Chapter Thirty

Gavin

“Gavin!” Katy shouts with excitement as Sammy follows her through the front door, her hands filled with at least ten shopping bags full of toys we can’t afford. I’ll make it work. Sammy has close to the same count and sets them down on the carpet before she sinks back in our recliner, exhausted.

“Don’t get comfortable,” Katy tells her. “Mom is dropping Noah off soon, and he can’t see these!” She pulls several rolls of wrapping paper from the bags and looks up at me with a genuine smile. “Hi.”

She’s manic.

I hate that it’s my first thought. My second is that she’s going to crash, and it’s going to be bad. It’s been a few days since she was discharged from her physical, and I’m itching to test the waters, to touch her, but I’m waiting for permission from her.

“Hey, baby, get everything?” She insisted on doing the shopping anyway, even though I couldn’t take her because I had to get back to work. But I’m off duty for the next forty-eight and excited about the prospect of a quiet Christmas at home.

“I have to get back to Momma’s. I left my laptop,” Sammy informs us as she stands.

“What? It’s Christmas Eve, where else do you need to be?”

“I have a huge case. I told you that while you were flying down the aisles like you had won the lottery.” Sammy glances over to me with a look of warning. She’s onto her, as well.

“Fine,” Katy replies, “but it’s ridiculous. You could wake up here and watch him open all of these.”

“I’ll be back in the morning. Got something to drink?” Sammy asks me as she walks my way with a crooked finger for me to follow her.

Katy’s already consumed with her task, and despite her cast, manages to get the present wrapped before stripping a ribbon with scissors, so it bunches into curls on top of the box. I walk into the kitchen as Sammy retrieves a bottled water from the fridge, uncaps it, and takes a sip.

“I already know what you’re going to say.”

“She’s manic.”

“I said I knew,” I snap, keeping my voice low, glancing toward Katy to make sure she’s not watching us. I don’t want her feeling discussed. Sammy and I get along, for the most part, but when it comes to her sister, she’s fiercely protective. She’s both sister and best friend. The phone rings on the counter next to me, and I glance at the caller ID. It’s the Washington Post. I pick up and hang up before leaving the phone off the hook. They’ve caught wind of her return, which is no surprise to me, and our phone has been ringing for days. I’ve had the base forward all my calls to my cell. Soon they’ll be harassing us outside our doors, but our address is harder to find.

Irritated, I look over to Sammy. “I’m doing everything I can.”

“I know, but I’m worried, okay? You weren’t there today. She drank at lunch and then went turbo.”

“That’s because she’s manic.” It’s not an excuse; it’s the truth.

Her eyes drift past me to Katy. “What did they do to her?”

“She’ll tell you in her own time.”

Sammy raises a brow, her expression so much like her sisters. “She hasn’t told you.” Not a question, a statement.

“Not yet. She’s still decompressing, and I’m not about to fuck it up and rush her.”

“You’re not the only one who’s read the books,” she says, masking her voice so it sounds casual. It’s an assumption on her part, but she’s right. I’ve read everything I can find, and still, I feel clueless. Even with my own experience, I don’t know how to make this better for her.

“Hey, you two assholes want to stop talking about me and help?” Katy shouts from the living room.

“Dammit,” I mutter, frowning at Sammy.

“Sorry, and just so you know, I paid for half of those toys,” she says on the sly as she passes me. Doing my best to get my balls back, I join Katy in the living room and pull a remote-controlled truck from the bag.

“He’s going to love this,” I tell her.

Katy nods, keeping at her task. She’s so damn beautiful. Her golden curls are tighter today. She put in a little effort, which I consider a good sign. Even in a baggy sweater and jeans, without a stitch of makeup, the woman owns my attention.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Sammy says, giving me the don’t-you-fuck-this-up eye, the same one she gave me on our wedding day.

“Here,” Katy orders, handing me the scissors. “You keep wrapping. I’m going to go upstairs and clean up some of his toys to make room for this haul.”

“Sounds good, and baby?” She looks down at me from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“Can I have a kiss with that order?”

“Shit.” She slinks down next to me, her voice apologetic. “Sorry, I’m just excited.”

“I know, it’s fine.”

“I spent a lot of money.” She isn’t even aware her sister picked up half the tab, and it rips at my heart.

“It’s okay.”

“Trust me?” she asks with slight vulnerability, and for a few seconds, I revel in it.

“Always.”

“Still love me?”

“So much,” I promise. “Forever. Now give me those fucking lips.”

Her eyes widen, and she leans in and kisses me. It feels honest, and it’s far too short. Sighing as she flies upstairs, I resume the impossible task of wrapping too many presents and gather up a good portion of them to put in the closet to deal with later. It’s only after I’m done that I make my way upstairs and find Katy pacing in Noah’s room, carrying a trash can.

“Doing okay up here?”

“You don’t have to babysit me,” she sighs as she picks up one of his toy soldiers and tosses it in the bin. “We shouldn’t encourage this.”

“He’s got a lot already,” I agree.

“No,” she says sharply, holding up a green plastic soldier, “this.”

“He’s an army brat, Katy. He’s growing up in a military home.”

“All I’m asking is that we don’t encourage him.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “You know what they do over there,” she warns, anger bubbling to the surface.

“Tell me. What do they do?”

She stands to her full height, looks up at me, drops a soldier in and shakes the trash can back and forth so the soldiers rattle inside.

Crash.

I’m at a loss for words as she dares me to defy her. I’ve never seen her so pissed.

“From this moment forward, we don’t encourage him. Promise me, Gavin.”

“Katy—”

“Of course you’ll defend it. Because the army is such a fucking great place, right, Captain? It’s where boys become men, right? Wrong. They become killers. They’re forced to kill or be killed. And it’s all sensationalized by movies and media.”

Every part of me that is an army captain rises to the occasion in defense, but the husband wins. “He’s got the right to choose.”

“To choose,” she snaps, “not to be encouraged into this lifestyle.”

“Agreed.”

“Great!” She keeps shaking the wastebasket as she tosses the soldiers in. The sound is grating, and it’s all I can do to keep from stopping her.

“Baby, talk to me.”

“I am. I’m trying! I want all of this shit out of here, right now. Right fucking now, Gavin!”

She turns to me accusingly.

“You won’t glorify this for our son, you hear me? You’ll change into civilian clothes before you come home. I don’t want to see them.” She’s seething. “This is propaganda. God, we’re so fucking stupid. We’re so stupid for buying into this shit!”

“Mommy,” Noah asks behind me, gripping my leg. I look behind him to see Katy’s mother frozen in her tracks, horrified.

Noah’s eyes water up as Katy stops her tirade to kneel down in front of him. “Oh baby, don’t get upset,” she whispers, running her fingers through his curls. “Mommy was just cleaning out your room to make sure you had space for Santa’s presents.”

“Why are you throwing my soldier away?”

She bites her lip, and I interject. “Santa’s bringing something a lot better, bud, I promise.”

Regret lines Katy’s features as she apologizes, “I shouldn’t have yelled, and I’m sorry.”

“’Kay,” he nods. “See, it’s okay, Mommy.”

Katy looks around the room, lost, as if she can’t figure out how she got there before she looks up to me.

A crack the size of Texas rips through my chest. She’s sick, and my suspicion is it’s not going away any time soon.

“Noah, show Grandma the tree,” I say as I run my own fingers through his curls, the color of his mother’s.

Noah bounces back, as he always does, while my wife sags with defeat, a toy soldier in her hand. She stares at it with longing before tossing it in with the rest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I kneel on the floor with her and toss another soldier in. “It’s okay to feel this way.”

“I scared him.”

I shake my head. “He’s seen us argue before, he’s fine.”

“He can’t be like us; he can’t. Promise me you won’t encourage this.”

Swallowing, I nod.

“Thank you,” she whispers, as I wait for tears that don’t come.