Return to Glory (Hqn)

by Sara Arden

  Jack was immediately at war with himself. He knew Scott had always had a thing for Bets. It made Jack think about her, them together, about her feeding another man, bringing him back to life the way she’d helped him. He wanted to lash out. To find a place to spill all the pain that welled inside him.

  He wished things could go back to being black-and-white. Good and bad. Right and wrong. Only maybe things had never been so simple.

  “Thanks, Connie.” He accepted the dish from her hands.

  “Have you started writing that book?”

  “No. I don’t have anything to say that people want to read.”

  “Betsy would read it. I would read it.” She paused for a moment. “This might be a stupid question, but are you okay, kiddo?”

  Leave it to Connie to mother him when he needed it most, but wanted it least. “Yeah.”

  He wasn’t, of course, but he didn’t need to spill his venom at her. She was a nice woman who’d brought him bacon.

  “Let’s get you inside, then, and settled with a nice plate.” Connie didn’t wait for him to invite her in; she just took charge and shuffled him along.

  He’d thought for so long that Glory didn’t have anything to offer him, that the only thing that was here was Betsy and memories of a life he couldn’t have. Part of that was still true, but Connie made him see how much more there really was.

  These were the people he’d fought for, killed for and almost died for. How could he ever have thought there was nothing for him here?

  It was too much. He didn’t know how to process being so full of darkness, but so full of all of these other emotions, as well.

  “It’s kismet that you came home when you did. It’s still warm.” Connie set the dish on the stove and bustled around his kitchen as if it were her own as she made him a plate and handed it to him. Then she frowned. “Jack McConnell, there’s a layer of dust an inch thick in here.” She started flinging windows open and then foraged for cleaning supplies under the sink.

  When she opened the cabinet, she was greeted with a stash of empty bottles of Old North Bend. He steeled himself for her recriminations, for her gasp of horror, for anything besides what she did.

  “If you get me a box, I can take these to the recycling center on Second Street.” There was no pity on her face, or judgment.

  “There’s one on the back porch.”

  “Good. Now sit down and eat before it gets cold.”

  Jack didn’t see any other option than to do as he was told. So he sat down on the couch while Connie hummed as she dusted. It was with great anticipation that he took the first bite. As he chewed, it was like chewing gum after all the flavor was gone. There was no taste, maybe a hint of salt from the bacon.

  It wasn’t what he’d hoped, but it was better than ash.

  He realized that’s what his life had become. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was better than what he’d had before.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Jack said after he’d finished his bite.

  “Of course I do. You don’t have your mother here to look after you, and the look on your face tells me that Betsy won’t be over to do it. If I was gone, I’d hope that some dear soul would take it on herself to give Scott a little TLC every now and again. We all need it once in a while.”

  He wasn’t hungry, but he made himself take another bite of the mac ’n’ cheese anyway.

  After she dusted, she swept and then tackled the kitchen. Opening his freezer and seeing all of the covered dishes, she raised an eyebrow. “Is that Francine Kirk’s green bean casserole of doom? Oh my Lord, there’s two. What’s she trying to do, kill you?” Connie clucked and pulled the casserole dishes out and stacked them on the counter. “I’ll dispose of these for you and no one ever has to be the wiser.”

  She continued to poke through his freezer. “Alma Bloom’s potato salad. That’s a keeper. Brenda’s broccoli cheese rice casserole, no. If you put that in your microwave, you’ll think there’s a dirty diaper in your kitchen.” She added a container to her stack. “Jemima Flynn’s pineapple upside-down cake, you should definitely eat that.”

  He didn’t want any baked goods that weren’t Betsy’s. “I won’t eat it. You can take that, if you like.”

  “Are you sure?” Connie’s eyes narrowed in a predatory fashion. She reminded Jack of a cat who’d just caught a particularly plump mouse.

  “If it doesn’t come from Sweet Thing...” he confessed with a shrug.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “No.”

  “That girl loves you, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “You love her, too, in case you hadn’t figured that out yet.”

  Yeah, he’d figured it out. That was the problem.

  She sighed. “Youth is most definitely wasted on the young.”

  Connie went back to digging through his freezer. When she was finished, she stacked the dishes, and put the bottles in the box she’d found on the back porch.

  “Let me carry that for you,” Jack offered.

  “No, I’m stronger than I look. You sit there and enjoy your warm, full tummy and have a nap. Things will look better later. I promise.” She carried the box outside. “If you need anything, I left my number on your fridge.”

  Connie closed the door behind her.

  Jack thought about the two unopened jugs of Old North Bend he had sitting in the garage. Things would definitely look better when he was too drunk to see them.

  He went to the garage and pulled out one of the jugs. He unscrewed the cap, anticipating the burn that took his breath and his pain away.

  He stopped halfway to his lips.

  And then poured the contents of the jug down the sink in the kitchen.

  He didn’t want the whiskey.

  He didn’t want to be numb.

  But he didn’t want to be in pain, either.

  What he did want was to feel normal. That seemed like an easy thing, to acknowledge that in his own head, but after everything, it was much easier to focus on what he didn’t want than what he did. Because that meant dreaming, wanting and hoping.

  Jack wasn’t sure he knew how to do those things anymore.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  BETSY FINALLY SURRENDERED. She realized she couldn’t keep chasing a man who didn’t want her.

  That didn’t change the fact that it cut her. It cut her so deeply that it broke something inside her. Something more vital than her heart.

  She couldn’t even find solace in her kitchen anymore, as evidenced by the rather foul lump of dough that lurked like a blob from a horror movie on the prep table in front of her.

  The same prep table where Jack had last touched her.

  She wanted to scrub it again, as if that would scrub away all memory of him, of every time he touched her, and every time he said goodbye.

  Betsy shoved the misshapen dough ball off the table and into the trash with a furious swipe of her hand. It was the third one.

  She cursed.

  “Whoa, I think you need a Concealed Carry to be packing that kind of heat.”

  Betsy looked up to see India standing in the doorway. She managed to a small smile. “Shouldn’t you be harassing my brother?”

  “I came by for my usual but saw the closed sign out front. You okay?”

  Betsy wanted to say that she was fine, but she wasn’t. The words just wouldn’t come. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s Jack, isn’t it? I’m sure that you did more than you know for him. I think he’s closer to the man he wants to be now than when he first came home.”

  “Sometimes I think this is my punishment.”

  “Why would you ever think that?”

  Betsy looked up into India’s eyes. “Because I wan
ted him. Because I thought that now that he’s broken, I could finally have him.”

  “Betsy—”

  “No, it’s true. When I started this, I convinced myself that I was doing this for him. That I was settling a debt, but I wasn’t. It was utterly and completely selfish. This is what I deserve.”

  “I don’t think Jack would agree with you.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t, but that doesn’t make it any less true.” She sagged against the table. “What am I supposed to do?”

  India picked up one of the cookies that was still on the cookie sheet. Betsy hadn’t gotten around to dumping the batch yet. It was why she’d closed the store. Everything she tried came out tasting like dirt.

  “I wouldn’t eat that.”

  “Whatever.” India inspected it, turned it this way and that in the light before popping it into her mouth. Suddenly her nosed wrinkled and she gesticulated wildly, looking much like a bird trying to take flight.

  Betsy pointed at the trash can and India spat out the mangled, partially chewed cookie. “What the hell was in that, raw sewage?”

  Betsy shrugged. “Angst, I guess. Heartbreak, with a side of self-recrimination.”

  “It tastes like crap and is completely unacceptable. This is your career. You can’t bomb it over some guy. Even if it is the sainted Jack McConnell.”

  “I bombed my chance in France. I should at least do the same for Jack.”

  India narrowed her eyes. “Now you’re being stupid. You weren’t stupid before, but that, that was stupid. You didn’t really want Paris. If you did, you would’ve found a way to make it happen, Betsy. Nothing ever stops you from getting what you want.”

  “How can you say that to me?” Betsy erupted. She knew India was just trying to help her and be supportive, but she didn’t want support. She wanted someone to fix this, because she didn’t know how. Not just Jack, but everything. “You don’t know what it was like. Everyone knew what happened in Paris. Before I came home, I had three interviews set up. London, New York and even Kansas City. Do you know what each one said to me? They wanted to meet the bouchon de mort girl. The death cap girl.”

  “And I say again, you didn’t really want it. Only three interviews? How many chefs are in the world? How many restaurants? You chose three. Let them speak to you. Let them be curious. The Betsy I know would’ve used her notoriety to make eating her food a sport for adrenaline junkies.”

  “Cooking is different. There are few doors and they rarely open. When they close, they stay closed.”

  “This pity party is grosser than that cookie.”

  Betsy sagged further. “You’re right. That was an invite to the pity party.” She sighed. “I don’t know what to do with all of these feelings.”

  “Well, whatever you do, stop putting them in the pastry.”

  “Where else should I put them? Jack doesn’t want them and neither do I.”

  “I thought we decided this was gross and we weren’t going to do it anymore. How about what are you going to do to get your man?”

  “He. Does. Not. Want. Me.”

  “Uh, I beg to differ, Miss Better Than Sex Donut. You can’t say he wasn’t the inspiration for those.”

  “He’s pushed me away so many times.”

  “And he’s going to keep pushing.” India pursed her lips. “Believe me, I know. People like you and Caleb are utterly terrifying to people like Jack and me. You’ve got this surety about you the world will always come through, and for us, it hasn’t.”

  “Not if you don’t let it.”

  “Exactly.” India gave her the big sister glower. “Now get out of this funk. I need my donuts. You know aside from Sunday dinner with your family, that’s the only food I get that doesn’t come in a box.”

  “You lie like a rug. Caleb cooks for you.”

  “Since he bought that house, my house, it’s been pizza and takeout. Every spare minute goes to that house.”

  Betsy was convinced that Caleb had bought that house for India. She couldn’t believe that India hadn’t figured it out yet. It was as obvious to Betsy as a cat would be at a dog show.

  Maybe she had figured it out, maybe that was why she was so scared? It was so much easier to think about India and Caleb than it was her own mess with Jack, even though he was never very far from her mind.

  * * *

  JACK WASN’T SURE how he felt about doing a private session with Andrew, but at nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning, he found himself standing outside his office ready for his appointment.

  After what had happened with Betsy, he’d accepted that the support group wasn’t going to be enough.

  “Good to see you, McConnell. I’m glad you made it.” Andrew opened the door and ushered him inside.

  “I almost didn’t.”

  “Many don’t. Sometimes it take two or three appointments before people actually come inside.” He motioned to a chair to indicate where Jack should sit.

  “So, how do we start?”

  Andrew sat in the seat opposite him. “We just talk. Maybe start out with what caused you to seek a private appointment and what you want out of our sessions.”

  “I want to be healthy.” His answer was automatic.

  “What does healthy mean to you?”

  “It means that thunderstorms are just weather phenomena and my brain and body occupy the same space at the same time.”

  “Can you expound on that?”

  “I don’t know. It was coming back to me slowly, but that’s stopped.”

  “Do you know why?” he prodded gently.

  “I stopped seeing her.” Jack sighed and knew he’d have to tell Andrew what had happened if he expected this to do him any good. “I had another incident where I almost hurt her.”

  “What was her name?”

  Jack didn’t want to say it. Saying it made everything more real, but he supposed that was what he was there for. “Betsy.”

  “Did Betsy break it off with you after this incident?”

  “No.”

  “Then are you sure that she was in danger?”

  “We were having sex, or our bodies were. I bit my lip and it bled, and then I couldn’t tell the difference between the past and present.” He tried to block out all the things that those words made him feel. Shame, anger, pain...

  “Jack, blood is a very powerful trigger. It may happen again the next time you see blood. It might trigger your memories, if not a more visceral reaction, for the rest of your life. That’s not uncommon.”

  “I don’t want to be common. I want to be well.”

  “Part of being well is accepting that you’re not perfect and that you don’t have to be.”

  “No, maybe I don’t need to be perfect. But even as damaged as I am, I’m still a weapon. I need a safety, just like a gun.”

  Andrew nodded. “You’re on the right track. Can you see the difference in your thinking between now and when you first came home? Between now and when you first came to group?”

  Jack looked at him blankly.

  “When you came to group, you said you were useless. Now you acknowledge that you’re a weapon. Weapons have purpose, Jack.”

  “To kill.”

  “And to protect,” Andrew corrected gently.

  Only, he couldn’t help bringing the comparison back to a gun. “A broken weapon is the most dangerous. Guns misfire, hang-fire, squib-load...and they don’t do the job and can result in the death of the wielder.”

  “This is true, but you’re not a gun. You’re a human being, and you’re not broken. You’d be broken if you could experience everything that’s happened to you, everything that you’ve had to do, without requiring some kind of coping mechanism. Many people experience only one of the major traumas you’ve endured and need help
to work through it. You’ve lost a limb, your family, your career, your worldview and the foundations you’ve been building your life upon. Needing a little help to rebuild isn’t unreasonable.”

  “It feels like it is. It feels like I could do it if I was stronger. If I was harder. If I was more.”

  “That’s because you were spec ops. You’re all taught that if you’re stronger, harder and more, that you can tear down the world brick by brick with your bare hands. Some of you do. And when you’re deployed, you need to believe that. You’re real-life superheroes, but it’s different when you come home. The cape comes off and the world you thought you knew is gone. It will never be the same, because you’re looking at it through eyes that have seen hell, not to put too fine a point on it. How can anything ever be real again?” Andrew nodded. “It’s a process.”

  “You sound as if you know from personal experience.”

  “I was in the first Desert Storm and the army paid for my education. It’s why it’s so important for me to work with veterans. But we’re not here to talk about me. This isn’t my time, it’s your time. We’ve talked about what you want out of our sessions. Let’s talk about the bigger picture. What do you want out of life? What are your plans?”

  Betsy. She was all he wanted. The day he spent with her, the way she felt in his arms. He wanted that forever, and he knew that she’d give it to him. No matter what it cost her.

  “I hadn’t gotten past roulette,” he admitted.

  “Oh I think you have. I think when I asked that question you thought about your Betsy. That’s okay to want to be with her, but I have to advise against basing your happiness on the actions of another person.”

  Jack knew that. In any event, he’d already said his goodbye. He knew this was the right thing. He knew it down in his soul because it hurt.

  “I want you to think about that before our next session. Think about where you are, where you want to be and how to get there.”