I’d lost count of how many hours it had been since I slept. Thirty-something? Forty? I was physically depleted. Even my tears had run dry. Yet there I was, wide awake, staring at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the ceiling of my former bedroom. They bothered me. I’d been gazing up at those greenish plastic constellations since middle school, but with my bed moved to a different wall, their familiar pattern looked as random as gravity-defying confetti.

Fitting, considering that my whole fucking life had been turned upside down.

I didn’t know which way was up anymore. My head told me that my mom was right. That if I went back to Hans I’d be responsible for everything, my dreams would be put on hold, and my role would shift from muse to maid.

But my heart begged me to do something, anything, to take away the pain. I longed to go back to the days when I’d merely been lonely and worried and jealous. Lonely, worried, and jealous felt like an adorable little wading pool compared to the typhoon of grief I was struggling to stay afloat in.

My heart whispered, Go back. Apologize. End this misery. Please.

So, they negotiated—my head and my heart.

My head said, Okay, but only if he calls and really grovels. He’s got to work for it. If we go back now, he’ll never change. He’ll come around. Just be patient.

My heart sniffled and nodded.

That was it. I’d made up my mind. If Hans called and begged me to come home, if he promised to change, I’d do it. I’d give him another chance. The resolution gave me the peace I needed to finally doze off.

I awoke with a start sometime around midnight to the sound of my phone ringing. A burst of hope flooded my bloodstream. I threw my right arm out to grab the device off my nightstand, but the back of my hand slammed into an unexpected wall instead.

Motherfucker!

Rolling over, I grabbed my whining cell phone off the table that was now on the left side of the bed and answered it on the final ring.

“Hello?”

Anxiety ate away at my anticipation with every millisecond that I spent waiting for a response.

“Hello?” I asked again.

“You picked up.”

The voice was not soft and apologetic. It was not groveling or choked up. It was harsh and deep and clear and sliced my hope to shreds with only three little syllables.

“Knight.”

“Punk.”

I froze, irrationally praying that, if I didn’t move, he wouldn’t know I was there.

“I didn’t think you’d answer.”

I swallowed. “And yet you keep calling.”

Knight exhaled a drag from a cigarette. I’d know that sound anywhere. “Guess I’m just an optimistic drunk.”

I laughed. I hadn’t meant to—I’d wanted to be bitter and bitchy and blunt—but it was the first funny thing I’d heard all day.

“How’ve you been?” Knight asked, his voice severe again.

“Shitty,” I answered honestly. “What about you?”

“Shitty.”

Something in his tone sent shivers down my spine. I’d become hyperaware of Knight’s moods over the years, as a means of self-preservation. They were basically all just shades of anger ranging from everyday irritability to blind, blackout, homicidal rage. And I’d seen them all. Repeatedly.

“Shitty, like the last time you came back from Iraq shitty?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Fuck us all.

The last time Knight had come back from Iraq, he’d attacked a complete stranger with a broken beer bottle, destroyed his own tattoo station at Terminus City, and ran my ex-boyfriend’s car off the road and into the path of an oncoming dump truck while I was inside of it.

All in the span of a weekend.

I tried to force my exhausted brain to tap into the section that housed all of my psychology coursework, but all that came out of my mouth was, “Shit, Knight. That’s bad.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled another stream of smoke.

“Are you seeing anybody for your PTSD?”

“Nope.”

“Are you on meds?”

“Fuck that shit.”

“Do you at least have somebody you can talk to, when it gets bad?”

Knight didn’t answer, and that was when I realized exactly why he’d kept calling me even though I never picked up.

I was the person he wanted to talk to when it got bad.

“Hey, it’s okay. You can call me. Okay? I’ll answer next time, I promise.”

Knight didn’t respond.

“Is it bad right now?”

“Not anymore.”

I smiled, happy that I’d been able to help somebody, even if it was the same abusive, murderous psychopath who’d given me my own case of PTSD.

“Good. That’s good. Do you wanna tell me what happened?”

Knight groaned. “Fuck.”

I waited. Whatever he was about to say was going to have to claw its way out of him.

“I…I don’t even fuckin’ remember.”

“Was it a bar fight? Were you hanging out at Spirit of Sixty-Nine again?”

“No, it was a biker bar. I’ve been ridin’ with a guy from my platoon and his MC.”

“You got some new friends. That’s good.”

“I don’t know for how long though. I think I fucked one of ’em up tonight. I can’t even fucking remember, but my knuckles are busted, and I know it was bad.”

“I’m sure those guys are used to the occasional bar fight. Maybe you can talk to your Marine buddy about it. He’ll understand what you’re going through.”

“Your boyfriend gonna be okay with me callin’ you?” Knight asked, shutting down my line of questioning.

I sighed. “We just broke up. Today actually.”

I could almost hear Knight’s smirk. “Well, aren’t we just a couple of sad sacks of shit?”

I laughed at the truthfulness of that statement. “Yeah, we are.”

“Come by the shop tomorrow night.”

“Knight…I don’t—”

“You’re eighteen now. I’ll give you some free ink.”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll draw something for you.”

“Maybe.”

“Or I could come see you at work. Where do you work now?”

I fucking knew it. He’d gone by Pier 1, looking for me.

“I don’t know if I’m gonna go in tomorrow. I haven’t slept in a few days.” I deflected. “Maybe I’ll come by the shop if I get some rest.”

“Cool.”

Neither of us said anything, not knowing how to end the conversation or if we even wanted to.

“Hey, Punk?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. About last time. About everything.”

“I know you are, Knight. I know.”