Chapter 25
Bennett
MY SENSES RETURNED one by one, creating a series of snapshots, each one revealing more about where I was.
Sound.
I thought I detected voices, but try as I might, I could never catch hold of anything substantial. A ventilation unit kicked on somewhere and there was breathing. The steady rhythm of breathing. Maybe it was my own, but I didn’t think so.
Smell.
It was easy to recall the foul stench of war; unwashed bodies, revolting steam rising from MREs, the latrine. But what I smelled was the exact opposite: fresh laundry, clean soap, lavender, vanilla, coffee. It was what I’d expect Heaven to smell like.
Taste.
My mouth was dry, unclean, and a faint bitter taste lingered on my tongue.
Touch.
The thing under me was soft, a warm cloudlike material that molded to my body, taking my shape and cradling me like giant hands. I’d never been picky about where I slept, so long as I was relatively safe. But even if I wasn’t, I still slept, just not as well. Extending my hands, the cool fabric under my fingertips was smooth like silk, but there was an unexplainable pressure I didn’t recognize. Not uncomfortable though, just foreign.
Sight.
The room was dim, dawn only recently breaking as a silvery diffused light crept through the slats between the blinds. An empty chair sat by the bed I was on and a half-full glass of water sat on the side table beside it. The pressure I’d been confused about was a thin, delicate arm, and while I probably should have flipped out at that point, I didn’t, because I knew.
Jillian.
Turning my head, I found myself eye level with Jill’s neck. She was halfway sitting up on the edge of the mattress, like she’d started sitting straight up, then slipped during the night. One of her arms was lazily draped over my chest, while the other was behind my neck cradling my shoulder. She was beautiful as she slept, serene, with the face of an angel.
An angel who’d spent the entire night with her arms around me.
I stared at her, committing the image to memory, when her eyes fluttered open. Immediately she smiled, but like a switch had been flipped, her smile dropped away and with wide eyes she jumped up, extracting her arm from underneath me.
“I’m sorry, but… “ Her voice was too loud. She looked up at the ceiling fan, then down at the comforter, anywhere but at me. She took a calming breath. “You were screaming. I tried waking you, but you tugged me down beside you and it made you stop, so I stayed.” Night terrors. Damn it.
Using my wobbly arms to push myself up, I sat and reached for the water, only then realizing I’d been stripped down to just my undershirt. I looked at my chest and bare arms, trying to see the emblems of my military life through her eyes, the ink on my skin just another reason I would never be enough for her. When I looked back up, she was staring and a wrinkle had formed between her brows.
“You had fever. I think you still do.” She took a step toward me, then hesitated. “I had to cut your sweatshirt off so I could cool you down.” My heart slammed against my ribcage. What else was gone? I took a peek under the sheet covering me, grateful my jeans were still in place.
“I need the bathroom,” I croaked. And I did. Bad.
“Oh, right through there.” She pointed. “Do you need help?”
Then she stepped back and covered her mouth. Her face turned twenty shades of red, realizing what she’d said. “I meant from here to there, just getting down the hall, not… “ I shook my head, willing myself not to laugh. I secretly loved the perma blush she often had around me. I wonder if he also held that honor?
The man staring back at me in the mirror was unrecognizable: sunken cheeks, purple-rimmed eyes, hair sticking out in all directions. And the smell, good Lord, how could she stand being so close to me? That thought brought up feelings I was not ready to contend with.
“Do you mind if I shower?” I attempted to yell from behind the closed door.
“Nope, go for it.” Her answer, almost instant, was loud. Had she been standing right outside the door?
“Thanks.”
I made quick work of washing up, but stayed under the water until it ran cold.
Why was I here? What had happened? And where was he during all this? Because there was a he, wasn’t there? A powerful, off-brand Kennedy wannabe, who acted as if he owned her. The man who sought me out in the dining room of the cafe, when everyone else was occupied, to make one thing very clear—Jillian Walker belonged to him and him alone, and that I was to stay far, far away starting now. Who also assured me that he had the influence and was fully capable of ruining me if I didn’t comply. Then he made sure to throw in that I was yesterday’s trash, and that she only had eyes for him… had for years… and by Christmas, there would be a ring on her finger to prove it. Oh yeah, I thought, then why have I never heard of you before now? But he was right about one thing. I was trash and she deserved so much better than a damaged man with a darkened heart.
I cut the water off and grabbed a towel. It smelled like her, too, of course. Everything did. I should leave. Redressed in the same clothes I’d gone in with, I opened the door. Jillian was sitting on the couch, but popped up as soon as she saw me.
“Is everything okay?” I nodded, feeling water drip down my back from my still wet hair that needed to be cut a few weeks ago. “Do you want me to take you home?”
Without warning, the room started to spin. I swayed, reaching out to steady myself against the door jamb and almost missed it completely. Jill rushed to my side.
“I’ve got you,” she assured, but her words were strained. I leaned heavily on her as she helped me back to bed, knowing I would fall without her support.
“Sorry.” I grunted.
“I’ll take that as a no.” I nodded, unable to speak under the effort.
Vertigo was the worst. I’d gotten it a few times in Kuwait when the temperature hit 120 degrees and the water was too hot to drink. I detested my tendency to get dizzy when dehydrated, but I’d never been happier for it to strike. With all talk of my going home abandoned, I let her help me back into her bed.
Her condo was nicer than what the majority of college students lived in. At least, I imagined it was. Decorated to the nth degree, there was no doubt anyone but a gorgeous girl like Jillian laid her head down here. Her walls, painted the palest of lavender, almost grey, were sparsely adorned with framed pressed flowers, each having the scientific name handwritten below in loopy script. The bed, which sat higher than average, was made of cherry wood, as was the rest of the furniture. It was very tidy, and looked almost unlived in. A set of perfume bottles over here, a stack of books placed neatly over there, and a framed picture of Jillian and a younger adult male that looked a lot like her. They were both smiling at the camera with Kyle Field, Texas A&M’s football stadium, in the background.
I lifted my legs into bed when she pulled the floral comforter up, granting me access. As soon as I was settled, using giant, pastel-colored pillows to cushion my back against the wooden headboard, she covered me from the waist down, fussing to make sure things were situated just right.
“So, dinner? I made you soup. And by ‘made,’ I mean I opened the can, added water, and heated it up in the microwave.” The tiniest of grins graced her lips. That squeaky clean face, free of makeup, paired with her casual, collegiate running pants and T-shirt, made her appear so young and innocent. She was getting to me, so I closed my eyes to combat her womanly wiles. It did me no good. The image of her standing beside me in maroon and grey cotton was as clear as day. I tried imagining latrine duty or mucking horse stalls, palpating cows. Anything to get my mind off the girl less than a foot away. I needed to end these feelings.
“Yes. Thanks.” I looked down, smoothing my covers until she left the room and I could breathe again. I used the seclusion to inspect more of her bedroom. It could have been a magazine feature, the way everything was arranged so perfectly. From the woolen blanket casually thrown over the upholstered, overstuffed chair in the corner… right down to the matching coffee mug on the table beside a giant paperback book with a clock and a kilt on the front. Noticeably absent though, were any pictures of Jillian with him. I wondered where he was right now, while his girl was tending to the needs of a dirty boot unchaperoned.
I don’t remember Jillian ever coming back in with the soup, only waking up with an untouched bowl of chicken, noodles, veggies, and broth sitting on the side table and a not-pajama-clad Jillian laying next to me, her body wrapped around mine like a vise.