Wings Over Poppies (Over #2) (18 page)

This sounded like a fantastic idea in my head. I tossed and turned through the night, the things I should have said rolling over in my mind. While I may have been a pushover last night, in hindsight, I’m truly a snarky bitch.

Instead of letting him take me against the wall, I slapped his face and told him he had no say in my life. I stormed away, locked the door, and left him to rot on my porch.

Yeah, I’m a real badass in hindsight.

Fast forward to this morning, where the aforementioned badass is sitting in West’s driveway, bound and determined to give him a much-needed dress down. Every nasty word he spat at me plays on a continuous loop in my mind, and I want to cram those words back down his throat. I hate him for making me feel so small. It’s clear to me now that the boy I once loved no longer exists, and I have no use for the man he’s become. The man he’s become betrayed me—betrayed my memories.

I’ve had West’s home address ever since Caroline located him, but I’ve never put it to use until today. He lives in an older neighborhood on the outskirts of Providence, but the homes and yards have been well taken care of. His yard is expertly manicured with no nonsense bushes, a front porch void of any niceties, and not one thing out of place. I have no problem believing a military man lives here. His truck is parked in the driveway, so I’m sure he’s home.

I remind myself of his parting words to stoke the fires of my anger. I amble out of the car and stomp up his porch. Before I have a chance to change my mind, I pound three times and I wait, arms crossed and hip popped. When there’s no answer, I lean over the porch and peer into the front window, holding onto the door handle for balance. My hand slips and the knob turns, inadvertently opening his front door.

I look to the left, I look to the right, and then I peek my head in through the crack. Silence. I slide in through the crack, because opening the door any further would make this feel wrong. Sliding in through a cracked door? That’s just opportunistic.

The inside of his house is as meticulously kept as the outside, with no clutter to be found. The living room consists of a large brown leather sofa, a coffee table, and a large screen television. There are no pictures, no decorations, nothing to signify that it belongs to any particular person. It’s the picture of anonymity.

Now that I’m inside, I hear the faint sound of water running from the back of the house. West must be showering, and I’m eager for the opportunity to take him completely off guard. That’s what he deserves.

I sit on the couch and wait, nervously picking the ever-present paint from under my nails. I intentionally drop the paint chips onto his spotless floor, smirking at the thought of him having to clean it up. I pick up my purse and bend over to place it on the coffee table, and that’s when I notice a small side table to the left of the sofa. In direct contrast with the rest of the house, a mound of junk sits on top of it.

I scoot closer and take inventory of West’s one pile of clutter. One by one, I survey each piece. It starts out with the ordinary—keys, wallet, earbuds, bills. I slowly draw up the next item: West’s dog tags on a long silver-balled chain. These tags have been through it all, seen it all, traveled the world with West. I flip them over in my hands, rubbing the engraved letters and numbers.

Adler

West J.

555345454

O Pos

Catholic

All the important details are there, typed out, in preparation for the worst. I try to stop myself, but without my permission, my mind is filled with thoughts of West. Injured. Helpless. Vulnerable. Unable to speak for himself—these metal plates telling the doctors what they need to know to save him.

I drop the chain lower, until the tags hit the table. I let the chain pool on top of the tags, hiding the letters and numbers that unsettle me.

There’s only one item left. It’s a folded paper, browned and tattered with age. Like the tags, it’s obvious whatever it is, it’s made the journey with West. I pick it up and unfold it, being extra careful not to tear the fragile paper.

Nothing could have prepared me for the first glimpse. When that all too familiar finger comes into view, my reaction is visceral. A punch to the gut. A slap to the face. A chink in the armor.

Why? I don’t understand why. If he hates me so much, if he has nothing left for me, why is he holding onto the very first sketch I ever made of him?

I continue to unfold the paper with trembling fingers, and memories of that day wash over me. The sight of him wading through the water. The sweet sound of his voice, laced with amusement and confidence. My heart, engulfed with flutters, full to the point of bursting, as his eyes rake over me.

The sketch is smudged in places, a hazard of working with charcoal. My signature at the bottom is nearly gone, only a smearing of black in its place. I run my finger over it, close my eyes, and wonder how many times West has done the same.

The water from the shower cuts off and draws me back into the present. I quickly fold the paper and place it back on the table.

He’ll walk out here any minute, and I feel an overwhelming urge to run. My perfectly valid arguments from ten minutes ago have died on my tongue. I can no longer remember what I had to say that was so important.

I have to get out of here. Now.

I swipe my purse from the coffee table and, as quietly as possible, cross the living room to the front door. Just as my foot crosses the threshold, I hear the click of the bathroom door. I turn the knob as I close the door to make sure he doesn’t hear me leave. I race to my car and shoot out of his driveway in record time. I’m actually surprised I don’t clip a trashcan or mailbox as I make my escape. That would have been a typical Alex mishap.

Once I’m down the road and out of sight, I pull over to the side. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and let my mind reel.

He’s indifferent. He saves me. He hates me. He fucks me. He discards me.

He’s carried a part of me with him for six years. Six. Years. What the hell?

“Did you think it was going to be easy?”

My mouth drops open at Celia’s words. I just spilled my guts, and I mean everything, hoping she can make heads or tails of what’s going on. Needless to say, that was not the response I expected.

After leaving West’s house, I just couldn’t go home and be alone with my thoughts. I took a chance Celia would be home, and thankfully she was. Albeit vaguely, we’ve talked about what’s going on with me, and I desperately need the advice of an uninvolved person. The whiplash that is West has left me off-kilter and confused.

Several moments have passed, and I’m still staring, unsure if she heard me right. She clearly missed all the parts about West being a ginormous asshole.

“What?” She shrugs unapologetically. “We have no idea what West has been through, but let me give you a tiny clue. He’s been to
war
, Alex. If you think his leg is the only scar he bears, then you are sadly mistaken.”

“But I want to be there for him, Celia. Why can’t he see that?”

“Why would a man who is used to taking care of everyone around him push you away when he’s the one who needs help? Do I really need to answer that?”

“I knew it was going to be hard, but I didn’t think it would hurt this much. I thought once he saw me, he’d remember. God knows I did.” I avert my eyes and shrug my shoulders in defeat.

“You’re probably right. But remembering may cause him to lash out even more. It’s not going to be a walk in the park, that’s for sure, and there’s no guaranteed light at the end of the tunnel. But if you’re going to fight, fight hard. That’s my advice,” Celia says with a crooked smile and understanding in her eyes.

“What if he doesn’t want me to fight? What if he really has nothing left for me? For us?”

Celia leans forward, grasps my hand tightly, and gives me a somber smile. “Darlin’, you’re going to have to want it enough for the both of you. At least for now. It’s going to be hard and it’s going to hurt like hell. But the reward?” She closes her eyes and smiles, sucking in a deep breath. “Infinite.”

“
The Valley
” Drew Holcomb & The Neighbors

“
We All Need Saving
” by Jon McLaughlin

“HOW ARE THE dreams? Better? Worse?” Caroline asks as she pushes her silly red glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Crippling,” I say, chuckling under my breath at my unintended pun.

My off-color joke earns a disappointed look from Caroline. She’s different than any therapist I’ve ever encountered at the VA, but she works for me. She won’t give me even an inch and has no problem giving her honest, unfiltered opinion. None of that “And how does it make you feel?” lingo. I’m quickly learning that you can’t bullshit a bullshitter, and Caroline is one of the best.

“Care to elaborate, West? Have you tried any of the relaxation techniques we talked about before going to sleep or when the nightmare wakes you up?”

I sigh and tap incessantly on the chair arm, brimming with nervous energy. “I’ve been trying the deep breathing and imagery stuff before I go to bed, and I feel like I sleep more soundly when I do. But it’s damn near impossible to do anything when I wake up from a dream. I’m in fight or flight mode by that point. It doesn’t feel like a dream. It almost feels more real than when I was actually there.”

“I’ve heard that said many times. The mind has a way of taking a traumatic event and adding minute details that make it even more terrifying than the initial incident. Can you pinpoint any elements that have changed?”

I don’t need to think about the question. I know exactly what changed, and by the look on Caroline’s face, so does she.

“The eyes of the woman who pulled me away from the rubble. She had brown eyes—it’s the only part of her face that wasn’t covered. Now they’re different,” I say vaguely.

“They wouldn’t be blue now, would they?” she asks, not mincing words.

I knew there was no way Caroline would let this shit slide. She’s incapable of going easy on me. I admire it and hate it at the same time. Physically unable to answer, I meet her eyes head on and remain silent. The paintbrushes poking out of her messy blond bun and the specks of color on her worn overalls remind me of that certain blue-eyed girl. Caroline knows it. I know it. She sees everything.

She leans forward and lowers her voice as she makes the same speech she makes every week. “You know, I can refer you to someone else if that would be better for you, but I won’t pretend I don’t know the score here. You knew that when you asked to see me. I’ll never tell Alex you’re my client, and I’ll never divulge what we say here. But I won’t cut you any slack either.”

Caroline was hesitant to see me from the start, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’s supposed to be the best in the area, and I definitely need the best. I couldn’t understand why she would turn me away, but then she explained her relationship with Alex and her role in finding me. In her mind, this served as a reason to set me up with another counselor. In my mind, it solidified the fact there was no one else more qualified. Having Caroline as my counselor makes me feel close to Alex—which I constantly crave—without getting too close to the fire.