February

She’s been gone for sixteen weeks.

That’s how I measure time now. Every morning, I watch the sun come up and count another day without her.

It sucks.

Every goddamned day.

But I’m trying.

I’m eating.

I’m sleeping. At least what passes for sleep where my fucked-up brain is concerned.

I’m running with Cap’n every morning. I even let him talk me into volunteering at the library, a few days a week.

I wear the stupid watch Tess bought me and let it tell me where to go and what to do.

It’s shitty and fucked-up and I hate everything and everyone.

But I’m doing it.

No booze.

No women.

No blood.

The first and third because I’ve finally accepted that they hurt more than they help.

The second because I can’t.

I don’t want to.

The fact that my dick seems to be broken, notwithstanding, I’m doing okay. I’m solid.

I work on cars.

I go to Benny’s with Tess.

I work my shifts at the bar and pretend that the thought of touching another woman doesn’t make my skin crawl.

I volunteer at the library and somehow manage to walk through its doors a few times a week without burning the place to the ground.

But I did set my futon on fire.

I hauled it out to the alley behind the garage, the same day I sold my Cuda.

Tore a page out of Leg’s playbook.

Threw it in the dumpster and torched it.

Drank a beer and watched it burn.

Shit felt good.

And I got a new tattoo.

That shit felt necessary.

But that was it. The full extent of my freak-out, which means everyone is waiting for me to properly lose my shit. It’s like someone took off my training-wheels and they’re all standing around, watching me wobble down the road.

Holding their breath.

Waiting for me to fall on my face.

I can’t say it won’t happen. All I can say is that I want to be better. Not normal. I know I’ll never be normal. I’d be stupid to even try but I want to be me. Not the me who came back from New York. The me who watched Bradford kiss her and realized he was never going to get her back. That she was better off without him.

I want to be me.

I want to be real.

I stopped trying after she left the first time.

Convinced myself I couldn’t do it without her.

Didn’t matter what kind of man I was because she was gone.

Wasn’t coming back.

It took her leaving for the second time to remind me that I matter.

Maybe not to her, but I do.

I matter.

Like I said, it’s shitty and I hate it and I want to give up most of the time, but I’ve got people who depend on me, so I keep pretending.

Someday, the gaping wound in my chest will close and I’ll be able to breathe again.

Taking care of Ryan has helped. He’s back from wherever he was and in pretty bad shape but the worst of it is behind him.

I got the call a week after Henley disappeared.

Mr. Gilroy, I’m calling on behalf of Gunnery Sargent Ryan O’Connell. Our records indicate you’re his next of kin…

I listen while the family liaison on the other end of the phone gives me a rundown of his list of injuries. Severe damage to his lower right leg. Probable amputation. Second and third degree burns to thirty percent of his lower body.

Damage to his reproductive organs.

Possible brain damage.

I was on a plane to Germany forty-five minutes after I hung up the phone. I don’t know must about what happened to him other than what they told me. That Ryan stepped on an IED while on a routine patrol. At least half of that is a lie. Nothing about what Ryan does is routine. I could find out if I wanted to. It wouldn’t take much to hack his unredacted file from whatever military server it’s buried in.

I could, but I won’t.

How it happened isn’t important. What’s important is that Ryan is alive. Everything else can be dealt with.

Looking at him in that hospital bed, not knowing if he was going to make it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Wondering how I was going to tell Henley if he died.

He woke up, during my second week of sitting bedside looked at me and said, don’t tell Hen.

So I didn’t.

Even though I knew it was wrong, that I should have called her the second I knew he was wounded, I didn’t. I was relieved when he said it because it gave me and excuse. Justified my need to cut her out.

Just because I’m working on myself doesn’t mean I’m any less of an asshole.

“Where the hell are you getting all these Draw Fours, motherfucker?” Ryan’s glaring at me over the top of his cards. We’ve been playing Uno for the past hour. He hates it. Hates me. Hates pretty much everyone and everything. Most of the time, when I pull out the deck, he slaps it out of my hand and tells me to fuck off. Today he just glared at me and said, “Deal ‘em, bitch.”

It’s a good day.

“I pulled em’ out of your vagina,” I drawl, tossing down a red Skip card, followed by a Wild. “Blue,” I say, changing the color before dropping a numbered card. He hasn’t asked me about Henley. How her time here went. What happened. Where she is now. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to know or if he forgot she was supposed to be here in the first place.

Ryan looks at the last card I laid down, studying it before reverting his gaze to the cards in his hand. Nearly a minute later he’s getting frustrated, the muscle in his cheek twitching while he gnaws a hole in his bottom lip.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “It’s a two.”

“I know what the fuck it is, dickbag,” he barks at me, a second before he throws his cards on the table. “Fuck this bullshit game.”

“This bullshit game is helping to rebuild your cognitive functioning.” I gather the cards, careful not to look at him when I say it. When I suggest that he’s less than fully functional, he get defensive. Which usually means we end up on the ground while he tries to pull my head off my shoulders. “What’s the matter, you got another Draw Four stuck in naughty spot?”

When he doesn’t laugh, I risk a glance up. He isn’t even looking at me. He’s looking out the window. Patrick scored him a private room in some swanky private rehab. It’s a nice place. Decent food. State-of the-art rehab center. He hates it here but like I said, he hates everything.

“Just tell me I’m gonna get better.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. “If you tell me I’m going to get better, I’ll believe you.”

I don’t hesitate. “You’re going to get better.”

He nods. “I’ve gotta get the fuck out of this place.”

He’s only been here a few months and it’s a damn sight better than the place I pulled him out of, but I don’t remind him of that. “I know.” I wrap a rubber band around the deck of cards in my hand and toss them in my backpack. “Cap’n’s working on it.”

Before he can say what he usually says, which is tell him to work faster, the door to his room opens and a large male nurse pushing a wheelchair strolls in. “It’s that time, Mr. O’Connell.”

Physical therapy. Every day at 2PM.

I watch the muscle in Ryan’s jaw work and clench around what I’m sure are a string of curse words camped out in his mouth. On the mile-long list of things he hates, PT is at the top of the list. If you ask him why, he’ll tell you it’s because it’s bullshit like everything else, but the real reason is because it’s hard and it hurts.

Given the way I’ve spend these last ten weeks, I can relate.

As soon as he’s out the door with a see ya later, fuckface, I zip up my backpack and shoulder. Instead of heading for the door, I make my way to the free-standing cabinet by the bathroom. Opening it, I pull out the worn manila envelope where the nurses in Germany put his personal affects. They gave it to me when I got there because they were pretty sure he was going to die.

Pulling the flap, I pour its contents into my hand.

His dog tags.

A smooth, flat stone about as big as my thumb.

The ring I gave his sister.

I don’t know where he got it or why he has it. Why he’s been carrying it around with him all these years. It doesn’t really matter.

I come here to spend time with Ryan. I coax him into playing stupid card games and talk shit because he’s family and he needs me. Because he is going to get better.

And when he leaves for PT, I pour this envelope into my hand and give myself a gut-check.

I hold the ring I gave Henley in my hand for as long as I can. Until I can’t stand it anymore. Until I feel myself start to crack.

Then I put it away and pretend to move on.

“Conner?”

I hear my name as I pass the nurses’ station and I look up, expecting to see someone I slept with. Prepared to make non-committal small-talk for a few minutes before making an excuse to leave, I’m surprised by who I’m looking at.

“Kaitlyn.” She stands and smiles at me when I say her name, while the pair of nurses behind the counter with her stare at me. I’ve been coming here almost every day for over a month now and haven’t so much as looked at any of them. “What are you doing here?” It comes out sounding much more paranoid that I meant it to.

“It’s my first day.” she laughs, glancing at our audience. “Are you here for—”

“My brother.” It’s the quickest way to describe what Ryan is to me. “I’m here visiting my brother.”

“Oh…” her voice trails off and her mouth twitches to the side. “You’re probably have to get back to work.”

I look down at myself. I’m wearing the usual, a pair of peeled down coveralls over worn jeans and a T-shirt. At least it’s clean. I had the good sense to change it out in the parking lot before I came in. “Yeah, we’re pretty backed up so…” We had two cars in the bay when I left and if I know Tess, she’s already torn through one and is starting on the other.

“Do you want to have coffee sometime?” It comes out of nowhere and as soon as her says it, she presses her lips closed like she’s afraid of what else might come out of her mouth. When I don’t answer her, she frowns. “I mean… I know you’re kind of seeing someone but I thought maybe—”

“I’m not.” I shake my head and try to ignore the fact that when I say it, it feels like a lie. “Seeing anyone.”

“Oh, okay.” She smiles again. “Then coffee?”

No.

No coffee.

Not ever.

But this is what moving on looks like. It looks like coffee with a cute brunette, and even though I hate it, even though it feels shitty and fucked-up and the words threaten to choke me, I say them.

“Sure. Coffee sounds great.”