I used to think storms in Texas were bad. Then I moved to North Carolina and got exposed to a whole new world of violence, courtesy of Mother Nature. Of course, in Texas, I drove everywhere and I usually didn’t find myself out in said storms.

I’m regretting my life choices, the ones that made me decide to stop driving everywhere when I decided to stop drinking. I only live a few blocks from Bruce’s shop and a few blocks from the main strip in downtown Durham so I can easily walk everywhere. But it turns out, I should have started keeping track of the weather reports, especially when I’m out late working in Bruce’s shop because, well, sleep is overrated.

Right now, his rule that no one sleeps with the power tools is a real pain in the balls. He closes the doors to his Maker studio at midnight every night, right when my insomnia is just kicking into high gear. So tonight instead of sleeping, I decided on a fresh tattoo.

A reminder that I’m still lost somewhere on the road to Hell. And by that I mean sobriety.

I’m about two months late on step two of the keep-my-ass-sober plan.

Step One was Stop drinking. Step One B was not to kill anyone or myself while doing it.

Step Two is Try to do normal things. Because working for Bruce’s contract company and building furniture on the side in his Maker Space—which is basically a glorified arts and crafts studio for men getting in touch with their crafty sides but with 3D printers and power tools, and I should just make a Tim the Toolman grunting noise at this point—and getting tattoos in the middle of the night are totally normal things for Army vets to do as ways of avoiding their PTSD, right?

It’s taken me a really long fucking time to get to Step Two. And contrary to popular belief, getting a tattoo is something normal, especially for Army dudes. Maybe not officers but, well, I’m not an officer anymore. This tattoo is something that makes me feel like I’m still me. I’m still here.

It’s been about six years since I got my first tattoo, during my first duty assignment at Fort Hood. I went all in on that one. It took six weekends in a row, flat on my stomach while I marked my back with the crucifix my mother used to wear. Then there was the tribal First Cav patch on my right shoulder. Then the rose twisted in a tangled briar down my left forearm.

I just need to figure out what normal is, without the alcohol.

I’m not entirely sure I’m going to actually make it to Step Three, which involves finding a hobby and doing something that could marginally be called productive.

I don’t know what that feels like anymore. Vega—the man in charge of making me look like a mental patient—takes one last swipe at my wrists, smears a thick coat of Aquaphor over them, and then wraps them in gauze. “Keep ‘em covered for a day. Wash gently. Don’t pick. Wrists are hard to heal because they’re so bendy.”

Two bandages. One on each wrist. Yep, I look like a fucking mental ward escapee.

And sadly, I know what that fucking feels like. I didn’t count on the little white bandages setting off a cascade of really shitty memories.

My skin starts to crawl as I step out of the shade from the tattoo studio and right into an early morning storm. Fuck. I forgot about the weather rolling in.

I walk past The Pint, the bar where I’ve spent the better part of the last two years, since I arrived in Durham, trying to murder my liver.

It’s time to go, Eli said.

And I knew that that was going to be the last time I set foot in the bar. He never told me I had to leave. Never told me I couldn’t come back.

But somehow, being sober around him…it’s too fucking hard. Because he knows things that everyone else doesn’t and…I’m not ready to confront the reality of those things without being half in the bag.

So I’ve been avoiding The Pint. And Eli. And everyone else.

Because funny thing about being sober: you can remember all the horrible obnoxious shit you said when you were drunk and, well, it’s really hard to own up to that.

I’ll get there. Maybe.

I’ve gotten pretty good at burning all my bridges. All the guys I used to get hammered with are done now, peeled off and spending time with their significant others. Noah Warren was the first of our merry band of miscreants to get sober. Meeting Beth was what finally gave him the strength to try and get clean. Josh followed, though with a little less religious intensity than Noah. I’m pretty sure Abby is strong enough to keep Josh in line, though, and I was kind of a fucking asshole to her. She’s fucking terrifying and competent and she would have made one hell of an officer if she’d ever decided to join the Army.

It sucks to wake up one day and realize that you’re the drunk that no one wants to be around but they’re too good to tell you that you suck. Not too many ways to earn your way back onto the island when your sobriety is questionable and…well, you get the idea.

The rain is coming down sideways in sheets. Violence fills the sky, threatening to send roofs and mobile homes, clinging to the edge of civilization outside of Durham, over the rainbow.

Tornado warnings in Texas always scared the shit out of me but at least I knew they were coming for miles—you could see them rolling in over the vast flat hill country.

Not here. Storms in North Carolina come out of nowhere and bring with them a pounding that the entire field artillery corps would be proud of.

Except that when you’re caught out in this shit, you’re not really thinking through how the concussion blast of a paladin would knock you off your ass. You really just want out of the damn rain that feels like razors on your skin.

’Course, I wouldn’t have this problem if I hadn’t decided to take the scenic route home. Past The Pint. Because I wanted to see if I could do it. If I could walk by and not feel the pull to walk in and ask Deacon to pour me a pint. To see if I could drink without being an asshole and drinking myself into oblivion. I thought I could handle it but the pull is still strong—still need twisted up with loss.

This month is going to be a shit month full of shitty personal anniversaries, but I forgot that it was also The Pint’s five-year anniversary. At five a.m. the party is still going strong.

It takes everything I am to keep walking, to ignore how bad I want to step inside and feel happiness for my former friends.

The severe storm warning on my phone now includes hail. “Good times,” I mutter, seriously considering if I can make it back to my apartment before all hell breaks loose outside—but I’m not really that brave.

I’m not brave at all, to be honest.

I’ve risked my life for less, but I’m really not looking to get knocked unconscious by a random ice ball so I need to find a place to ride out this monster storm. Even if my apartment is only about six blocks away, when the rain is slicing at your skin, six blocks might as well be six miles.

The only thing open is the yoga studio. I’ve walked past it a million times and never really paid attention to it until now, but I guess my options for getting out of the storm are pretty limited. What the hell kind of name is Arjuna for a yoga studio anyway? I thought they had to be named, like, Sacred Toadstool or some New Age shit. The sky explodes nearby and I try not to jump out of my fucking skin. “Fuck me.”

My phone flashes a red warning: Tornado and golf ball-size hail. Take shelter immediately. Awesome.

I decide that the better part of bravery is to not be outside, or anywhere near a window when all hell breaks loose, and I duck into the yoga studio. I’d rather face the irritation of a stranger over Mother Nature’s fury any day of the week.

Inside, there’s an immediate flash of warmth combined with a scent of something spicy and equally warm from incense burning in a corner. A hint of something lies just at the edge of my memory—something familiar and just there…and then it’s gone.

I’m pretty sure my ass is going to end up spending the rest of the day in a goddamned basement, the way my phone continues to wail with new emergency notifications like it’s the goddamned Apocalypse outside.

That could be about as much fun as getting shot. Which is not nearly as bad as it sounds. It’s the rehab that’s a motherfucker, or so I hear.

The woman behind the counter looks up as the door closes behind me. The sound of chimes rings out from the studio behind her. Her expression tells me I must look like a fucking crisis actor, soaking wet, like something the cat dragged in.

She’s vaguely familiar but I can’t place where I know her from. Her jet-black hair is pulled back in a loose knot at the base of her neck and her skin is a warm, deep copper, the color of sand on a beach at dusk. Her eyes grab me—soft, brown, and deeply intense. She moves with a smooth precision that makes me think this woman knows her place in this life.

I watch her physically straighten as her gaze drifts down soaking wet me. I wonder if she sees what I do when I look in the mirror. Does she notice the cuts on my hands from Bruce’s tools or the dark circles under my eyes?

I breathe in deeply, trying to grasp hold of the familiar sensation dancing at the edge of my mind. But it slips away again, leaving me alone. But at least that sensation is familiar.

She can’t see me. No one can, not if they’re not close enough. I’ve made sure of that.

Her gaze lands back on my face and she inhales deeply, as if she’s bracing for conflict.

I’m suddenly not sure if I’d rather be facing the storm outside, or if there is one right in front of me.

Maybe she’s afraid. Maybe she knows who I am. Maybe being around me is toxic. The word is bitter in my chest.

Maybe I deserve that reaction. I haven’t exactly been Prince Charming for the last few years. The realization is still hard to accept and even harder to try and change and, well…maybe I should try to get out of the habit of lying to myself these days.

I don’t know how to do this. How to have a normal conversation with someone. I don’t know what I’m doing here except that I wanted to get out of the storm.

I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with a woman where I wasn’t loaded to the gills.

I suppose there’s no time like the present and all that, right?

“Can I help you?” She’s stiff but trying not to be. I recognize the signs now, of someone who doesn’t want to be where they are. I guess that’s Bruce’s influence.

Is that good? That I can see when someone is uncomfortable? Even if the source of that discomfort is me and only me?

What the fuck am I supposed to do with the knowledge?

I open my mouth, hoping to say something that isn’t completely appalling. Hoping to say something normal like, Hi, I was just trying to get out of the storm. Great shop.

Instead, I stand there, my lips parted but no sound coming out.

Mute. Knowing she’s nervous. Knowing I’m cold.

Knowing there is nothing I can do to bridge the gap between us. Because someone like her will always be afraid of me.

And maybe she should be.

---

“Holy shit!” The explosion sounds like lightning’s struck the ground somewhere close outside. It vibrates through my chest, ripping the air from my lungs. My heart slams against my ribs, my scream tears blood and tissue on its way out of my throat.

Seeing how he ducks at the sound of the blast, too, I’m at least not worried about salvaging my pride. That fear and the look in his eyes make him seem like less of a threat. I’m oddly relieved that I’m probably not about to be robbed at gunpoint by the soaking wet meth addict standing in the doorway of my studio.

Maybe he just looks a little strung out from insomnia. That’s what I’m going to tell myself, anyway.

Behind the shadows in his eyes there is something compelling, something that’s drawn me to him from the moment he stepped inside my studio. Even as the rational part of my brain was tempted to press the panic button.

Then I’m blinded by an alarm flashing from the cell phone on my desk. “You’re welcome to join me in the basement or not but you have to get away from the glass,” I tell him quickly.

He frowns. “I’m sorry?”

“Tornado warning. Isn’t that why you ducked in here?”

Awareness fills his eyes and he nods. “Um, yeah.”

I can’t tell if he’s drunk or high. And while spending the morning hanging out in the basement with a complete stranger when I’m supposed to be teaching my first yoga class isn’t exactly a great way to start a week, clearly the universe has other plans for me.

I move quickly as the sky fills with light again, flicking the lock on the front door and motioning for him to follow me. The lights flicker from the studio above as we descend the stairs and I offer a quick prayer that they’ll stay on.

I hate basements. There’s something primordial and terrifying about descending into the literal bowels of the earth, especially now, with hell raging in the sky overhead. As we step into the basement, the studio goes dark as the power finally surrenders to the storm. The flashlight on my phone pierces the darkness and chases away any demons that might be living among my yoga mats and extra stock.

But that light won’t last forever. And I need to find a candle before the battery runs out.

Of course, I’m using the space for storage. I’d be a fool not to. I just usually ask Cricket—my office manager, who is not afraid of anything—to supervise the retrieval of things from the dark.

I fumble for the basement light switch at the bottom and my hand collides with another warm hand. “Jesus!”

“Sorry.”

The fact that it’s the wet guy’s hand and not attached to an evil spirit in the dark makes me ridiculously happy. I reach out, touching flesh that is warm and solid and male.

Of course, then the power goes out completely and we are plunged into near complete darkness, with the only light coming from my cell phone. “Almost forgot you’d followed me.” There’s no hiding the panic in my voice. I hate the dark.

“I’m so fucking glad you’re not a zombie.” His voice is dry and droll. So completely at odds with everything I’m feeling. The laugh steals out of me. I can’t help it. It’s better than crying. The panic of stepping into the dark isn’t gone, but the laugh helps. I don’t take my fingers from his. I’m terrified and panicked enough to need the human connection right now.

I hate the dark. No matter how much I meditate, the chasm that opened inside me on my deployment to Syria—the deployment that didn’t officially exist—hasn’t closed.

“The feeling is entirely mutual,” I finally manage.

I am intensely aware of the heat from his skin penetrating his damn T-shirt. The solid warmth and the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath my fingers.

He moves then, and his palm covers the back of my hand. “Are you okay?”

That is such an infinitely loaded question with a thousand ways to answer.

“Not really.” It’s so easy to admit the vulnerability to a stranger. Here in the dark with the violence raging overhead. “I don’t like storms.”

“Me either. Haven’t really enjoyed them since Iraq.”

My fingers flex against this stranger’s skin, reaching toward the common bond I didn’t realize we shared. “Army?”

“Yes.” He captures my hand. “You’re freezing.”

“So are you.” He shivers as the words brush over my skin. “Did you know panic tends to use your blood for other things? Appendages staying warm isn’t a priority when you’re running for your life.” I slip my hand from his, stepping into the darkness to the rack where my yoga blankets are stacked neatly. “Here.” I toss him a black and white and red wool blanket.

“Damn, this is softer than it looks.” He slings it around his shoulders. “Thank you. Would it be unmanly of me to admit I’m freezing my balls off?”

I wrap up in a blanket, too, and step closer to him. Because I don’t want to be alone in the dark.

“If the dark fucks you up, why not have backup power or something?” he asks when I don’t answer.

Such a pragmatic suggestion, but utterly useless when I’ve got all I can handle just avoiding triggers when the lights are on. “Guess you didn’t hear that part about the panic?”

I toss a couple of meditation pillows onto the floor.

“Can we use this?” He lifts a fat white candle off a shelf.

“Yeah. Not sure how long the storm will last.”

He sets it down and I try not to notice the way his body moves. He’s not graceful. He’s…rough. Stiff. As though life has already been incredibly hard on his body. “Do you have anything to light this with?”

“I think so.” I vaguely recall something about ceremonial matches that Cricket had stored down here and the moment I find them I love her more than I already did.

He slips the matches from my hand and lights the squat fat candle. He doesn’t demand to know why I didn’t light it myself. Doesn’t question the shaking of my hands that I hide by clicking off my cell phone light as soon as the candle flame lights up the darkness.

I sit on one of the meditation cushions, folding my legs in front of me, far enough away from the candle that I can’t feel its warmth, but close enough that I’m within the circle of light spread by its tiny flame.

The edge of his mouth curls a little. He’s still watching me, those dark eyes filled with…something I can’t identify.

Something I’m afraid to acknowledge. Something tainted with fear.

“I’m Caleb,” he says after a moment.

The air in the basement is cold. My bones ache now when I get cold. That’s new since coming home from the war. I try to ignore it. But sometimes it rears up and reminds me that I still hurt.

Like now. In this moment, the simple human connection of telling someone my name is a needed distraction from the memories raging with the storm outside. “I’m Nalini.”

He’s focused and intense, like rubbing my freezing fingers is the most important thing in the world. “I went to school with a Nalini once upon a time.”

“It was my grandmother’s name.”

“It’s Hindi, isn’t it?”

It’s funny how a benign conversation can draw you away from the edge of panic. “Yeah. Most people don’t know that.”

“I’m not most people.”

I smile faintly. “Apparently.”

He sits next to me, soaking wet and wrapped in a yoga blanket. The shadows from the candlelight have cut his features, sharpening some, softening others. He’s taller than I am, broader. He’s a big man with a wide chest and strong hands.

I notice men’s hands now. I notice whether they’re manicured or rough. Whether the nails have been trimmed or broken.

Caleb’s hands are rough. There’s a fresh cut along the tops of his knuckles on one hand and each of his wrists are wrapped in bandages. I’m hoping those are from tattoos instead of something else.

I flinch as another explosion makes the walls around us shudder. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice he does the same. Despite the layers of building between us and Mother Nature’s fury, the storm sounds like it’s right on top of us. Maybe it is.

“Fuck, this is a bad one,” he mutters.

“Yeah.” The fear is back in my voice, shaking and violent. I need to focus. To try and find a way out of the narrow tunnel drawing me back to a violent hyper awareness I’ve tried to leave behind.

A siren blares in the darkness. He glances down at his phone. “Shelter in place,” he reads, looking up at me. “I think we’re going to be here a while.” He shivers again.

“Do you want another blanket? I have sweatshirts in one of these boxes if you’d like to change.” Focus on the things I can control. Release the things I can’t.

Taking care of others is so much easier than taking care of myself.

“I’ll manage.” He sets the phone by his feet. “Thank you, though.”

Any other time, being in the dark like this would erode the fragile remains of my soul that I’ve pieced back together over the last few years. But in that moment, the darkness isn’t terrifying. Even the candle’s flame, which I would normally hate, offers a golden-hued comfort. I am so grateful not to be in the dark, with the explosions and violence, alone.

I’ve been there before.

I keep trying not to go back. And every time I think I’m okay, that I’ve finally released the last of the terror and fear from the memory of my muscles and tissue and bones, it resurfaces.

Like now. With the storm tearing at the world overhead, my brain is trying desperately to remind my body that we are not in Syria, that we are not trapped.

That I am not burning.