I feel like shit. I feel worse than shit, because I know I deserve this, and I know I basically made him do this to me. It’s too late to apologize as the chopper lifts me into the sky. He’s done with me. And it’s all my fault.

The journey back to the States is long and miserable. I don’t have anything waiting for me there. He knows that, but it’s not his problem. I’m not his problem. I’m absolutely crushed, surrounded by soldiers who are excited to be going home.

They will be held on base for a week or two to acclimate when they return. I’ll be left at the airport. Fucked if I know what I’ll do then, maybe grab a cheap motel for the night before I explain to my editor how I got expelled.

I’m alone again. For one single week, I wasn’t alone. I had someone. I felt like I had something. And then I fucked it all up. I was so angry when he sent me away, and I still am, but I know it’s my fault. He can’t babysit me and fight a war at the same time, and something about being near someone who cares about me makes me more reactive and less controlled.

I’ve been holding onto sanity for a long time, just by the skin of my teeth. I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I don’t know what I’m going to do for work. I don’t know where I’m going to live. I have nobody and nothing and I don’t want this flight to end, because once it does, I will be truly and completely alone.

All I’m hoping for now is being able to keep it together long enough to get to a motel before I absolutely break down.

LAX is a weird place to be. A perpetual transition zone. I don’t want to get off the plane. I don’t want to go through customs. But I do all of it because I have to. And then, all around me, there are dozens of families surging forward to greet their loved ones home from war. It’s beautiful, and I am glad for them, but so miserable for myself I can barely breathe.

Winding my way through the crowds, I make my way to the doors which lead out to the cab ranks. God I can’t wait to be alone. As I walk, I see one man standing near the exit. He’s holding a sign with my name on it. Well, not my name. Ms Brown. That could be anyone’s name. I glance at him, and realize how familiar he looks, even though I’ve certainly never met him before. He’s handsome for sure, and the hard lines of his face remind me of Ken. I don’t want to be reminded of Ken. I look away and keep walking.

“Mary Brown?”

He says my name as I walk past. I ignore him. I don’t want to talk to anyone who knows I’m here. That can’t be good news.

“Mary…”

I look over my shoulder. He’s following me across the airport. Jesus. What the hell is going on? I consider heading toward security, just in case something is about to go wrong.

“Ken sent me, Mary.”

Ken’s name makes anger and shame flash through me. “Ares doesn’t have any authority to send anyone for me.”

“Hey, easy,” he says, reaching out to stop me in my tracks. “I’m Tom. I’m Ken’s brother.”

“Shit, sorry to hear that.”

I try to walk away again, but his grip tightens on my arm.

“Now settle down, little girl, I’m here to pick you up and take you home. Ken asked me to.”

“Oh he did huh?” I lift my jaw and stare at them angrily, meanwhile, on the inside, I’m melting. Did he really send his brother to get me? Does he actually still care? I mean, it’s still fucked up because he didn’t say a damn thing to me about it, but then again I refused to speak to him at all once he said he was sending me home.

“He did,” Tom says calmly, with an easy smile I find pretty disarming.

“This is weird as hell,” I mumble, shifting my pack. “What’s he doing?”

“Just making sure you’re alright. Can I take your bag?”

Maybe this is a trap. Maybe I should tell this guy to fuck off and go and get myself that motel room like I planned. But I’m curious, and that curiosity is always my downfall. I want to see what’s in store for me, so I swing my pack over at Tom and nod.

“Alright, lead the way, I guess.”

His car is out in the lot. Nice car. Don’t know what make. Don’t care.

We chat on the way to his place. Small talk to cover the fact that he doesn’t know me and I don’t know him. He asks me a lot of questions I don’t really answer, sitting next to this man who reminds me of Ken, but isn’t him.

It takes maybe an hour to get out to his place. Tom’s house is a modernized bungalow in one of the suburbs. White house, blue trim, a big lawn and a white picket fence. Exactly the kind of place I can’t begin to imagine myself living.

I’m not in any position to turn down accommodation though, but still, this is a long way from where I’ve come from. The sun is shining and there’s a gentle breeze. It’s fucking beautiful and it makes my stomach churn with nerves. I don’t belong here.

“I’m really sorry,” I say. “Ken really shouldn’t have told you to come and get me. You know he threw me out, right? Of Afghanistan. He told you to come and get someone who was thrown out of Afghanistan for being too much trouble.”

Tom chuckles. He has olive green eyes, I notice, dark hair just like Ken, but his is wavier and longer.

“Your wife isn’t going to be pleased you brought me here.”

“I’m divorced,” he says. “You’re free to stay. I’m not worried about how much trouble you’ll be.”

I don’t say anything. Of course he’s not worried. People who live in houses like this don’t know about trouble. Trouble to them is just drinking a little much, or maybe saying some mean words. Maybe stealing a few twenties. I don’t plan on doing any of that, but I know this guy who seems really damn sweet is going to regret having done his brother a favor.

He invites me inside. Okay. What the hell. Why not.

The interior is furnished simply, but masculinely. Tom obviously has an IKEA catalog and knows how to use it. I’m not going to complain. Everything is spacious and clean and comfortable. Exactly everything I don’t deserve.

“Wow.”

“You okay?”

“I just… forgot there’s nice stuff in the world, I guess.”

He smiles. “Yeah, it’s a bit like that, huh. Take a load off. Want some coffee?”

I sit down in a chair, my pack by my side. I’m still so disoriented, but it’s nice to be here and not to be alone.

“I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can,” I say. “I mean, I’ll have to talk to my editor. I’m pretty sure I’m going to get my contract terminated but I still have the story so…”

“You’re going to stay,” he says, calmly, but firmly. He brings a tray in, coffee, and some cookies too. God. I didn’t know how hungry I was.

He’s dressed in a green cable knit sweater and blue jeans. Casual and stylish. I’m only getting to look at him properly now I can relax a little. Definitely Ken’s brother. Definitely his older brother too.

“I mean I can’t stay long,” I say. “But thanks for this.”

“We’ll talk with Ken soon,” he says, sitting down on the couch at right angles to the chair.

“I don’t really…” I fall silent. I can’t exactly say I don’t want to talk to Ken, but hell, I really don’t. I can’t handle talking to him, seeing how much I disappointed him, how bad I was.

“Have something to eat and drink, then go grab a shower.” Tom has a way of giving orders too, I notice, though he’s a bit more casual about the whole thing. I suspect he means it just as much as Ken would. What have I gotten myself into now?

I nibble at the corner of an oatmeal cookie and try to get my bearings. I’m not in danger. I can tell that much. But I don’t know what’s going on, not really. I can feel that there’s more to this than meets the eye.

The room he has for me has a single bed with a pink coverlet. There’s something ever so slightly immature about it. I won’t complain though. I doubt he has a bunch of spare stuff around for random women his brother expels from the Middle East.

“Thanks. It’s really nice.”

It is really nice, but it’s also really weird. There’s a big stuffed bear in the corner. It looks new. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think he bought it for me.

“Is this the room for when your kids come over?”

“No kids,” he says. “Now go grab a shower, or a bath if you want one.”

A shower sounds good.

I don’t have much in the way of clothes to change into afterward, but I make do with combat style pants and a white t-shirt. I’m going to need to go shopping, if I can get some money to do it with. I should still be able to sell the story I was putting together in Afghanistan, even with the ignominious end of my tour there.

Once I’m dressed, I pad out to see Tom. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter on a laptop. He waves me over to him and points at the screen.

“Someone’s been waiting to talk to you.”

It’s Ken.

His handsome face fills the screen. I want to fucking cry just looking at him. Tears fill my eyes as I try to hold back the emotion which overwhelms me.

“Hi,” I manage to squeak out.

“Hey there, little one,” he says kindly. “You have a good flight?”

I press my lips together. I don’t trust myself to talk.

“I know you’re probably shocked as hell right now,” he says, “but I meant it when I said you’re not going to be alone anymore and you’re not going to be left to your own devices. You’re mine, Mary, and I’m going to look after you as best I can even if I can’t be there with you right now.”

I sniff. It’s not much of a response.

“I’m going to be responsible for you no matter where you are,” he says. “And some day soon, we are going to have a very long conversation in person, young lady.”

“You sent me back,” I remind him. “You’re not in charge of me anymore.”

“Nothing has changed between us except the distance.”

He’s wrong. Everything has changed. He just doesn’t want to accept that. He’s so damn used to controlling the world. He doesn’t get that there are some things so far outside his control that it’s laughable. Right now, I’m one of them.

“You sent me away,” I say. “You made me come back here, and it’s sweet and all that you got your brother to pick me up, but I don’t need discipline and I don’t need you. If you wanted me, you could have had me. But you sent me away so…. so…” I find the courage to say what’s in my heart… “fuck off.”

He’s in Afghanistan. He can’t do a damn thing to me, and Tom isn’t going to do anything either. This is ridiculous.

“You want to come and get me, Ken, you fucking come and get me. I push the laptop closed. That’s it. The call ends. He’s gone. I push the hollow feeling in my chest away, but I can’t stop the hot water trickling down my face.

Fuck him. Fuck him so fucking hard. What a fucking asshole.

I hate that I’m crying. It takes away so much of the vehement self-righteousness of the moment.

Fuck. What am I going to do?

“Come and sit down,” Tom says, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You’re mentally and emotionally exhausted.”

“Yeah, you know me now too?”

“I’m a doctor,” he says. “I know the signs.”

A doctor. I stiffen with fear. Ken sent me to a fucking doctor’s house. What the fuck was he thinking? Instinct takes over. The same instinct that made me rush the guy in the desert sends me bolting for the door in the suburbs. Fuck my stuff. Fuck my laptop. Fuck money. Fuck having anywhere to go. I have to get out of here. I have to get away.

I run into the garden and take deep, panicked breaths. I’m utterly overloaded, deep in panic so intense I feel like I might actually die.

“I take it you don’t like doctors,” Tom says from behind me.

“Leave me alone!”

“It’s okay,” he says, seeming unfazed by the scene I’m in the process of making. “No harm’s going to come to you. I’m going to be inside okay, when you come in.”

“I’m not coming back in. You’re a doctor. You’re going to try…”

I can’t say what he’s going to do. It’s literally fucking unspeakable.

“I’m going to just be right here, okay,” he says, his tone still calm and even. “You’re okay, Mary.”

I am not okay. I am so far from being okay it’s impossible to verbalize it. I can’t stand upright. I’m dizzy and weak and nauseous. I go to my knees on the grass, my forehead against the soft green blades. There’s no reason to be acting like this. I’m in the heart of suburbia. I’m the safest I’ve been in years, but suddenly it’s all coming crashing down around me.

Somewhere in the midst of near catatonic panic, strong arms scoop me up, carry me inside. I don’t have the energy to resist. Tom takes me to the bedroom and lies me down on the little bed, covering me with an extra blanket or two, nice heavy weight over my shivering form.

“You’re really in a bad way, hmmm,” he murmurs softly. “Just keep breathing.”

He sits beside me, this man who is a near total stranger and he rubs my back until the panic passes and I feel the natural calm that follows. It takes quite a long time to settle, but eventually I do, and then I feel silly, being stuck under all these blankets like a cowering child.

“Better?”

I nod.

“I’m going to get you some hot chocolate,” he says. “You stay there.”

What else can I do, but huddle beneath the blankets and wait for him to take care of me. I hate how I feel. I’m so weak, so pathetic. At least in Afghanistan I could feel brave.

Tom brings me the warm drink, helps me sit up and gives it to me.

“There you go.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “I’m so much trouble.”

“You’re fresh out of a war zone,” he says. “You’re not trouble.”

I sip the chocolate. It’s warm and its rich and it does what it’s supposed to do - it makes me feel better. Now that I’m calmer, I can start to think again. That sucks, because all the thoughts are bad.

“I miss him,” I admit.

“He misses you too,” Tom says gently. “He wasn’t happy about this, you know, but he thought I might be able to help.”

“Yeah, you, a doctor.”

“I never had anyone react so badly to me being a doctor before,” he says with a handsome smirk. “It’s usually a draw.”

Obviously Ken didn’t say anything about what happened to me in Chile. He kept my secret. That means something. I don’t know what exactly, but something.

“Well, I’m weird and fucked up,” I tell him. “And your brother really saddled you with some messed up stuff, so I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Nope. You’ll stay right here.”

“I really don’t need another Ares man telling me what to do,” I say wearily. I don’t have the energy to fight him.

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” he says. “I’m just trying to give you some space to be. I can handle anything you throw at me.”

He’s dead wrong about that.

“You were in the military too, weren’t you?” I ask suddenly. I’m getting the strong feeling that he’s not a general practitioner, and he has more in common with Ken than just genetics. He shares values and bearing.

“I was,” he says. “Been out five years.”

He’s looking at me with a gaze which tells me he understands some things about me. Not everything. But maybe enough. I’m curious as to why he left, but that’s not a question you ask someone you barely know.

“Get some rest,” he says. “We’ll deal with the rest of this in the morning.”

“Alright,” I concede. “Thanks.”

He leaves me sitting in the bed that isn’t mine, swaddled in blankets that aren’t mine, sipping a fast cooling cup of hot chocolate and starting to feel just a little bit as if things might be alright after all.