I'm practically vibrating with anger as Deacon releases the cadets with instructions to read an article about the fight against ISIS in Syria and the role of the Kurds.

I've been silently meditating since he dropped the bombshell of what happened back in Iraq. He had no right to do that. Now I just have to get away from the classroom.

Away from Deacon.

Except that he’s right behind me. I'm pretty sure I cannot be sociable with him right now.

Ripping someone's head off in public is frowned upon these days.

I glance down at the mandala tattoo on my forearm. At the lotus embedded in the shield that runs beneath my skin above the om on my wrist.

I breathe deeply, tightening the back of my throat in ujjayi breathing for calm. For peace.

To please help me hold everything together.

I keep walking, hoping that maybe he doesn't see me.

I'm also in the habit of lying to myself these days. I actually just started up again. In the last couple of hours, in fact.

"Will you wait a second?" So much for hoping Deacon hasn’t seen me.

"Can't. Have a thing to get to." It’s a sad commentary on my mental state that I can’t come up with anything more descriptive than “thing.”

He grabs my arm. Something inside me snaps and I immediately yank it free, rounding on him.

"Don't." This command is non-negotiable. “You don’t get to put your hands on me without my permission. No one does.”

"What are you so pissed about? Because I told the cadets about your Bronze Star?"

“Maybe I didn’t want them knowing about that. Maybe it’s not something I want to talk about. Did that occur to you?”

“Why wouldn’t you tell someone about that? Fucking Caleb at The Pint tells everyone about his Bronze Star and he got it for making coffee at the brigade headquarters.”

“Because it’s not your story to tell,” I say finally.

He doesn’t like that response. It’s written in red in the veins pulsing beneath the skin of his throat. His nostrils flare as he stands here, his fists bunched at his sides. He's trying to look calm. It's not working.

"Look, I have to go. We can talk about the way forward on the whole semester later. Maybe after work tonight or something, when we're closing up."

"Are you actually going to show up or are you going to flake out again and disappear on me and Eli?"

His words are a direct hit. They fucking hurt.

He has no idea how fucking hard it is to get up every single fucking day and convince myself that I'm not going to backslide into the train wreck I was after he left.

For him to take a slap at me…it's a low blow.

And one I do not have to take from him or anyone.

"You, sir, may politely go fuck yourself." I walk off, needing to put some serious distance between me and the history looking back at me in his eyes.

He calls my name but I don't stop. I don't look back.

I can't. Not again. Not when seeing him reminds me of all the good in my life that I had before it all ended.

The anger is a defense against the breaking glass inside me. Against the pain and the fear and the chaos threatening to undo everything I’ve worked so hard to rebuild after everything fell apart in my life.

* * *

My throat is tight as I head across campus. I don’t know where I’m going other than away. The wooded path I’m on is well worn, with the surrounding trees blowing in the wind overhead, their branches stretching up as if through space and time, reaching for the sun.

I step off the path. I was lying when I said I had to get somewhere. I just needed space, room to breathe.

It’s morally acceptable to lie for self-preservation, right?

I have no idea.

I continue through the woods, toward the stream that runs through the eastern side of campus. I finally settle on a massive rock. The mossy stone beneath my seat is cold and damp, ensconced in shade from the trees overhead.

The noise from campus is far away. I focus on the water flowing over the rocks. On the sound of the water bubbling against the shore.

On the flow of it. The constant movement. The ever-present change.

The life contained between the banks, the continued energy.

I breathe deeply, closing my eyes, focusing on the sound. On the feel of my breath. I breathe into the tight knot in my chest. Slowly, trying to release, to let go.

To not let the memories rule my life. To not let my actions be guided by anger and fear.

To release that knot at a cellular level.

It takes a while. It takes drawing my thoughts back in as they race away, back to the scene with Deacon. Bringing them to this moment, to the river, to the sound of my own breathing.

Slowly, the knot starts to break up. Slowly, the anger leaves my skin and my bones and I set it aside. I am able to breathe normally again.

I don't know how long I've sat here.

I eventually stand and head to the library to do some homework.

It’s a small victory, getting back to the normalcy of homework and assignments and the smell of old books and new between the stacks.

Every victory isn’t as massive as getting sober and avoiding the toxic self-harm that happens when bad memories and alcohol mix. Sometimes, it’s the little ones, like getting out of bed and doing a yoga sequence before I start my day.

Sometimes, it’s as small as not crying when someone reminds you how much you’ve lost.

That’s what Deacon did with his verbal slap.

It’s like he still doesn’t know how bad everything got between us. Like he never saw me breaking down, bit by bit, with every alcohol-induced night of fucking that battered my soul.

It’s not his fault. But it still hurts that he didn’t notice then and he doesn’t notice now.

I’m not going back to the soldier I was before. That soldier got me thrown out of the Army for being too stubborn to ask for help. For being too cocky and thinking I could handle everything.

For being cocky enough to think I had everything under control until I didn’t and I ended up getting people killed.

I glance at my phone, checking the schedule at Nalini’s yoga studio. Two hours before the sutra class I’ve been taking for the last few months.

I breathe in, then release it, wishing, praying, hoping that I can release the tight knot around my heart.

Until then, I’ll keep going.

One breath at a time.

I let her go, hating myself for slapping at her like that.

I saw the hurt flash across her face the moment the words were out of my mouth. It's like I lose my fucking common sense when it comes to Kelsey; no matter what I do, I always make shit worse.

Standing in the middle of the quad, surrounded by ancient trees and students that are so young they hurt my heart sometimes, I watch her go.

Again.

Because no matter what I do with her, I always screw it up. Regret sticks in my throat, cutting off air as students swarm around me, heading to their classes with deep and biting concerns about things that I cannot relate to.

I wonder if I was ever as young as they are now.

I adjust my backpack and cross campus, heading to the library, where I’ll probably just stare pointlessly at my laptop screen and pray for inspiration. I need something to hit me for my thesis, which is due to be defended at the end of the year.

I've got exactly zero words written. After almost two years in the program, I still don't know what to write about.

But it's still easier to think about my lack of an academic plan than about the shit show I just created with Kelsey.

It's infinitely easier than missing her.

I've been missing her for years. It's only gotten harder these last few months, since she showed up at The Pint looking for work, and Eli asked me if he should hire her.

I could have told him no to make life easier on myself, but I didn't because I'm genuinely not an asshole and I knew she needed the work. The post-9/11 GI Bill is awesome but it doesn't cover everything.

Plus, a part of me wanted —needed— to keep an eye on her.

Especially after the alcohol-soaked way things ended between us three years ago.

I sink into a chair tucked in a quiet corner of the library, near one of the archives, where the bookshelves all slide together. They’re kind of terrifying. I mean, are they like elevator doors that stop when they sense someone between them? Or are there hundreds of deaths each year that go unreported, a silent conspiracy by librarians to keep us from knowing the dark truth…?

I rest my head back on the chair, closing my eyes. Somehow, I don't think the university librarians would appreciate my thoughts.

After a while, I have to admit to myself that I'm not getting any writing done. It's not going to happen.

At some point, I need to talk to Kelsey about how she wants to run this semester.

I don't think she's going to respond to any emails today. Or tomorrow, for that matter. But she gets a vote on how our class will have to run. She’s always had too much courage under fire and not nearly enough when the bullets weren’t flying.

Funny how that works.

Is it wrong that I'm fucking proud as hell of her for what she did that day? Some dudes I know would be telling everyone and their brother about it if they'd been recognized for valor.

But not Kelsey. She acted like I’d told the world she had an incurable, deeply stigmatizing disease. Like cooties or something.

The Kelsey I knew in Iraq would laugh at that reference, by the way. Right now, I'm not one hundred percent sure she wouldn't stab me for it.

I grind the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, wishing everything wasn't so completely fucked up. I can be smooth as hell with any woman in the bar when I want to be.

Any woman except the one who matters most.

I never should have moved when the Army put me on orders for Fort Bragg. I should have declined the assignment and let them thank me for my service and send me on my way.

I should have fought to stay with her. To fix things that went horribly wrong after we got home.

I knew she was hurt. I knew she was in pain. And I was selfish enough to ignore it. To think she was fine.

What kind of a fucking asshole spends a month drunk in bed with someone and thinks that everything is fine? Normal people don’t do shit like that.

It wasn't fine. And I should have known better.

I can't fix things. Regret isn't going to help either. “Oh, fuck this moping bullshit,” I mumble. Finally, I sit up and open up my laptop, finding a note from Professor Blake with several recommended articles for the cadets to read and discuss in addition to what’s on the syllabus. All about the complexities of military life or the unrelenting reality of being part of an Army in a state of perpetual war.

I'm both floored and impressed that she's included one from the Duffle Blog, the military's version of The Onion, about a lost lieutenant who gets eaten by wolves.

I smile. Not many people understand the dark sense of humor the military has. I find myself wondering how she started reading that.

Kelsey's email is in the cc line.

I add her to my contacts, wondering if I'm going to find the courage to actually talk to her or just sit here and lament the shape of my life.

I reply to Kelsey alone. We need to talk about how we want class to go at some point. I’m not doing all the talking. We owe it to the cadets to figure out how to work together.

I don't expect a response.

Hell hasn't frozen over lately, at least not that I'm aware of.

I close my laptop. Guess I’ll head to The Pint to start getting ready for my shift tonight.

A good stiff drink ought to cure what ails me.

And if it doesn’t, well, at least I can get drunk enough for it to hurt a little less.