackson asked, looking down at me from the open door.

  Every label I could put on what I had with Will felt too small, too pale in comparison to what we’d been, and what we could have evolved into, and yet too big for our lack of definition.

  “Everything, and yet nothing.” I gave him the truth in the simplest terms I could, giving him the best perspective of me he could have and hiding nothing.

  Hi. I’m Morgan. I’m a hot mess.

  Jackson didn’t cringe, didn’t roll his eyes or slam the door. No, that would have made this easier—running away from him. Instead, he nodded. “Okay. I can understand that. Drive safe, okay? Maybe you can text me when you get there?” He stepped free of the door.

  “I don’t have your number.” Before he could offer it to me, I swung the door shut. The engine roared to life as I turned the key, and then I backed out of the long drive once he was clear. He understood. Of course, he understood.

  And that was exactly why I couldn’t let him drive me to the B&B.

  Because back on that beach, I’d felt something. We’d connected.

  I didn’t have anything to offer, and even if I did, I’d be damned if I was ever going to open up to a man who was in love with another woman. I would never make that mistake again.

  Ever.

  I was done being someone’s consolation prize.

  “Damn you, Will. I think you ruined me.”

  Chapter Six

  Jackson

  “Night, Daddy!” Fin called out for the sixth time since I’d kissed her good night about two minutes ago.

  “Night, Fin.” I blew her a kiss but gave her the I’m-not-kidding look.

  She giggled accordingly. I turned off her light and shut the door without any protest, so I called it a win.

  With Fin tucked in, my mind took off racing as I walked downstairs, giving me every reason not to do this—telling me over and over not to violate Morgan’s privacy, reminding me that she hadn’t given me details for a reason.

  I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.

  Now, if only it had bubbles. And alcohol. And was beer. But I was on call, so water it was.

  The weather had turned, which meant there was a good chance I’d get called in anyway. Hope
fully, Morgan had made it to wherever she was staying, but it wasn’t like I could text her or anything. That would have required having her phone number.

  Having her phone number made it something more than neighborly concern, not that I wouldn’t have given her mine if she hadn’t shut the door and raced away.

  I snagged my iPad on the way to the couch, barely glancing at the sheets of rain pounding my deck, and already had the browser open before my conscience could get the best of me.

  I had to know.

  The second the sun had flashed on the silver wings pinned to the truck’s visor, I’d gotten a sick feeling in my stomach.

  Basically, I’d been nauseated for the last five hours.

  I tapped on the browser, and my keyboard appeared on the screen. Don’t do it.

  I should have waited for her to tell me. Should have been that patient, good guy she thought I was, capable of sitting quietly while she healed enough to tell me what happened to her—to him.

  But I’d already warned her that I was a selfish, careless asshole…and the asshole in me wanted to know. I wasn’t willing to wait.

  Carter, William D. U.S. Army.

  I typed the name I’d read on both the registration and the dog tags that hung from the rearview mirror and cursed as the results populated.

  A guy in his midtwenties with wavy brown hair and brown eyes appeared on my screen in a series of pictures above a list of links. I bypassed the picture of him in uniform and clicked on the one where he smiled. It took me to a social media profile.

  The cover photo stopped me in my tracks. It was a group photo taken at a military formal, with four lieutenants in dress blues and their dates. Instead of one of those posed, formal pictures, it was a candid, everyone laughing, smiling—or in the blond couple’s case, kissing. I immediately recognized Sam, the girl who’d helped Morgan move in, standing near the center with one of the lieutenants.

  Next to her stood the guy whose name tag read “Carter.”

  And there was Morgan.

  She was midlaugh in a hell of a dress, her nose scrunched and her head tilted slightly toward Carter. So beautiful, joyous, with none of the shadows that haunted her in her eyes. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close, and his eyes were locked on hers in a look full of so much awe that I almost felt like I was intruding on something.

  You are, dumbass.

  But…I looked closer. There were no wings on any of the lieutenants. I sent up a little prayer that the wings in the truck were just a coincidence. Any kind of coincidence. I noted that the picture was taken two years ago December and minimized it.

  “I’ll only look at a few more,” I mumbled, like it was any kind of excuse for what I was doing.

  I clicked on the highlighted photos, and the first popped up full screen. It was the same truck, covered in mud in the middle of a field, and leaning against it was Morgan. Her head was tilted down, the brim of a maroon baseball cap covering her face, but I’d recognize those legs anywhere.

  The next was a candid of Will wearing the same hat.

  Next—shit. There was Morgan, her hair pulled back on one shoulder, pinning a set of shiny silver wings on his chest while he stood in his dress blues, looking stoically ahead.

  Fuck. Those had to be the same wings on the truck’s visor.

  Raking my hands over my hair, I let out a deep sigh. Then I closed out the social media page without looking at any of his posts and went back to the search, clicking on the news story listed second.

  Local Pilot Killed in Afghanistan

  The family of William Carter has confirmed the reports that he was killed this weekend in Afghanistan. Carter, an Enterprise High School alum turned West Point graduate, was serving his first tour overseas as a medevac pilot when he fell to small arms fire that followed a helicopter crash. Carter and his crew had been on a rescue mission for another downed aircraft.

  According to a spokesman from his unit at Fort Campbell, Carter saved the lives of three other soldiers before his death, personally pulling four pilots from the cockpits of the dual crash, two of whom were already deceased. Going above and beyond the call of duty, and with blatant disregard for his own safety, Carter stood alone, discharging his weapon to protect the wounded soldiers, although he had been wounded in the crash himself. He was killed shielding the wounded men.

  “I cannot put our grief into words at the loss of Lieutenant Carter,” Brigadier General Richard Donovan, the previous CG of Fort Rucker, told us by phone. “It doesn’t surprise me that he gave his life for others. That’s simply who he was.”

  William Carter is survived by—

  I put my iPad on the coffee table, having read more than enough.

  There was only one reason a unit spokesman would be that detailed to the press, the same reason they used the deliberate phrasing of going above and beyond the call of duty, and with blatant disregard for his own safety.

  Will wasn’t just a pilot, or the guy Morgan was obviously still in love with.

  He was a fucking hero.

  The kind who got awarded medals that took years to receive.

  No wonder she was torn up as hell. She didn’t have to put the guy on a pedestal; he was already up there. Not only that, but the minute she realized what I did for a living, she’d push me so far away that we might as well live on opposite sides of the island. Not that I’d blame her.

  I had my own hang-ups about the death of my parents—I couldn’t imagine how Morgan felt about the military, or helicopter pilots in general.

  And I was both.

  And given what I’d just read, I didn’t hold a candle to that guy.

  Awesome.

  I’d never been one for inferiority complexes. I was damn good at what I did. Hell, I was the best, and proud of it. I’d graduated top of my major at MIT, top of my class in Flight School, and guaranteed my first duty station pick. I’d completed hundreds of successful rescues—some of which were seen as unwinnable—and yet none of that compared to what he’d done.

  For the first time in my life, I was forced into second place in a race I hadn’t been aware I’d been running, and the guy was miles ahead. I was literally losing to a ghost.

  Since when did you want to win?

  I thought about it for a second, wishing the answer was when she’d come out to the barbecue, when we’d walked down the beach earlier today, or even when she’d had the telltale signs of an anxiety attack at the truck.

  But something had drawn me to her the first moment our eyes had locked on the beach and then hooked me the minute I found her dangling through her landing, cool as a cucumber.

  Shit, I didn’t just like her—I wanted her, and not just in my bed, but in my life.

  And I didn’t have a shot in hell with her.

  …

  Five days later, the ringer on my phone sounded around ten thirty p.m., and I swiped it open before checking the caller ID.

  “Montgomery,” I answered.

  “It’s Goodwin. We have a mayday, and the other bird is already in the field.”

  “Fuck.” I stood, immediately sprinting for my stairs. “Run up the bird. I’ll be there ASAP.” I hung up, hitting the speed dial for Sarah as I dropped my clothes.

  I had it timed to seven minutes flat.

  “Mr. Montgomery?” she answered.

  “Hey, I hate to do this to you, but I just got a call—”

  “I’ll be there in a second! I’m still dressed and everything!” My twenty-one-year-old nanny promptly hung up on me.

  I threw on my flight suit and booted up, hit the bathroom, tossed a few granola bars and a Monster into my bag, and opened the door just as Sarah reached the threshold.

  “It’s coming down out there!” she said by way of greeting.

  “Yes. Thank you. I’m sorry for calling so late.” I hated c
alling her, forcing her to drop what she was doing.

  “It’s what you pay me for! Now go save people.” She waved me off and headed for the living room.

  I tossed my rain gear on and ran down the steps.

  Exactly seven minutes after I got the call, we took off from the coast guard station with Goodwin as my copilot, Moreno as my mechanic, and Garrett as our rescue swimmer.

  As we headed out over the water, into wind and rain, my mind cleared of Morgan, her dead boyfriend, and even Fin, leaving only the bird, the weather, and the mission.

  “Time to save some lives,” I said over the com, keeping our tradition.

  And we did.

  …

  The skyline blushed with impending sunrise as I parked my Land Cruiser in the driveway.

  Long. Fucking. Night.

  The rain had stopped around midnight, right around the time we’d returned from the rescue, three extra passengers heavy. We’d barely gotten the small family off their even smaller boat in time. It had gone down just after Garrett had hauled the father on board.

  Their bad day had a happy ending: two living parents, one living teenage boy.

  I trudged up the steps, weariness pulling at every muscle in my body. If I got to sleep in the next fifteen minutes, I could get a solid three hours before Fin woke up.

  I woke Sarah on the couch and sent her home, then headed toward the kitchen in search of water.

  The refrigerator was stocked, and I took a cold one from the second shelf and closed the door with my hip, already twisting the top open.

  My cell phone rang from my back pocket, and I paused mid-drink to yank it free, swallowing and lowering the bottle when I saw who it was.

  “Claire?”

  “Hey!” Her voice was barely audible with background party noise. “What are you doing?”

  I glanced at the clock. “It’s five a.m., so I figured I’d sleep while I can.”

  “Oh! Late night?” A door shut, and the background noise dropped exponentially.

  “Obviously.” I leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Look, I just got home from work, and I know you didn’t call to talk to Fin, so what’s up?” My voice was as gentle as I could make it, but I was fucking exhausted.