Walking Wounded

by Lauren Gilley

  Will snorts. “There’s that Georgia girl temper.”

  “Don’t test me, old man.” She pats Luke’s shoulder and moves away. “You boys look like you could use something hot in your bellies.”

  Hal, for once, doesn’t pretend that he’s fine. He sits down heavily on the bench next to Luke and says, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  The smart rap of dress shoes announces someone’s arrival and Diego steps into view. Gone is the easy-going, shorts-clad guy from the gym earlier in the week – damn, has it only been a week since Luke’s life went upside down? – replaced by an intimidating professional bodyguard in a well-cut suit, curly cord of an earpiece visible down the side of his neck.

  “You’re late,” he tells Hal.

  Hal frowns. “There was some traffic downtown.”

  “Mitch says you cleared downtown forty-five minutes ago.”

  “He was following us?” Now Hal looks baffled.

  Diego nods. “He’s been shadowing you at the hospital.”

  “That’s…” Hal sighs. “You guys didn’t need to do that. No sense spreading everyone thin.” Luke reads his expression to be both touched and thankful, fear tucked deep behind his eyes.

  Diego’s professional façade slips a moment, warmth shining through. “Breckinridge can spare us for a little while. Matt’s the priority client right now. And besides, we’re not gonna let one of our boys and his better half fend for themselves when there’s psycho-ass bombers running around.”

  A warm, pleased smile graces Hal’s face.

  Diego glances over at Luke. “How you feelin’, man?”

  There’s a lump in his throat, suddenly, touched more than he thought possible by the simple, automatic kindness from Hal’s friends. From his bosses. From these people who don’t even know him at all, but who accept him without a blink.

  “Well.” He tries to swallow the lump, fails, and twitches a smile instead. “I’m on the really good pain killers, so…”

  Diego grins. “Dude, save some for when you get better.”

  “I’m gonna buy ‘em off him,” Will says.

  “Oh no you’re not.” Sandy returns to the table with steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Luke can’t remember the last time he had cocoa, but he reaches for the mug readily. “Luke, can you keep down some toast you think, hon?”

  “I think so.”

  “Coming right up.”

  “Hal?”

  “No, thanks. I should check in with Lee.”

  Luke wants to tell him to eat something, pour some coffee down his throat. But when Hal glances over, checking if he’s okay, he nods. “Go to work, I’m fine.”

  Hal squeezes his hand where it rests on the tabletop before he stands.

  ~*~

  The stairs creak and groan as they ascend them. The room Sandy shows him to can be thought of nothing less than charming. Window seat, gauzy white curtains, faded rope rugs, four-poster bed with fluffy white and tan bedding, covers folded back more crisply than any hotel. Two nightstands, lamps that look hand-carved. Someone – Hal – has already brought their bags up, left them lined up on the rug at the foot of the bed.

  “Here you go,” Sandy says, and lays her burden of fresh towels, soap, and water bottles down on the hope chest at the foot of the bed. “There’s extra blankets here in the chest, if you’re cold, and an electric blanket even, I think. Remote’s on the nightstand, TV’s over there.” She points it out, mounted on the dresser across from the bed. “We’ve got Netflix, and Amazon, and all that. And of course you’re welcome to whatever’s in the library.” She surveys the room critically, searching for flaws, hands on her hips.

  Luke is overwhelmed by her kindness, but because he’s an idiot, and a cynic, he doesn’t say, “Thank you.” No, he says, “You’re letting us room together?”

  Her gaze snaps toward him, startled. “Is that a problem?”

  “Is it for you?”

  She blinks, and then settles. A slow, sad smile forms as she steps forward and closes the distance between them. She tilts her head at that exact mother-angle he’s seen from his own mom so many times. “I don’t think you’ve noticed,” she says, smiling a little wider, “since you’ve been so distracted, but all of us – all of us, Matt and Will and everyone – have been watching the two of you dance around each other like the most frustrating episode of The Bachelor ever.”

  Luke opens his mouth and…leaves it open, gaping stupidly.

  “Hal told me once, right after he started working for us – it was rainy and miserable out; Matt had a cold and Hal had to practically drag him home so I could force his germy behind into bed. Hal came down to the kitchen, and I had a bowl of soup all ready for him. Poor thing looked like a big old muscly drowned rat, and I said, ‘We’ve got to find you a wife to make you soup at home.’ And he got this look on his face.” She mimics it: wistful, pained. “I said, ‘Who is she?’ And he said, ‘There’s…no. No she.’ And I said, ‘Ah, who’s he’?”

  She smiles again. “He looked so scared, and that’s when I knew for sure, and I said, ‘Honey, love is love.’ And he said, shaking like a leaf, ‘I ruined it with him. I ruined it, and I can’t tell him now. He’ll never listen.’ He didn’t say who, but when he started talking about you, about what a hell of a writer you are, and how funny, and what a smartass.” She flashes him a beautiful, bright grin. “Then I knew. You should see the way he looks at you.”

  He attempts to swallow. His voice comes out raw, and this time it has nothing to do with smoke inhalation. “That’s what Tara said.”

  “Love is love,” she repeats, quietly, prayerful. She leans in and kisses his forehead, hands gentle, but skin rough from housework against his face. “We want you boys to be happy.”

  And then she pulls away and slips out, leaving the quiet notes of her perfume behind.

  ~*~

  He just means to close his eyes a minute, but the bed is a dream and the opiates dull his pain to a manageable ache. The next thing he knows, a hand’s running down his leg and he’s battling his own eyelids. From the deep, black sleep of the drugs, he launches into unsteady awareness, heartbeat in his throat. It slows, though, when he sees Hal sitting on the edge of the bed. Hal would never let anything happen to him.

  “Sorry.” Hal passes his hand down Luke’s leg again, smoothing the thin fabric of his sweats. “Dinner’s ready, if you think you can eat. I can bring something up to you if you don’t feel like going downstairs.”

  Luke struggles to sit up, scowling at his own shakiness. “I can walk. I’m not a fucking cripple.” But he has to lean against Hal’s shoulder.

  “Of course not,” Hal says, patronizing him. He cups his head briefly and drops a kiss into his hair. “Want help?”

  Luke grunts his displeasure – he’s starting to sound like Will, Jesus. But says, “Yes, please.”

  It’s embarrassing how weak he is, the way his knees buckle and his insides squirm. The meds have worn off, and he hurts, he hurts so bad. He hisses through his teeth and leans into Hal, into the strength of the arm wrapped around his waist that hauls him out of bed and onto his feet. Shame heats his face. “Sorry, sorry,” he mutters.

  “I’ve got you,” Hal assures, and kisses him again, on the temple. “You need an extra sweater?”

  Luke shakes his head and bites his lip. The shame is turning to tears. A lifelong friendship, three years apart, and finally they’ve made their confessions…and Luke can’t even be a good boyfriend. Can’t hook his legs around Hal’s waist and drag him down into bed, where they both belong. Can’t stand up on his own two feet, smirk at his guy, kiss him the way he’s always ached to kiss him.

  Hal helps him down the stairs at a slow shuffle, never hurrying him, asking every few feet if he’s okay. The long plank table in the kitchen is set for a crowd. Diego sits at one end, mopping bits of sauce off his plate with a roll. He pops the last bite in his mouth as they enter and nudges Mitch, who’s still slurping noodles.

  “Come on,
back to work,” he says, and both men get to their feet.

  “Boys,” Sandy laments, bringing more bread and a bottle of white wine to the table. “Don’t rush off.”

  “Just shifting out, ma’am,” Mitch says. “It was delicious.” They put their plates by the sink and head out of the room.

  The family comes in, all of them, plus Lee, big as a mountain, smile splitting his wide face as he sniffs the air appreciatively. “Smells good.”

  “Alfredo,” Sandy says with a smile. “And there’s plenty.”

  Hal sets Luke down, gentle, like he’s a baby bird, on the end of one of the benches and sits next to him, close enough for Luke to lean against if he wants.

  “Here, sweetie.” Sandy hands Hal the big pasta bowl, and he serves up portions for both of them, way more than Luke can stomach.

  “Gosh, I’m starving,” Maddie says. She shoots Hal a small, covert look, not remorse, just a look. He isn’t suddenly less handsome, but she’s respecting that he’s spoken for.

  Luke catches Tara’s gaze across the table. She wears no makeup. Her hair’s tied back in a bun, and her Georgetown University hoodie looks more comfy than stylish. She looks young, and sweet, like the kid that she is.

  “Everything looks great,” Matt says as he settles beside his wife. He leans over and kisses her cheek. A quick, automatic gesture.

  Loopy, head full of cotton, Luke lets his eyes wander around the table, settling on faces, flicking over the movement of hands as everyone passes serving platters and heaps their plates with pasta, and bread, and vegetables. A small thread of tension runs through their group. There’s a bomber out there, not yet caught by police, and there’s crushing public opinion all over the place, the judgment of the media, of the government, of other nations who should have no say-so in what happens on American soil – all of it one press of a button away, on the other side of the black TV screen. But they are happy, in their own small ways. Happy because they are a family, and because they love one another, even Will, smiling because he thinks so one’s looking at him. A family that has welcomed him into their home, and treated him like one of their own. Who encouraged Hal when he was doubting, and hurting.

  Luke ducks his head, stares at his plate, the rich steaming Alfredo sauce full of chicken and black pepper.

  Someone tried to blow up the man at the head of this table three days ago. Tried to kill him, because Matt has opinions and beliefs the bomber doesn’t agree with. He almost died. And Luke almost died. And Hal could have died, could have been blown to bits.

  Luke thinks about black scorch marks on concrete and his throat tightens. He thinks about Hal apologizing, about Hal saying he loves him, loves him, and saying he’s beautiful. It was almost ripped away. Stolen from them.

  And…and…

  His plate blurs. The tears rush into his eyes, hot and stinging, and he wants the floor to swallow him.

  Instead, Hal puts an arm around his waist and holds him tight to his side. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  Quiet voices murmur around the table, under the warm kitchen light, and Luke gathers his composure in peace. For his sister. For his mother. For the burn scars on Hal’s leg. For poor dead Finn. For Will, and Sandy, and Matt, and Tara, and Maddie, and Hal’s sweet friends. All the wounds. And for the grace that soothes them, every moment of every day, in something as simple as the touch of the person you love most in the world.

  ~*~

  “Don’t you have a shift?” Luke asks, leaning back against the plush pillows, covered in the warm duvet of their bed.

  Clad in sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt, Hal slides in beside him. Presses up against him, arm across his shoulders.

  Luke rests his head on Hal’s strong chest.

  “Not right now,” Hal says, flicking on the TV with the remote and moving quickly away from the news channel it’s already on. The Netflix screen pops up. “Name your poison.”

  Luke listens to Hal breathe, feels the shift of muscle beneath his face. Revels in the strange wonderfulness of lying with an arm around his waist, being this close to him. “No preference.”

  “Living dangerous,” Hal says, and pulls up Season Three of Once Upon a Time.

  “Aw, no,” Luke grumbles, just because he feels like he has to.

  “Shh, you’re delirious,” Hal says, rubbing his back.

  Luke falls asleep like that, warm, content, and vulnerable in his true love’s arms.

  16

  Matt’s office looks like it’s always been one. A massive cherry desk occupies most of the floor space, but there’s still room for a white-painted mantle above the fireplace and a dainty-legged settee beneath one window. The computer, desk lamps, and wall-mounted TV are jarring against the century-old backdrop of the room.

  On the TV, a CNN anchor says, “Police have intensified efforts to find the senate bomber, combing through his social media, questioning relatives, and canvassing door-to-door in his neighborhood, and those of his friends.”

  “They have a name?” Luke asks from the door.

  Matt looks up from his computer with a tired, but welcoming smile. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you ought to sit before you fall over.” He motions to the settee.

  Luke would deny that claim, but between the meds and the muffled pain, he shuffles into the room on unsteady legs. He glances out the window – this room has a perfect view of the driveway, and on it he can see the Leesburg Sheriff’s Department patrol car parked at the bend, and behind it, Hal, in a long black coat, sipping coffee with his head on a swivel – and eases down onto the pale green velvet of the settee.

  Matt mutes the TV. “They do have a name, yeah. Local kid, Malcolm Davis. He did three years inside, converted, apparently, now he goes by Muhammed. His social media’s full of radical jihad posts. The day of the bombing, he posted that he was, quote, ‘Doing it for ISIS.’”

  “Same story, different verse,” Luke says.

  “He traveled to Iraq last year, and he doesn’t have any family there.”

  “Radicalization.”

  “Training. You’re already radical if you want to go hang out with terrorists.”

  Luke nods. “So he goes all the way over there, joins up, trains, and comes back here with a mission. But isn’t a terrorist supposed to do the maximum amount of damage? That’s their goal, right? Inflict a bunch of terror on regular everyday people?”

  “Seems to be the consensus.”

  “But he targeted you, specifically.”

  Matt shrugs. “I’m one of the senators that wants to alter the rules of engagement, and allow our military to actually engage the enemy. Terrorist attacks are increasing across the world. ISIS has to be dealt with.”

  “And…what does your opposition think?”

  “That upping our attacks in the Middle East will incite more violence abroad. That we’d essentially be egging them on. Violence begets violence and all that.”

  “And what do you think personally?” Luke asks.

  Matt takes a deep breath. “I think it terrifies me to send my children to school. To know that my wife has to go to the grocery store. I want to wrap all of them up in bubble wrap. But I also think,” he says, gaze honest and even, “that if people are blowing shit up in the name of something…you take that something away, and the blowing up of shit stops.” He gives a self-deprecating grin. “To be blunt about it.”

  He continues: “The terrorists obviously don’t want us to step up military action. They want to live. They want to spread their hatred of the Western world and everything it stands for. So of course they want to silence the voices in the American government calling for stronger action against them.”

  Luke takes a breath, an uneasy thought crawling down the back of his neck. “This guy – the bomber – do you think he was a lone wolf?”

  “It fits the pattern. There’s lots of those running around. But last night, around midnight, all the major news channels reported that the FBI found fifty-thousand-
dollars cash in Davis’s apartment.”

  “Someone paid him to kill you,” Luke says. He wants to be horrified – he is, on a personal level – but this just feels like more of the same. Corruption, backstabbing, guerilla warfare amongst people who are all supposed to be part of the same system.

  Matt sits silent a moment, staring over Luke’s shoulder and out the window. “Do you remember what Senator Maxwell said in my office?”

  Luke remembers. An edgy smile like a knife wound in the man’s face. “You’d think you could at least try to get along. In what little time you have here.”

  Little time.

  “Jesus,” Luke breathes. “Maxwell. Fucking Senator Maxwell tried to have to you killed.”

  Matt doesn’t say anything.

  “Dude, he’s in your own party!”

  Matt sighs. “My sisters and brother don’t, but I’ve always loved hearing my dad’s old war stories. There’s something very straightforward about a soldier – I’m sorry, Marine – out there in the brush, fighting for his life, defending his brothers in arms. You do what your commander says, and you do it to the best of your ability.

  “The Marines, you know,” he continues. “They’re not the Army. They don’t sell it to them like it’s a diplomatic adventure. They know it’s a battle; they know their job is to kill.” He smiles, a little. “My father told us he didn’t want us to join the military. ‘Do anything else,’ he said. ‘Make something of yourselves.’ But after listening to his stories, I wanted to be a Marine. I wanted to serve my country. I wanted to protect people. I guess I wanted to make him proud.”

  “So you did. And then you went into politics.”

  Matt nods. “There are multiple ways to fight for what you believe in, to stand up for the little guy. In a perfect world, that’s what a politician does. So I was on debate team, and Mathletes. Poli sci degree, law degree. The Corps. I rode this self-righteous, punkass wave of thinking I was going to make a difference for so long. And then I started my senate campaign…and I learned Capitol Hill isn’t so different from the battlefield. Some people think you’re saving them. Some people want your head.