Resilient Love (Navy Love Series Book 3)
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Authors: jc santo
Copyright © 2016 JC Santo
Resilient Love (Book 3 in the Navy Love Series)
Cover Design: MGbookcovers (
mgbookcovers.wix.com/mgbookcovers
)
Editing: Aleesha Davis
Formatting: Angela Shockley (That Formatting Lady –
http://thatformattinglady.com/
)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
In loving memory of two incredibly important people, one dear to me and the other to a very close friend:
Patrick ‘Pat’ Santo
3/12/1964—12/31/2013
Patricia ‘Pat’ Wyant
7/18/1952—7/7/2013
It’s hard to forget someone who gave you so much to remember.
-unknown
Jo
Thanksgiving
Looking around the room, I watch as my friends bask in their happiness. I’ve become closer to them than any of my childhood friends and I have never felt excluded from them. Until now. And it’s my fault.
I’m the one who’s chosen to not tell anyone what happened to me last week. Instead, I’ve confided only in Amber Miller and have avoided the rest of the people I consider to be family.
Not that Thanksgiving dinner is the time or the place to discuss any of what’s happened lately.
As if all of my stress and inner turmoil from last week isn’t enough to throw on me, I’ve also found out my mom’s health is steadily declining. I haven’t spoken to anyone about that yet either. I know that I need to, that I should. I feel like it’s eating me alive to keep all of this chaos to myself, but I haven’t felt comfortable enough to divulge all of my personal business with anyone.
I’ve never felt so alone before. I’ve always had my friends if I needed a shoulder, but I can’t help but feel, in this situation, they wouldn’t offer the support I need.
Miller is the only reason I’m here today. I was dead set against coming; there are too many opportunities that my secrets could spill out to any and every one. She’s the only person I’ve discussed any of my issues with; no one else will understand what I’ve gone through emotionally and physically.
I’ve never been one to play the victim, but the depression that has taken over refuses to let go. It feels like my entire personality has been removed.
Seeing Tessa with her round belly has been incredibly difficult today. I’m thankful for everything else going on that has her mind distracted, because typically I’ve been hands on, literally.
Hunter has complained before that the babies will have a special bond with me because I’m constantly talking to T’s belly or rubbing it.
That isn’t the case today though, I haven’t touched her beautiful round stomach at all. I’m too scared my tainted touch will bring harm to those babies, as well.
Ludicrous to think that way? Yes, but I can’t help it. The entire process of losing my baby has fucked with my head. And being in the situation alone, I carry all of the blame and guilt.
Miller has told me multiple times to talk to J.C., that he has a right to know. I’m terrified he’ll look at me with the same disgust I see in the mirror. Or worse, what if he’s relieved the baby died?
Better to not chance it.
Arriving home that night, I don’t know which emotion holds the most space in my heart now; sadness, loneliness, or relief.
Unfortunately, I don’t have long to ponder it because the moment I sit down on the couch with my old crocheted blanket, someone begins pounding on my door.
“JO! Open the door!” J.C.’s voice shouts from outside.
He has to be drunk. Why else would he be here?
I avoided him all day, too scared I’d confess everything.
I lean against the door.
“Go home, J.C.,” I say.
“No. Let me inside.”
With my forehead pressed to the cold wood, I try to piss him off so he’ll leave. I’ve had enough human interaction today and he’s the last person I want to see.
“You drunk? Because if so, you came to the wrong house to get some pussy tonight.”
“Jo! Open the fuckin’ door!”
He bangs against it hard enough that I’m sure he could end up splintering the wood.
My tears fall silently as I stand there praying for him to leave. The pounding stops after a minute, and I breath deep with relief that he’s gone, but then I hear his defeated voice.
“I’m not drunk. I just want to know what’s going on with you, Jo. You know damn good and well you mean more to me than just pussy.”
He’s right, I know he isn’t drunk. The southern drawl in his voice comes out even more than normal after he’s had a few drinks.
“Please, Jo, let me in.”
J.C.
Silence.
Please, dear God, open the door.
Jo isn’t a typical girl. She’s as tough as nails and hard as any man we work with. She’s confident, independent and fucking radiant.
I don’t know what’s going on, but I saw a difference in her today. She wasn’t that typical Jo we all know and love.
For her to shut herself away from all of us, I’m sure something is wrong. That’s why I’m here. Yeah, I could have gone to the bar, or stayed over at Tessa and Hunter’s longer, but I wanted to check on her.
When she slipped out quietly this evening, all eyes went to me, expecting me to know, or perhaps, be the cause of her sadness.
It was Miller who saved me from the barrage of questions.
Questions I don’t know the answers to; questions she refuses to acknowledge.
Truth be told, I’m madly in love with the broken, spitfire of a woman on the other side of the door, but she acts impartial to me.
I’ve seen the way it cripples a relationship if the love isn’t returned.
I stand with my head pressed against the door, praying she’ll open up and let me in. After a few more minutes of silence, I know it isn’t going to happen.
Pulling my head away, I lightly hit the frame as a way of tapping out. My back is halfway turned when I hear the unmistakable sound of a latch unlocking.
The tan door opens and I’m met with a teary eyed Jo.
Stepping inside the doorway, I immediately pull her into my arms.
“Baby, you gotta tell me what’s going on.”
She doesn’t respond, just continues to fall apart with her head buried in my chest.
I maneuver us and push the door shut. While gently caressing her back, I take in the apartment. I’ve been here many times, but have never seen it in this disarray.
The space is a disaster; leftover plates and cups scattered around the coffee table, the old crocheted blanket crumpled into a ball on the couch along with a couple pillows; it looks like she’s been sleeping in here. Or locking herself in this apartment away from the world.
“It’s my mom…and other things,” she cries on a broken sob.
Her mom’s cancer has continuously progressed over the past year. None of us, including Jo, knew exactly how bad the prognosis looked until recently.
The whole subject of her mom has been a touchy topic for Jo; she doesn’t like to discuss it at all. But I can see now, there’s obviously something that’s happened that she needs to get off her chest.
I gently massage her back to calm her tears.
“Hey, why don’t you go to the bathroom and calm down a little, then we can talk?” I say, trying to stop her crying.
“Okay,” she hiccups.
“You wanna jump in the shower? Maybe it’ll help you to relax a little?”
She nods and slowly makes her way to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
I take the opportunity to pick up a little. Halfway through the coffee table, after all of the dishes have been put away, I notice three prescription bottles.
I know this borders on stalking behavior, but I want to know what the hell is going on with Jo, so I chance her getting pissed and check the labels.
All three are prescribed to Joanna Fuentes, all by the Naval Hospital.
One looks like antibiotics. One is ibuprofen; the military’s go to solution for everything. And the third is a pain pill, Tylenol III.
What does she need all of these pills for?
Jo was out of work on Thursday and Friday last week, forty-eight hours SIQ, or Sick in Quarters for two days. I figured it was just some kind of bug, but that doesn’t explain the pain killer.
