grow those, do you?”
“I don’t like your tone of voice, young lady,” he teased, but the underlying hardness in his voice warned her to back off.
She gave in with slumped shoulders and an unhappy face. “Fine. Be a statistic. Let yourself drown in fear—”
“Fear!” He jumped out of his chair so quickly she started, and the momentary terror on her face drew him up short, turning him into a block of ice. Coldness dripped through his veins and cracked his heart. He’d scared his sister. For one second, she’d thought he would hurt her.
For one second, he’d wanted to.
He turned away and sucked in a deep breath. “You should go.”
“No.”
“Yeah, you really should.”
Silence seethed behind him for several long moments until he heard her shift. He felt her presence grow closer, his nerves lighting up like an animal sensing danger. She moved until she stood in front of him and stared up at him with eyes so like his own he could never look at her without wondering how much she saw into his thoughts and how much he just assumed she knew.
Her voice soft and serious, she said, “I’m not giving up on you. You’re better than this, Gabri. So much better.”
“Don’t patronize me, Mila. And don’t you dare pity me.”
She drew back, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “Pity? No. Sympathy, yes. You’re dealing with depression and post-traumatic stress. You think I haven’t been there? My events might not have been as dramatic as yours but, buddy, you know I was there.”
Yeah, he did. He’d lived every step of it with her until she’d self-destructed so badly she’d needed a complete do-over.
And she’d done it, too. She’d dragged her life out of the trash heap and started caring about herself. Now she was running the camp she’d inherited from their dad about a hundred miles east of Los Angeles. She spent her summers helping kids out of emotional maelstroms like the one she’d been caught up in. And during the rest of the year she helped former soldiers, sailors, and airmen like him screw their heads back on straight.
“Step one,” she said, patting his chest in gentle encouragement, “wash yourself. Step two, come into town and find me at Mom’s. I’ll be there the next few days. Please show up before sunset.”
She left and he became hyper aware of his own stink. He’d never had an issue with unwashed bodies before. Hell, as a PJ, showering had hardly been his number-one priority. But she was right. He hadn’t stopped looking after himself because he was too busy running through a hail of bullets to rescue fallen airmen. He’d stopped washing when he’d stopped giving a shit.
When had that happened?
Around the time the adrenaline had worn off from rescuing Josh and he’d realized he’d just lived the best moment of his life all year.
He’d called on all his personal resources, all the best parts of himself, and he’d saved a kid’s life. He hadn’t been able to do it in a way that saved the kid’s spine, but he knew he’d done the right thing. If he’d waited for civilian rescuers to show up, Josh would’ve been buried alive by the time they got there. He didn’t carry any guilt over the way the rescue went down. Second-guessing his decisions had been trained right out of him at Lackland. So why did he feel as if he couldn’t face anyone? Why did the thought of entering town in broad daylight make him freeze?
Because you enjoyed it.
He’d been useful again.
Maybe that was what drove him to carry gas canisters to Molly’s house two nights a week. Maybe that was why he was about to load up his truck with pressure-treated pine and western red cedar and wait for the cover of darkness so he could make one last trip to her neighborhood. And maybe that was why he locked himself away.
No civilian career would give him the same thrill or satisfaction.
Deep down, he feared he’d served his purpose, and he wouldn’t find another one.
Chapter
“I don’t like your tone of voice, young lady,” he teased, but the underlying hardness in his voice warned her to back off.
She gave in with slumped shoulders and an unhappy face. “Fine. Be a statistic. Let yourself drown in fear—”
“Fear!” He jumped out of his chair so quickly she started, and the momentary terror on her face drew him up short, turning him into a block of ice. Coldness dripped through his veins and cracked his heart. He’d scared his sister. For one second, she’d thought he would hurt her.
For one second, he’d wanted to.
He turned away and sucked in a deep breath. “You should go.”
“No.”
“Yeah, you really should.”
Silence seethed behind him for several long moments until he heard her shift. He felt her presence grow closer, his nerves lighting up like an animal sensing danger. She moved until she stood in front of him and stared up at him with eyes so like his own he could never look at her without wondering how much she saw into his thoughts and how much he just assumed she knew.
Her voice soft and serious, she said, “I’m not giving up on you. You’re better than this, Gabri. So much better.”
“Don’t patronize me, Mila. And don’t you dare pity me.”
She drew back, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “Pity? No. Sympathy, yes. You’re dealing with depression and post-traumatic stress. You think I haven’t been there? My events might not have been as dramatic as yours but, buddy, you know I was there.”
Yeah, he did. He’d lived every step of it with her until she’d self-destructed so badly she’d needed a complete do-over.
And she’d done it, too. She’d dragged her life out of the trash heap and started caring about herself. Now she was running the camp she’d inherited from their dad about a hundred miles east of Los Angeles. She spent her summers helping kids out of emotional maelstroms like the one she’d been caught up in. And during the rest of the year she helped former soldiers, sailors, and airmen like him screw their heads back on straight.
“Step one,” she said, patting his chest in gentle encouragement, “wash yourself. Step two, come into town and find me at Mom’s. I’ll be there the next few days. Please show up before sunset.”
She left and he became hyper aware of his own stink. He’d never had an issue with unwashed bodies before. Hell, as a PJ, showering had hardly been his number-one priority. But she was right. He hadn’t stopped looking after himself because he was too busy running through a hail of bullets to rescue fallen airmen. He’d stopped washing when he’d stopped giving a shit.
When had that happened?
Around the time the adrenaline had worn off from rescuing Josh and he’d realized he’d just lived the best moment of his life all year.
He’d called on all his personal resources, all the best parts of himself, and he’d saved a kid’s life. He hadn’t been able to do it in a way that saved the kid’s spine, but he knew he’d done the right thing. If he’d waited for civilian rescuers to show up, Josh would’ve been buried alive by the time they got there. He didn’t carry any guilt over the way the rescue went down. Second-guessing his decisions had been trained right out of him at Lackland. So why did he feel as if he couldn’t face anyone? Why did the thought of entering town in broad daylight make him freeze?
Because you enjoyed it.
He’d been useful again.
Maybe that was what drove him to carry gas canisters to Molly’s house two nights a week. Maybe that was why he was about to load up his truck with pressure-treated pine and western red cedar and wait for the cover of darkness so he could make one last trip to her neighborhood. And maybe that was why he locked himself away.
No civilian career would give him the same thrill or satisfaction.
Deep down, he feared he’d served his purpose, and he wouldn’t find another one.
Chapter
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