Alistair smiles tolerantly. "She's young, Tim. I think we were young once."
Tim snorts. "Young. Airhead, you mean. She screws up the simplest job. I have to check even her most basic analysis every time she turns one in. She needs to just find her husband and start practicing her homemaking skills. She's not a good fit for the office." Tim zeros in on me. My heart catches in my throat. "Can I help you?"
I clear my throat and play it cool. "I was just waiting to see if I could get you gentlemen anything else."
Tim turns to Alistair. "I bet this waitress is better at following directives and thinking on her feet than Kiki Millstone."
Alistair looks right at me but doesn't see me. I'm staff. I'm invisible to people like him. He hands me his glass while Tim moves on to another topic of conversation.
Well, that didn’t go as planned. I've learned what Tim doesn’t like but nothing about Alistair.
Guess I need to practice more skulking.
I hurry back toward the bar. Abby is plating hors d'oeuvres.
She talks fast, dumping information into my lap that I have no idea how I'm going to use. "He's got a granddaughter at Princeton who is majoring in sociology. She's his favorite. His son is disappointed in her. Wanted her to go to law school instead of becoming a bleeding heart liberal hippie. His words, not mine."
I'm amazed listening to her ramble on facts. "Alistair had a heart attack last year and is rumored to be dealing with his mortality. His son is far more cutthroat than he is."
"The son?"
Abby points to a sharp-dressed, dark-haired man in the corner. He's smooth and polished and wears the jacket like a second skin. He's casual without really trying. He belongs here. It practically radiates off every gesture.
"Howard Alistair Morgan the Second. Named after his grandfather." She smiles at me. "Do you not know your local families? How have you worked here for so long and not been paying attention? Hell, there are buildings at this school named after these people."
Clearly, I have a lot of work to do between now and Friday.
But with Abby in my corner, I have a tiny seed of hope that maybe, just maybe, this might be the break I need to be able to take care of my dad.
Noah
I'm sitting in my truck, waiting for her to get off work. Staring at the invitation. Handwritten on cream-colored heavy paper. It reeks of wealth and privilege.
This is not something I want. It is not something I need. I know how I got this invitation. LT. It has to be. Guess he’s still watching out for me, whether I want him to or not.
I don't even know how to spell "black tie". I suppose I'll hit up Josh and Caleb and Nathan. One of them should know. Caleb was a captain before he got out. He's from this kind of life.
I'm not sure what to make of this invitation. I don't want to work for the banks or the families that are tied into them. I want to do something...something that matters. I miss the army. The sense of purpose that I had. Now I'm just a college student like everyone else. My soldiers aren’t calling me with their problems in the middle of the night. I don't get asked for advice or called to bail anyone out of jail.
When I was leaving, I couldn't wait to put all of that behind me. Shithead soldiers doing shithead things.
Now, though, I realize those were the best shitty times of my life. The stories. The memories.
Here on campus, there's nothing that compares to those times - to sitting around the ops tent at night bullshitting. Drinking bad coffee and pissing and moaning about foods we miss or the women we've left back home.
This invitation isn't for me. It's for the man LT believes I can be.
I'm not sure I can be that man. I'm not sure I can even attempt it.
I don't want to let him down.
But I don't know what else to do.
Beth steps out of the blinding light from the foyer. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. She scans the parking lot and I take a tiny, selfish pleasure in knowing that she is looking for me. I pull out of the darkness and roll down the passenger's side window. "Hey, babe. Need a ride?"
She laughs at my failed leering attempt and it leaves a bright spot on my soul, pushing aside the darkness and worry of my thoughts.
"How was work?"
She sinks into the seat next to me with an exhausted sigh. "Interesting, believe it or not." She points to my invitation on the dash. "I've got incredible information about our interviewer on Friday."
"Don't you worry that I might get the offer instead of you?"
Her expression suggests she hasn’t even considered the possibility, but I have. I can’t compete with her. I won’t. "I wouldn't be a very good friend if I didn't tell you what I know, now would I? You need this job as much as I do."
Because I can't resist, I lean over, brushing my lips against hers. "I think I'm going to get obnoxious and make sure that you get the job."
"Don't you dare." But she's smiling because she doesn't think I'm serious.
It's the best idea I've had since this invitation fell into my lap. Make Beth look like the obvious choice. She'll fit in perfectly in their world. "You'll be an excellent intern."
"Clearly you don't understand the rules of the intern game and how they're different for guys and girls." When I say nothing, she continues, "I'll get my ass pinched a lot, called 'babe' and 'dollface' and have to smile and nod and not make a fuss. You'll get dragged out to bars and shown the way life is for men with power."
"That sounds painfully boring. I think I'd rather get my ass grabbed."
She closes her eyes as I start the truck and drive her home. "So what interesting tidbits did you learn?"
"Well, the old man wants to bring in fresh eyes to the internship. He's tired of hiring the kids of family friends, which is how the invite was even extended to us in the first place. He's been a big donor to the business school and figures this is a way to build relationships with new talent."
"God, I love it when you talk business. I imagine you in a pencil skirt with sexy glasses lecturing a boardroom."
She smiles at me in the darkness. "What is it with male fetishes about chicks in pencil skirts?"
"I don't have a pencil skirt fetish. I have a Beth in a pencil skirt fetish. See the difference? Smart and sexy in the same package."
"You sweet talker. You're good at this."
"What's that?"
"Making a girl feel special."
I stop in front of the house. The lights are out again. It dawns on me that they're never on. I lean over, cupping her face. "That’s easy. Because you are."
I kiss her now because there's nothing else in the entire world that I want to do instead. Even the insidious thoughts about the next pill take a backseat to tasting her, slow and easy. I could spend the rest of my life kissing her.
My throat locks up, and I pull away suddenly. I'm ashamed of the confusion I've put in her eyes. "Sorry," I mumble. But I don't have a good excuse for my panic. It's just there, squeezing my chest until I can barely see beyond the black spots from lack of air.
"What?" Her hand on my forearm. Gentle. Steady. A sensation of light in the bleak darkness that's trying to drag me under.
I want to tell her. About the dark. About the pain. About the pills chasing everything away. I want to tell her how alive she makes me feel.
But doing that means I have to admit how dead I've felt for so long. Since before I came home. Since before LT made me promise I'd go to school here if he got me in.
I've been underwater. Barely breathing. And with Beth, I can really feel and it is overwhelming me.
And the rest of my life suddenly doesn't seem like something heavy and thick that I have to slog through. I suddenly very much want to figure out how to really live again.
Because if there's a chance, even the slightest chance, that she might be a part of my life next week, next year, then I...
I've got to get my shit together.
Chapter 18
Beth
For the first
time since I've met him, I'm worried that there is more to Noah than he's letting on. I'm tired and keyed up all at once. I walk home, unafraid on familiar streets, listening to music on the ancient iPod that Dad bought me five years ago. It's pretty much only good for music these days. They stopped updating this version a year or so ago.
But right now, I need the music to tune out the worry.
Dad left the light on for me. That's a good sign. I'm hopeful for the first time in forever. Maybe I've got a shot at this internship. Paid internships are so rare, they're like a rainbow-colored unicorn. The fact that they're recruiting juniors and not seniors...everything about this feels like it's in the too-good-to-be-true category. I've learned a lot of hard lessons about that sort of thing over the years.
Like the guy who promised he loved me for me. Until I showed him the house I shared with my father. Until he saw the reality of the life I had no intention of running away from. I would not abandon my dad. I hate even thinking about him. I’ve put him in the same category as Voldemort – he who shall not be named.
He abandoned the relationship so fast my head spun. Abby had been my rock during that harsh episode. She'd set me up with one of her friends, but the chemistry hadn't been there. Add in that her friend had been gay and trying to make me feel better - the whole thing had been a disaster. But I still loved Abby for trying. And Graham had become a close friend.
My dad is awake but things aren't great. The vodka bottle is on the counter.
The light is on in the bathroom.
"Dad?"
"Yeah."
I'm suspicious. He doesn't sound like he's half in the bag, but there had been a lot more vodka than what's left.
He steps out of the bathroom. He's moving fine.
"What the heck was in that shot?"
"I don't know but I haven't felt like this in years." He's smiling, really smiling.
The kind of idiot smile I wear when I think about Noah. "Dad, are you seeing someone?" I ask slowly.
He rotates his jaw for a moment, considering his words. "Not exactly. Remember the nurse from the other night?"
The hospital is a blur of forms and of placating faceless nurses and orderlies. "No?" I'm confused and it's not a feeling I'm enjoying.
"Anyway, she came by to check on me yesterday after you left for school."
"A nurse. Made a house call. What is this? Dr. Quinn?"
I'm irritated, and I can't explain why. I should be happy my dad is feeling better. Even happier that someone stopped by and checked on him. But it's not sitting right. I can't summon anything but wariness about what's going on. I've been taking care of my dad for as long as I can remember. This...this feels like loss.
I’m just tired. I shouldn’t be overreacting like this. I just need sleep and everything will be better in the morning.
But he continues, and the story gets even more fantastic.
"Anyway, Sally came by and checked on me. And we went to lunch since I was actually upright and mobile." He runs his hand through his hair. "She came by tonight, and we had a couple drinks."
My dad is acting like a goofy kid, and I'm the overprotective parent. I want to switch roles. I want to be the kid he worries about. "I was worried when I saw the alcohol. That maybe the shot had worn off."
He stills then. "It's only a matter of time, isn't it?" He scrubs his hands over his face. "Maybe it'll stick until my appointment."
"If you have the appointment."
"Here’s hoping."
I swallow the lump of emotion in my throat and cross the room, hugging him quickly.
"You okay, sugar bear?"
"I'm fine, Dad. I've got an event I've got to go to Friday. I'm interviewing for a paid internship." I don't tell him that it's a big deal. I don't want to get his, or more accurately my, hopes up.
"You'll knock it out of the park. I'm sure of it." He kisses the top of my head. I want to tell him about Noah. I want to ask him what I should be worried about with Noah being a soldier.
But instead, I just stand there and hug my dad. Because moments like this are too fleeting, and I'm always afraid that today might be the last day I'm with him.
I can't explain my fear. It's not rational. It's not something I can turn off.
But I remember the first time I almost lost him. The day I realized that I had to be the adult in our family because the pain overwhelmed him.
It's a terrible thing to call 911 on your dad.
So when the good days come, I hold onto them with everything I am. Because I know that they're not going to last.
I crawl into bed later and grade the assignments from the stats homework. Our neighbor’s Internet connection is working tonight. Some days I can access it, other days I can't. Tonight is one of the good nights. Otherwise, I would have to wait to get the campus WiFi.
Grading circles my thoughts back to Noah and the nagging worry that something is off. Maybe it's just me being paranoid.
But it isn’t. He pulled away. He'd been sweet and funny one moment, and the next, he'd been distant. Not cold, exactly, but the warmth I'd expected from him was gone.
I wish my phone would ring. I don’t care that I’m over my minutes for the month; I just wish he would call. Wish I could hear his voice and he would make me laugh like he did the other night.
Something changed tonight, and I have no idea what that means for our relationship.
Or if there will still be a relationship tomorrow.
Noah
It's hell knowing that you're hurting someone you care about. I saw the worry in Beth's eyes last night when I left her. The confusion that I, and I alone, was responsible for.
So when I cancel our appointment for tutoring today, I know there are a thousand and one unanswered questions I'm leaving in the void.
When I call, the school clinic to set up an establish care appointment, I am shocked that they can get me in today. Guess that's what happens when you live in an area known for one of the highest doctor-to-patient ratios. Beats the hell out of calling Womack down at Bragg and waiting six weeks for an initial appointment.
My hands are shaking by the time I get screened and led back to the doctor's office. The nurse has me strip down to my boxers and put on one of those thin paper gowns that are supposed to preserve your dignity. I sit on the exam room table for what feels like forever, and my anxiety is one heartbeat away from a full-blown panic attack.
My meds are out in the car. I’d doubled up, but it doesn't feel like that was enough.
The antiseptic smell of the doctor's office isn't as overpowering as it is in a hospital, but it's enough to trigger a waking nightmare.
I'm sweating by the time the doctor walks in. She's a short, muscular Asian woman who I’d swear was fresh out of medical school.
"You don’t seem like you’re doing so hot," she says in a heavy accent. It sounds like something out of New York. "Want to tell me what's going on?"
There's a nurse, but I can’t tell you when she came into the room. My vision has zeroed down to a tunnel, focused on the doc.
"I don't do so well in doctor's offices," I manage. I clear my throat hard. Again. It doesn't help. I can't get enough air in my lungs.
She murmurs something to the nurse. "Are you taking anything for anxiety?"
"Klonopin." My brain, at least, has that information readily available.
"When is the last time you took it?"
My brain scatters, searching for the information. It's noon. I know that because I'm supposed to be with Beth right now. Instead, I'm freaking the fuck out in the doctor's office. "First thing this morning. Six, I think." Ballpark, anyway. I don’t tell her I took two, though. That I keep to myself.
Then next thing I know, a small plastic cup is being pressed into my hand. A tiny white pill rattles in the bottom of it. The medication dissolves on my tongue. The silence in the room is heavy and thick and awkward. I'm a goddamned disgrace. LT would be so fucking proud of the kid he helped get into one of the to
p schools in the country shaking like a shitting dog in front of a doc.
All because I got a little banged up downrange.
Jesus.
The panic recedes, leaving the anger in its place. I'll take the anger. I can use the anger. The panic shuts everything down and makes me useless.
"So, want to talk about what happened?" The doc speaks slowly and quietly.
"That's kind of the reason I'm here." I can't talk now. My thoughts are no longer racing. My hands are steady now. "I want to figure out how to get some stuff straightened out."
"What kind of stuff?"
I shift and pull the hospital gown off my shoulders. I know what the scars look like. I know the muscles beneath them still burn most days, some days worse than others.
I know exactly what the nightmares feel like. The trapped feeling as the fire melts my uniform into my skin.
The doctor's fingers are cold where I can feel her touch. There are a lot of dead nerve endings there now.
Beth hasn't seen my shoulder. I managed to keep them hidden in the dark and the shadows that night at my place. It had been all about her. I'm glad, because despite my best efforts at convincing myself that I'm fine, that I've left the war behind, I am clearly not fine. Not by a long shot.
"The tissue has healed well. How's your range of motion?"
I zone out now. Her questions bounce off the haze of the anxiety meds. Answer all of them on autopilot as she tests my motor skills, my strength. My left arm isn’t as strong as my right. It probably never will be again, no matter how hard I work on it.
"You reported you're still taking Tramadol for pain as well as Ambien for sleep and Klonopin for anxiety. Anything else?"
My mouth is dry. I'm not sure if I can find the words I need. They're stuck in the base of my throat, right behind my Adam's apple.
"I..." I swallow again. "I need to...are there different meds I can take?" A deep breath that doesn't fill my lungs. "I don't like how I feel on them."
"And how is that?"
Dead. Numb. Like I'm running through life at the bottom of a pool of Jell-O. "Just not myself," I say instead. Because saying any of those things would have triggered a trip to the funny farm with the military. In the past, any mental health problems that escalated and were reported to the docs were dealt with quickly. Usually they got the individual sent out of the unit and the force.
Before I Fall Page 11
