Chapter Four
WYATT
October
“We should check on him.” Hamish carried another box into their new office space where Wyatt and some of their friends were putting shelves and desks together. “The kid, the botanist, what was his name? Aled. Make sure he’s okay. It’s only been six months since Anguilla.”
Wyatt glanced around at all the half-unpacked boxes. They’d rented out a warehouse in the old Cardiff wharfs to turn into their office. He’d spent much of his time ensuring he could legally work and live in the country; his and Hamish’s contacts made it infinitely smoother. “How about now? I could use a break from all the damn boxes and furniture. How many desks do we really need?”
“Don’t be a whiny pillock.”
Wyatt pointed a screwdriver at his old friend. “Do we even know where he lives?”
“Called his university.”
“And?” Wyatt dusted his hands off on his jeans. He’d been worried about how the young botanist was recovering and had meant to visit him sooner. “What’d they say?”
“He’s not returned to his studies.” Hamish held his phone out to show the text. “One of his professors sent me his address once he realised I was one of his rescuers.”
“Rescuers? You showed up after we did all the work. Typical.” He shoved Hamish and grinned at him. “He hasn’t gone in at all?”
“Nope.”
“Shit.” Wyatt frowned. He knew little about Aled, but he’d seemed devoted to his studies and research. “Well, damn, we’ve definitely got to make sure he’s doing all right.”
And he wasn’t doing all right.
Not even close.
They repeatedly knocked on the door to Aled’s flat with no response. A neighbour eyed them suspiciously but eventually caved to Hamish’s charm and told them the “lovely young man with all the hair” hadn’t come outside in days. Wyatt found that bit of information alarming on several levels; he’d seen what trauma could do to even the strongest of people.
I could always pick the lock.
Wyatt rapped his knuckles against the wooden door again. “Aled? It’s Wyatt—Earp. The Navy SEAL? Hamish and I wanted to see how your recovery is going.”
Aled opened the door, stared up at the two imposing men, paled dramatically, and slammed the door shut in their faces. “I’m fine.”
Sure.
His insistence would’ve been funny if Wyatt hadn’t seen the panic on his face. We should’ve come a hell of a lot sooner. He sat on the ground to the left of the door and gestured for Hamish to take a seat on the other side of it.
“Aled? It’s safe now.” Wyatt waved his hand sharply to stop Hamish from speaking. “We won’t loom over you. I swear.”
Patience hadn’t come naturally to Wyatt. He’d learned it the hard way. It was what he employed to wait for the battered young botanist to test his nerve.
Aled did eventually open the door again. “Why are you on the floor?”
“Figured we’d be less terrifying down here.” Wyatt worked to keep his voice calm and low. “Want to join us?”
“Oh, come in for tea,” Aled whispered shakily. He twisted around and disappeared into his flat. “Hurry up.”
Getting to their feet, the two men stepped inside. Wyatt blinked in surprise at the clinical pristineness of the place, as if it was cleaned every few hours to prevent even a speck of dust. Papers were stacked perfectly, with no trash anywhere. It smelled strongly of disinfectant.
His heart ached for the young man. Wyatt had no doubt Aled was suffering from post-traumatic stress. He kicked himself for not reaching out sooner.
I should’ve known better.
I did.
Hamish sat on one of the chairs in the small living room. “He is most certainly not okay.”
“No,” Wyatt agreed quietly. “You know anyone local who specialises in therapy for military veterans?”
“A few. Why?”
“Figure we should recommend one or two to him. They’ll have more experience with what he’s gone through than a civilian psychiatrist might.” Wyatt intended on making sure they did everything humanly possible to help Aled. He’d seen what could happen when someone was left to suffer alone. “We’ll help.”
“How do you take your tea?” Aled’s hand shook as he brought them two mismatched cups. “Sugar? Honey?”
“Take mine sweet with a ton of ice.” Wyatt smirked when Hamish moaned about him ruining tea. “What? Because I prefer cold tea I’m suddenly a fucking barbarian?”
“Yes.” Aled’s ready agreement encouraged Wyatt immensely. He wasn’t completely buried under the trauma-induced depression. “I’m not fixing iced tea for you.”
With tea sorted, Aled seemed to have no idea what to do with the two men invading his small home. His hands trembled enough that hot liquid sloshed over the rim of the cup. Wyatt had no doubt the botanist simply wanted them to leave and never come back.
They sipped tea. Wyatt pretended to drink it. None of them broke the awkward silence aside from an occasional cough from Hamish, which was followed by him nudging Wyatt’s foot with his own.
“Have you been getting out to the shops?”
Wyatt restrained himself from pinching the bridge of his nose or smacking Hamish upside the head. Have you been getting out to the shops? He’s dumped half his tea over the edge of the cup—I doubt he’s gone anywhere in six months unless absolutely necessary. “What he means is, we’d like to bring you something you haven’t had in a while for variety.”
“I’m managing.” Aled shrugged.
Knowing an initial visit wouldn’t draw anything out of Aled, Wyatt cut it short. They left the younger man with both his and Hamish’s mobile numbers. He also promised to bring the botanist supper the next day.
Wyatt: So, do botanists eat plants? Or, are you the opposite of a vegetarian?
Aled: You tell worse jokes than my dad.
Wyatt: Dad jokes. That’s me. Got fucking loads of them.
Wyatt: I’m guessing you eat plants and meat.
Aled: Yes. Are all Navy SEALS this bizarre?
Wyatt: Yep.
Realistically speaking, Wyatt planned on making a point to visit or text with Aled on the phone at least three times a week. His personal mission was to ensure the botanist recovered not also physically but emotionally as well. It was almost a full month before the botanist sent him a text without his having initiated the conversation first.
He only wished it hadn’t come at three in the morning after a long day.
Aled: Does it ever stop? All the bad memories?
Wyatt: Slowly. Eventually. Good memories begin to crowd out the bad ones. You go from coping to living.
Aled: But does it stop? All the nightmares. The memories.
Wyatt: Memories fade.
Aled: I can’t do this. I can’t see those men every time I close my eyes. I can’t. I’ll go mad.
Wyatt: Maybe tonight you can’t. Tomorrow will be a bit better. Next month even more so.
Aled: I can’t. Can’t. Just can’t.
Wyatt: Make some tea.
Aled: Pardon? Tea? You’re actually suggesting tea. You hate tea.
Wyatt: Make some tea. I’m on my way with some brownies a friend sent me from home.
Aled: Brownies?
Wyatt: What else are you going to have at three in the morning?
For the next month, Wyatt found himself woken up at the oddest times. Sometimes just a conversation worked, others he sat with Aled on the floor of his bathroom while the younger man struggled to cope with breathing and not hyperventilating. After six weeks of conversations, he managed to convince the botanist to actually see the therapist Hamish had recommended.
It has to help.
I hope.
Aled: I’m so tired.
Wyatt: I know.
Aled: So tired.
Wyatt: I know.
Aled: Make it better.
Wyatt: I can’t. I can help you make it better.
Aled: Promise?
Wyatt: I’ll do my absolute best.