by Mila Ferrera
“I was selfish.”
“You were stuck. No one could have found a neat way out of that box.”
“He killed himself because of me.” I bow my head, which bumps against his chest. Nate’s hands move to my shoulders, then slide up my neck. I move closer, letting him draw me in, knowing I’m violating every rule I have. Didn’t I come here to help him? To get him to open up? How did this get so turned around?
“He made a choice,” says Nate. “A really bad choice. But I promise you, no matter why he did it, it still wasn’t your fault.” His voice vibrates into my ears, and the deep sound of it carries all the way down to my toes.
“He’d be alive if I hadn’t broken up with him.”
“Do you realize how fucked up that sounds?” he asks, tipping my chin up. “And I’m guessing that if I’d pulled the trigger a week ago, you would have blamed yourself for that, too. Just because you turned me down when I asked you out. Am I right?”
Yeah, he’s completely right. I swallow hard and look away.
“Even though I was messed up over so many other things,” he continues. “Even though if I had done it, that would have been on me. Only me. No one else applied for the gun license. No one else drove me to the dealer. You didn’t buy the goddamn bullets. That was me.”
“But if how I treated you was the last straw—”
“And that’s why I can’t do this with you,” he says, even as his thumb strokes down my cheek, sending a shiver along my spine. “I’m fucked up, Sasha, but that’s on me. You’re …” He smiles. “You’re just a beautiful woman who happened to step in my path. And one who deserves a lot better.”
“I’m okay where I am,” I say stupidly, because his hands are on me, and I don’t care if it’s selfish or dumb—I want this.
He laughs. “I guess that’s good, because I’m having trouble letting go of you right now.”
We stand there for a while, not talking, just breathing. But then he says, “And you’re not here because you need to keep yourself from feeling guilty? I can’t be around you if that’s what’s going on, Sasha. It’s too hard for me.”
“Why?”
He gives me a look that says I should know better. “You’re my friend?”
“Of course.”
“Cool. Am I yours?” He leans in so his forehead is almost touching mine. If I popped up on my tiptoes, our lips would connect. “Like, this is an equal thing, and I’m not some wounded puppy you picked up off the street?”
“In no way do you resemble a wounded puppy.” Right now, he’s holding me up. And I’m having trouble keeping my gaze away from his mouth. My hands have crept to his waist, and the taut muscles of his torso are hard and warm through the fabric of his shirt. The way I’m feeling could hardly be classified as simply friendly.
I pull my hands away and chuckle. “So, now that I’ve poured out my heart and soul, how about you tell me how your session went?”
He lets me go with an assessing look, as if he’s trying to gauge my sincerity. I offer my hand, and after a moment, he takes it, lacing his fingers with mine. We start to walk again.
And after a few minutes, he starts to talk. He doesn’t exactly pour his heart out—he tells me how he went to the wrong floor and initially wound up in a law office but was too embarrassed about where he was actually going to ask them where the therapist’s office was. He tells me how, once he actually found the right office, he had to fill out so many forms that he’s pretty sure he signed over the life of his firstborn and possibly sold his soul to the devil. He describes how he forgot to silence his phone and how Daniel began texting him one ridiculous meme after another, some of them completely obscene, in the middle of the session. It’s all surface stuff. All light and fluffy and funny.
But he’s alive, and he’s talking to me. I consider that a win.
CHAPTER NINE
Nate
This is probably a huge mistake. I have that thought every time I climb the stairs of the co-op, every time I see her face or hear her voice. And yet I keep going back, because right now, she’s what’s keeping me going. She’s the one bright spot of any day. She’s the one reason I find myself smiling without having to force it, and the reason I’ve invented excuses to stop by the co-op almost every day for the past week. She’s the one person I don’t feel like I have to hide from, because she’s already seen me at my worst.
I admitted this to Dr. Harper this morning, and he said that was okay—for now. Ultimately, I have to find something lasting and internal that doesn’t hinge on another person. I get the necessity of that. When she walks away or gets bored of me, I have to be able to survive it.
Every time I see her, though, I sink a little deeper. I know I have to stop. But here I am, a brisk wind coming off the water, the sand between my toes, my running shoes discarded at the edge of the beach, and Sasha next to me.
She pulls the band from her hair and redoes her ponytail, trying to contain the ebony wisps that always fly around her face. Her cheeks are pink, her dark eyes bright. Her chest heaves with each breath, and I’m trying not to stare, but goddamn. Her body is like a perfect hourglass, and in leggings and a running top, every mouth-watering curve is visible.
If I don’t keep my thoughts on the straight and narrow, she’s going to know exactly how I feel about it, too. My running shorts won’t hide a single damn thing.
She lets her tongue hang out and then grins as she looks up at me. “I can’t believe I kept up with you.”
“I’m impressed.” Running is one of the few things that makes me feel better, more in control, less pitiful. When I’m running, I almost feel free. “You were really trucking along there.”
“I’ve been running since I was thirteen,” she says. “I used to go running with Dad.”
“He was a runner?”
“He did 10Ks. I felt so proud when I could keep up, but I think he slowed down just so I could stay with him.” She arches one eyebrow. “Kinda like you did.”
“My legs are a lot longer than yours.”
She rolls her eyes. “You can say that again.” She looks out at the lake and sighs. “God, I love this place. When I was little, I thought this was the ocean. My dad would take me for walks on this beach and tell me stories about pirates and a terrible sea monster that lived in the water. My mom got really mad at him because I spent an entire summer scared to go swimming—until Dad convinced me they’d caught the monster and put him in jail.”
I laugh. “I didn’t believe Daniel when he told me this was a lake, because I couldn’t see the other side. To my seven-year-old self, it looked infinite. And then Daniel was like, ‘Chicago’s only a hundred miles away, right on the other side, and you’re an idiot.’” I wipe my sweaty face against the shoulder of my T-shirt—Sasha’s actually pretty fast, and that was no easy jog. “I think we got into a fight over that. I remember ending up with a mouthful of sand, and Daniel ended up getting spanked with my dad’s flipflop right in the parking lot back there.”
Sasha laughs. “I always wished I had a brother or sister. Now I’m rethinking that.”
“Definitely both a blessing and a curse.”
“When I was maybe seven or eight, I got obsessed with it. I begged my parents for a sibling. They got me a hermit crab. I named it Shelly.”
“Doesn’t sound that cuddly.”
She grimaces. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t try. I snuck her into my bed one night for a slumber party. It didn’t go well.” She pauses. “Which makes it embarrassingly obvious that I was a lonely and extremely odd child.”
“Who turned into an artistic and successful adult.” Who also seems pretty lonely, but also kind. And selfless. And patient. And so fucking sexy I can barely look at her sometimes.
We start to walk along the shore, close enough that the water laps at our bare feet. My heart has slowed to a steady rhythm, and thoughts of today’s session with Dr. Harper have subsided from a desperate clamor to a low rumble of anxiety. He made me come up wit
h a whole list of triggers, things that “set off the smoke alarm” in my brain even when there’s no actual fire. He made me rank them, least to most catastrophic. And then he told me I can’t avoid this shit—I have to face each one again and again until I don’t freak out. So that seems fun.
I’m not sure I can go back.
I pull myself back to the present as Sasha’s hand slips into mine. Her skin is cold-kissed and soft, and our fingers entwine. “Did the crab satisfy your desire for a little sister?”
Her gaze is on the horizon. “Not really. But I think, even then, I could tell that my parents’ marriage wasn’t the greatest, so at some point I stopped asking. It felt like it was never quite right, you know?”
“Like they fought a lot?”
“No. Rarely, in fact. But my dad was so playful, so interested in stuff. All sorts of stuff. Like, he could have the best time collecting rocks from the beach or making up stories about the garden gnome that lived in the thicket of weeds out back—that was his excuse for never clearing it out. But Mom never seemed to be laughing along.”
“You don’t think they were happy, even when you were young?”
She shrugs. “All I know is, once I was in college, it was like Mom decided she didn’t have to try anymore. I saw it every time I was home—rolling her eyes, passive-aggressive little comments. Dad started to withdraw, and I thought it was because she was treating him like shit, but who knows?” Her jaw is clenched as she says, “She had an affair, and it sent my dad into a tailspin. In fact, at first, I thought the insomnia and forgetfulness was because he was so stressed out about his marriage falling apart. I was over in East Lansing, working my way through my senior year. When I came home, he was a mess. God, I was so mad at her.”
“You blamed her for it.”
“I still do,” she admits. “She left him right when he began to need her. She saw what was happening and had no patience for it. Or for him. She left him completely alone.”
I squeeze her hand. “Good thing he has you.” But I wonder—is it a good thing? I mean, it’s good for him. But for her, who has to watch a man she obviously loves and idolizes fall apart, a little more every day … I’m not so sure.
She gives me a smile tinged with sadness. “So. How did today go?”
“Nothing of note to report.”
“You don’t want to talk about it, do you?”
I give her a sidelong glance. “I’d rather talk about literally anything else.”
“Why did you join the army?” she asks as we turn to head back to my car. The sun is still high in the sky, but I know she needs to be back at her place by five when her dad’s aide ends his shift.
As we approach our discarded shoes and socks, I contemplate whether her question counts as talking about the stuff I’d rather not. I decide it’s fair game. “Honestly? I was antsy. I could have gone to college, but I’ve always felt better when I’m on the move. I just—I loved the idea of it. The challenge. I knew I could get good grades. I wanted to try jumping out of airplanes and shit like that.”
She laughs. “I so expected you to say that you only wanted to serve your country.”
“Which would be the most socially appropriate answer. And it’s not like I didn’t want to do that. It’s not like I wasn’t ready to die for my country. You kind of accept that the moment you sign on. But once you’re in it, you’re there for the experience, and the people around you.”
I met Sam as soon as I was assigned to Fort Campbell. We went to AT together. We got promoted at the same time. I rub my thumb against his initials, turning my skin red with friction as I try to shove the image of his open eyes out of my head. My stomach turns as the memory forces its way to the front of my mind.
Sasha’s hand gently closes over mine, stilling it. Our eyes meet, and in hers I see an understanding so painful that I have to look away. “Hey,” she says. “Can we stop on the way back and grab something to drink? I didn’t bring my water bottle.”
It’s a merciful change of topic. Dr. Harper would probably say she’s enabling my avoidance or whatever, but fuck him. Fuck that. All I know is that I’m back on track again and not about to puke at her feet. We get our socks and shoes back on, and I drive us toward town.
By the time I pull in at the 7-Eleven near the river, my mood is better, mostly because Sasha spends the drive telling me about various times my older brother has made a grand fool of himself at various art shows and parties. “So, be honest,” I finally say to her. “He never asked you out?”
“Nope.”
I can’t help myself: “What would you have said if he had?”
“‘Nope.’ Even if I were wanting to go out with someone, he’s not my type.”
Am I your type? I almost blurt that out. And maybe she sees that, because she pokes my arm. “You guys are really different. I’d think you’d attract different girls.”
I laugh. “It was the story of my high school life that every single freaking girl I was into would probably have chosen Daniel if she could. He was a year older. Filled out faster. He was louder. Brash and confident. I got better grades but that mattered to exactly nobody. I got used to fading into the background, because it was easier than being the butt of his jokes.”
“I have a really hard time believing that you were such a loser. Come on. Look at you.”
I smile, because she actually seems like she means it. “I grew a solid foot in high school and was awkward as shit until my senior year, which was when I finally got a girlfriend. After Daniel graduated.”
“And did she properly appreciate you for you?” she asks in an amused tone.
“She seemed to, for a few years. Thing about a guy in the army, though. It’s lonely when he’s never around.” I pause. “I guess you know that.”
“I remember,” she says quietly.
“Did you ever cheat?” I pull the keys from the ignition. “Maybe fool around in a moment of weakness?”
She gives me a horrified look. “That’s a shitty thing to do to anyone at any time, but to someone who’s busy serving our country … yeah. No. Not even close. That’s what she did?”
I half-shrug. “It was well over a year ago. Before I left on deployment. I’m over it.”
We walk into the convenience store and split up because I need to grab a few groceries—I moved into my new place two days ago and am still getting used to having to cook my own meals. I glance over the tops of the shelves and see Sasha perusing energy drinks, ponytail bobbing. Then I force myself to focus on the task at hand instead of tracking her every move like a fucking stalker.
I’m standing there with six boxes of generic mac and cheese when I hear my name uttered by a very familiar voice, as if my talking about her has summoned her up from the depths of hell.
Or, you know, this is a small town and it was only a matter of time before we ran into each other.
“Oh my God,” Carrie says as she approaches with a cautious smile on her face. “Nate?”
The guy she left me for—after cheating on me for months, apparently—stands next to her. Fucking Cameron Bakker. “Hey,” he says as he throws a possessive arm around Carrie’s shoulders. “Heard they kicked you out.”
Carrie slaps at his hand and pulls her long brown hair from under his arm. “That’s shitty, Cam. He was in Afghanistan!” She reaches out and touches my hand, like she’s laying claim to the territory. “I heard about that attack. How you lost people in your unit. I was so, so scared for you.”
Yeah? Funny how I didn’t hear a single fucking word from you at the time. “I was fine, obviously.” I reach for another box of mac just to move out of her reach.
“Cam, we need batteries. Go get them,” Carrie says in a flat voice.
Cameron fixes me with a hard look. He bumps his shoulder against mine as he passes like the fucking Cro-Magnon he is. My nostrils flare as I consider kicking his ass in the parking lot just to work off some of my excess anger. I wonder if Dr. Harper would agree that it’s therape
utic.
Carrie puts her hand on my arm. “Ignore him. He’s always been insecure about you.”
I’m sure he felt really insecure while he fucked my girlfriend behind my back. Anger coils in my chest, more than Carrie deserves. I feel nothing when I look at her except irritation, so why am I ready to punch something?
“—now that you’re out?” she’s asking. “Are you staying in the area?”
“I’m still deciding.”
Her pink manicured fingernails scrape lightly against my forearm as she squeezes it. “Well. I hope you stay. Your parents must be so glad to have you back.” She glances over at Cameron, who’s contemplating the battery display like he’s making a major life decision. With a slight roll of her eyes, she says, “Maybe we can get together sometime. Just to catch up?”
I stare at her. She’s always looked good to me. Silky hair and long legs. Smooth skin and pretty eyes. But then I remember all the times I waited for a letter and nothing came. All the times we’d set up Skype or FaceTime and she’d fucking stand me up. “Kinda busy lately—”
She’s still got ahold of my arm. “I miss you,” she says quietly. “I feel awful about what happened. I never meant—”
“Ready,” says Sasha, appearing at my side with two Gatorades cradled in one arm. One is the fruit punch flavor, which she said was gross just before I admitted it was my favorite. She looks back and forth between me and Carrie, focusing on Carrie’s hand on my arm.
Before I can introduce them, Sasha slides her arm around my waist. “Hi,” she says to Carrie. “I’m Sasha. I’d shake your hand, but …” She offers my ex-girlfriend a bright, sharp smile and looks down at the Gatorade in her other arm.
“Hi,” says Carrie, her own smile faltering as Sasha tucks herself against my side. She takes her hand off my arm.
Sasha looks up at me as her fingers stroke along my side, sending shudders of pure want down my spine. “Are you ready, babe? I’m starving.” She glances at the boxed mac in my hands. “Here—I’ll grab butter and milk on the way out. We’ll need both to make that stuff taste good.” She stands on her tiptoes, kisses my cheek, and bounces away.
