by Gina Azzi
I nod, taking a step closer to her chair at the kitchen table.
She opens and closes her mouth several times, at a loss for what to say.
I stand silently. Pushing my hair behind my ears, I force myself to make eye contact with her. I can do this. I can be honest. I'm not going to West Point. I can't go to West Point. Just the thought of being surrounded by so many guys makes my skin crawl and nausea swell in my chest. It travels upwards until it clogs my throat and catches my tongue, reminding me that I'm better off being silent. Invisible. I wish I were invisible.
"Oh, Evie, it’s alright, love. Why don’t you take a seat and eat some toast? You look pale. Do you not feel well?”
I nod; I feel like death. Dropping into the chair beside her, I watch as she pops two pieces of toast into the toaster.
“It’s normal to feel nervous and anxious before going off to college. It’s unsettling knowing that you’re moving to a new place, rooming with someone you haven’t met before. Maybe your overwhelmed thinking about the course load or academic requirements? It’s okay to feel unsure.” She chats, buttering my toast and adding a spoonful of strawberry jam to the center of each piece. She places the plate in front of me and pours me a mug of coffee.
I watch her move around the kitchen, admiring her. At work she's a complete boss; professional, calculated, straightforward. But at home, she's always my mom first, talking and laughing and sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee from a mug I made in art class. She's the real reason I dreamed of joining the Army. Because she somehow melded both parts of herself, the professional and personal, into the most incredible role model I could ever hope to have in a mother. Especially after my father took off with another woman when I was only eight-years-old.
Mom and I have always been so unbelievably close.
I know now all of that is about to change. Because I can’t tell her this. I can’t tell anyone.
I envision the disappointment she will be forced to swallow. A general in the US Army, a woman no less, whose own daughter gets accepted at West Point and doesn’t attend at the last minute for an unknown reason. She will be gossiped about relentlessly.
The shame of it all bears down on me until my chest rises and falls in rapid succession. Floaters appear in my peripheral vision, and I wonder if I'm going to collapse right here at the kitchen table.
"Evie? What is it?" She stands beside me, leaning closer now and placing the back of her hand against my forehead.
I wrap my hands around the mug of coffee, letting the warmth permeate the frost in my fingers. "I already told you. I'm not going to West Point," I whisper out between my teeth, feeling the sorrow behind my words and watching as her face freezes in confusion.
“Okay. You don’t have to. You applied to other colleges and have several options to choose from. You loved the Loyola campus in Maryland.” She smiles at me but her eyes are hesitant, the wheels in her head turning as they try to connect the dots.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I say, pushing away from the table, my toast untouched, before storming out of the kitchen.
Behind me, I feel the bewilderment and shock rolling off of her, but I don’t turn around. I can’t.
"Evie?" Peters’ voice jolts me from my memory, and I snap my eyes open, turning toward him.
Heat travels up my throat and burns in my cheeks at my embarrassment.
"Can I help you with something?" he prompts after several seconds tick by.
"I'd like to speak with you, sir. If you have a moment."
He glances at his watch and back up at me, nodding briskly. "Of course. I have a few minutes before my next evaluation. Come on in." He holds his office door open for me and I step inside.
The door closes, the latch clicking behind me.
"Evie?" he prods.
"Yes, thank you for agreeing to speak with me."
"What's on your mind?" Peters sits down behind his desk and indicates the chair across from him. I take a seat.
"Well, sir, I've been thinking. I've been working here for four years now and while I love my job and the opportunity to serve the US Army in a civilian capacity, I think I'm ready for a new challenge."
"Okay. What do you have in mind?" He raises his eyebrows, leaning forward until his forearms rest on his desk.
Bubbles pop in my stomach, squeezing up my throat. Once the words are out, it will all be for real. Deep breath. I can do this. Just say it.
"I'm thinking about applying to PT programs. Specifically, Baylor-Army."
"Baylor is incredibly competitive."
"Yes, sir, it is. But I'm up to the challenge."
Peters leans back in his chair, regarding me for several seconds.
My skin begins to itch under his scrutiny. I hold my breath.
"I won't ask you why you didn't attend West Point."
I look away, studying a paperweight that sits in the corner of his desk and contains the US Army Seal.
"I've always thought you had what it takes to serve, Evie."
My eyes meet his again and when I read the sincerity in them, I relax in my chair, relief sweeping through me. "Really?"
Peters nods. "You're a great receptionist, Evie. But you're overqualified for the position." He points this out gently, like a grandfather to a granddaughter. "You have been since your first day."
I literally beam at the man as my heart accelerates. A whole path suddenly opens up before me. It's like I have options now.
"I've looked at the prerequisites and I’ve completed most of them already. This is my last full semester and if I take two summer classes, I’ll complete my B.A. in Psychology." I continue, pulling a folder out of my bag and explaining the course load and admissions process to Peters, even though it dawns on me about three minutes into my explanation that he must be very familiar with the program already.
Still, he sits, and listens to me rattle on, giving me nods of encouragement. Interrupting me briefly to answer a knock on his office door, he holds up one finger to let the person know he needs a minute before returning his attention to me.
Still, I turn in my chair and when I see Jax standing in the doorframe of Peters’ office, my nerves build, my hands breaking out into a clammy sweat. He tilts his head at me, offering a reassuring smile.
“Evie?” Peters questions.
I turn back toward him and grasping onto Jax’s reassurance, I say, "And that's why I would very much like the opportunity to shadow you as you work with both active duty soldiers and veterans. I would like to assist you in any capacity you see fit."
Silence ensues for several seconds before clapping behind me causes me to jump in my chair and bite back my grin.
Turning toward him again, I take in the sincerity that lights up his face, how his eyes flash with the same excitement coursing through my veins.
We're connected again. Once more on the same page, wanting the same thing, desiring the same outcome. I smile back at his enthusiasm for my future plans, but shut down the electric jolt that crackles through me at the sight of him. Strong, hard muscles bunch under his T-shirt, and his eyes lock on mine, a slight stubble coating his cheeks and chin. I remind myself it will never work. Jax is in my past. I'm here to focus on my future.
My future.
Which, in this moment, resides with Peters, not Jax.
I turn back around.
Peters glances between Jax and I, a spark of amusement passing over his features before he nods at me. "All right, Evie. I'm going to give you a shot."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Whatever you need or want me to do, I'm in. I just want to learn as much as I can and get accepted."
"I understand."
"I'm in too," Jax adds.
I still in my chair, tracking Peters’ gaze as he looks over me to Jax. "What do you mean, Sergeant?"
"I volunteer. Let Evie help you on my evals and PT."
My excitement dies as anxiety crawls up my throat. What is he doing? He completel
y unnerves me and he knows it. I can’t work with Peters on him. He’s too observant, he’ll see too much of me.
"You don't have to do that," I say, turning around again to fix Jax with a stare.
"It's no problem. What do you think, Staff-Sergeant?"
I close my eyes to steady myself before I turn back to Peters. Still, I don't miss the smirk Jax throws my way, or the spark that flares in his eyes.
"What the hell? Why not? Evie, we begin next week. In the meantime, I'm going to get a jump on some paperwork and work up a schedule for you."
"Sounds great. Thank you, sir."
"You start getting the materials ready for your application."
"Will do."
"And you," he says, looking at Jax, "stop wasting time in my office and get to work. I'll meet you by the free weights in five."
"Roger that, sir," Jax says before turning to leave Peters' office. But not before he throws me a wolfish look coupled with a wink.
Not before my heart lodges itself in my throat, and I have to literally remind myself to breathe.
8
Evie
"Slow and steady," Peters murmurs to Jax as he lifts his arm above his head and moves it in a large circle.
Jax's face is grim, his brow and lips pulled tight as small beads of sweat break out along his hairline. His breath is labored, as if he's carrying sandbags up an endless staircase instead of moving his arm in circles. His shoulder clicks and I grimace.
"One more."
Jax nods, but it's more of a flinch. He chews his lower lip as he slowly raises his arm again.
I try to maintain a neutral expression, keep my body language professional and my face blank. But inside, I'm a mess. I hate seeing him in pain. I keep imagining awful scenarios to explain how he injured his shoulder. What exactly caused it?
The skin around his shoulder is pockmarked and raw in some spots, smooth and flat in others. It's damaged and ugly and has no business marring the perfection that I equate with Jax.
Jax blows out a deep breath through puffed out cheeks, dropping the weight from his hand.
"Well done."
"It's still tight," he comments, taking the towel I hand him and wiping it across his forehead.
"It will be for a while. You've gotta keep at it. Keep running through the exercises. But if something feels different, too much pain, too much noise, speak up, okay?"
"Yes, sir."
Peters claps him on the back with an open palm. "See you Friday," he says in farewell before walking to a leg machine to have a few words with the soldier doing leg presses.
"You okay?" I ask Jax under my breath, completely aware that I don't mean it in the professional sense and not caring.
"Yep."
"You sure?"
Jax leans against a weight rack, eyeing me warily. "Sure."
I swallow, looking down at my feet. I hate the awkwardness that hangs between us. Remembering the way his eyes lit up last week in Peters’ office, how for one moment, it seemed like us again, I open my mouth to erase some of the distance between us when Jax beats me to it.
“Evie, I’m sorry.” His voice is so low, I look up to make sure he actually spoke the words I didn’t realize I’ve been waiting to hear.
“The way I left,” he shakes his head, “I’m sorry I hurt you when I enlisted. And I’m sorry I didn’t do more to keep in touch with you, to keep you in my life.”
“I told you to stop contacting me.” I remind him, confused by his apology but also grateful for it.
Jax drops down to sit on a weight bench so we’re almost eye level. He stares at me for several seconds, the green of his eyes darkening, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I don’t think you really meant it.” He says finally.
I almost sob. I didn’t really mean it. I pushed him away because I couldn’t bear for him to learn the truth about me. At the time, I didn’t want his pity, didn’t want him to feel any type of obligation toward me. I wanted him to be there for me because he wanted to not because he had to. And if he wanted to, he never would have left.
But now, looking at him, watching as he massages a splattering of scars around his shoulder, I realize that we were both young, proud, and hurt. We both acted and reacted in ways at eighteen that we wouldn’t at twenty-five.
“I pushed you away on purpose.” I admit.
“I think so too. Now. Back then, I figured I was being selfish trying to hold on to you when I was the one who left. I bailed on the New York plan. I broke us up. How could you move on if I kept calling? I wasn’t being fair to you so I understood when you told me to let you go. But seeing you now, I don’t think I should’ve, Evie.”
“What do you mean? Seeing me now?”
The corner of Jax’s mouth lifts but it’s not quite a smile and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re different, Maywood. And of course I knew you would grow and change and maybe dye your hair blonde or something in seven years. But it’s more than that.”
“I’m fine.” I snap, my voice harsher than I intend as a chill shoots through me.
He continues to watch me, a flash of sadness, of remorse sparking in his eyes as he stands up from the bench. “Okay. I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for the way things ended between us. I’m sorry for hurting you, Evie. That’s the last thing I’d ever want to do.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. I reach out to grip the weight rack, suddenly feeling unbalanced.
"If you ever need anything, want to talk, whatever, I’m here.” He says finally. “Thank you.” I whisper, my voice strained.
He steps past me toward the locker room but turns before he clears the free weights. “Want to hear a secret confession?” He asks randomly, a playfulness replacing the seriousness of our conversation.
I glance back up, meeting his eyes. “What?”
“This week, knowing I get to see you, has been the only motivation to get my ass to PT.” He smirks for real now, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and a teasing look I recognize flits across his face. "See you Friday, Evie." He snaps his towel at me before tossing it over his shoulder and sauntering to the locker room.
I say saunter, but really it's pure swagger.
I watch him walk away, comparing the outline of his body to the boy I once knew, tracing his hardened back muscles and broad shoulders with the memory of a thinner guy who still managed to walk with all the confidence in the world.
I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling. Jaxon Kane is really back.
The sound of running water wakes me the following morning, and I sit up in my bed, completely disoriented. My heart gallops in my chest as my breathing grows erratic. I slide from my bed as quietly as I can, my eyes darting around for anything out of the ordinary.
It has to be Graham. Opening my mouth to call out, I shut it immediately. What if it’s not Graham?
But Mom and Graham are the only people with a key to my townhouse.
Did someone break in?
A bolt of adrenaline surges through my veins as fear settles in my chest. Tugging on an old, open-front cardigan, I pull a letter-opener from my desk and hold it in my left hand, my right clutching my phone, 911 already programmed on the screen. My finger hovers above the call button as I walk slowly out of my room, the letter opener held out in front of me.
Peeking into the kitchen, the outline of my brother standing at the sink rinsing out a coffee mug and washing a few utensils, greets me. I almost collapse against the wall in relief. Hiding around the corner, I focus on regulating my breathing and settling my racing heart. Once the panic subsides, I slide the letter opener into the drawer of the hallway console and turn back toward the kitchen.
Walking inside, a smile splits my face and I squeal, startling him as I walk over and throw my arms around his neck. "I didn't know you were coming! Why didn't you call me?"
"Surprise." He kisses my cheek in affection. "I didn’t want to wake you and endure your wrath all day. I made coffee."
"I’m not
that bad.” I turn to the coffee maker and pour myself a cup. Peeking over my shoulder at Graham, I decide he needs another cup, too. Pulling the cream from the refrigerator, I add a splash to both mugs and set them on the table. "Did you bring breakfast?"
He motions to a folded paper bag on the counter, and I can't help the happy moan that falls from my lips. "Cinnamon rolls? From Maddie's? You do love me."
"More than anyone else."
Pulling two rolls from the bag, I press my fingertips into the soft pastry, delighted that they're still warm. I place them on two plates and bring them over to the table, sliding into a chair and motioning for Graham to sit across from me.
"Oh, my God. These are amazing." I bite into the roll, the flaky icing dropping onto my plate like snow flurries.
Graham chuckles, tucking into his own roll. "I know. I told Maddie she should consider franchising, but she won't hear of it."
"That bakery is her baby. She'd never let anyone close enough to even peek at those family recipes. She's completely close-lipped about them."
"Like someone else I know." He raises his eyebrows at me.
"What are you doing here anyway?"
"Can't I just pop in to check on my baby sister? I need a reason to visit you?"
"Of course not. You're always welcome. I just feel like there's another reason you're here."
He glances down at the table, avoiding my eyes, which has warning bells clanging around in my head. I sit up straighter, leaning toward him. "What's wrong?"
His sigh is heavy, his fingertips rustling the page tips of the newspaper on the table. “Hunter was injured. Took some shrapnel to his left eye and his left arm is pretty fucked up.”
“What?” I ask in near shock. Hunter is my brother’s best friend. His wife and kids still live in our town.
Graham takes another gulp of his coffee as he blinks back the moisture that collects in his eyes. “He’s in surgery now. Kelly flew out this morning. I just wanted to be around for Harry and Ella. Their grandparents are staying with them but they’ll probably need some help. Kelly’s parents are getting up there in years.”
“Of course. Is Hunter going to be okay?”
