Overgrown vegetation and trees made it hard to see. Had he missed the entrance?
“It’s a beautiful night,” she said.
Beautiful because she was here, in the flesh, finally, sharing it with him in person. His heart pounded; blood surged toward his groin. With an urgency he couldn’t control, Shane swerved onto the shoulder of the road, desperate to touch her and kiss her, get her naked and make love to her. Now. He’d waited so long. She smelled so good. No one would see.
But as he stopped the car something shifted.
The landscape around them changed. Trees and bushes disappeared, leaving a barren, shadowed nothingness as far as his eyes could see.
He heard something off in the distance.
Holy shit!
The rapid fire of automatic weapons. It couldn’t be. He was home with Brooke. On a date.
No, he wasn’t.
He recognized the hated sand and rocks.
Afghanistan.
Gunfire was getting louder, coming closer.
The shadows of dozens of insurgents appeared on the horizon, closing in fast.
He reached for his M16. It wasn’t there. His vest. Gone. A grenade. Anything.
Something flashed in the dark. A loud blast assaulted his eardrums. Heat. Fire. Smoke. Debris. The force of an explosion sent him flying, but not before he saw Brooke, still strapped into her seat, with her head blown off, same as his buddy Shep.
“Noooooo,” he cried out, soaring through the air. He couldn’t lose her. He landed with a painful thud that knocked the air from his lungs, surrounded by a plume of dust. So much dust. As soon as he could pull in a breath he screamed, “Brooke!” Maybe he’d been mistaken. She wasn’t dead because she wasn’t in Afghanistan. This was all a horrible dream. He tried to turn over, to crawl to the vehicle. His leg burned. He couldn’t move. “Medic. I need a medic.” But he needed Brooke more. “Brooke. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.”
Something cool touched his face.
“Shane, wake up.”
Brooke’s voice.
“I’m not dead,” she said. “I’m right here.” Her voice soothed him. “Wake up.” She kissed his cheek.
“You’re not dead,” he said, panting like he’d just run a marathon with a full ruck, feeling her head and face, verifying she told the truth. She had. Relief overwhelmed him.
“I’m not dead,” she repeated, covering his hands with hers. “I’m fine. You’re fine.”
He came fully awake, lying on his back on a couch. A television played quietly in the background. Someone knelt beside him. He held her face. Soft hands covered his. Brooke. He inhaled deeply to calm his pounding heart, taking in a whiff of her, letting her unique, wonderful scent flow through him.
He opened his eyes. Only one opened. To a blurred darkness. “What the hell?” He sat up, remembering he was home, in his parents’ house, he’d been wounded, lost an eye, couldn’t see. “My glasses. Where are my glasses?” He felt around his head, patted his chest and lap, fighting a rising panic.
“They’re right here.” Brooke placed his glasses in his hand. “You fell asleep. I moved them to the coffee table.”
Once he could see again he leaned back on the couch, letting his head follow, still trying to slow his breathing and heart rate. Then the embarrassment set in. She must think him a total nut job. “I’m sorry. I’m still adjusting to waking up and not being able to see.”
She sat down on his right side and cuddled in close. “It must be scary.”
It was, not that he’d admit that to her. “I can distinguish between light and dark.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “I can make out fuzzy shapes, but that’s it. Even with the corrective lens my vision isn’t twenty-twenty.”
“But with the glasses you see well enough to drive.”
Barely. “I meet the minimum requirements.”
“And your reading capability?”
“I have trouble with small print.” And fine detail. He picked up the clicker and pointed it at the TV, wanting to be done with this conversation. “Anything special you want to watch? HGTV?” Women liked that, right?
Not Brooke, apparently, because she paid no attention to the remodeling show, seeming to prefer looking up at him instead. “Tell me what happened in your dream.”
“I’d rather not. Look,” he pointed to the television. “What do you think about that cabinet color? I prefer them darker, and I’m not a fan of that particular hardware.” After hours and hours of watching home-makeover and home-buying shows deep into the night, Shane knew exactly how he wanted the kitchen in his new place—that he didn’t have yet—to look, which was kind of a laugh riot since other than heating stuff up in the microwave and making eggs, he didn’t cook. Maybe he’d start.
“I was in your dream,” Brooke said with single-minded determination.
“Okay, yes, you were in my dream.” He tried to distract her again. “What do you think about porcelain sinks? I lean more toward a stainless steel double sink. I wouldn’t mind one of those single oversized ones, though.” If that’s what the woman in his life wanted. Suddenly it became important to know Brooke’s preferences in the kitchen. “I answered your question now you answer mine.”
She gave it some thought. “I’d have to see how the sink looked with the countertop.”
Countertops. So many to choose from. “Everyone’s going granite these days, but I kind of like quartz, except it’s pricey. Soapstone is gaining popularity, but it’s a softer surface and requires some upkeep. Stainless steel is nice, but has more of an industrial feel, in my opinion. Butcher block’s an option, but it’d be last on my list. What about you?”
“Really?” She gave him a sideways glance. “That’s why you wanted me to come back down? So we could talk about kitchen countertops?”
Seemed a better choice than his visual limitations or his recurring nightmare.
Brooke reached for the remote, studied it for a few seconds, and hit the power button. He knew this because the room plunged into darkness with only a hint of light from the night-light at the bottom of the stairs, which was okay with him. He reached for her, pulling her onto his lap. “Round two?” he asked, nuzzling against the enticingly fragrant skin on her neck.
“I want your full attention,” she said.
“Trust me, honey, you’ve got it.” He kissed up to her chin.
She pulled away.
Not good.
“Tell me about your dream.” She pushed off his chest and slid from his lap.
Not good at all. “Why is it so important for you to know about my dream?” She sounded like the psych doc who kept bugging him at the hospital, and he was starting to regret asking her to keep him company.
“It didn’t sound like an enjoyable one, and maybe if you talk about it, you’ll stop having it.”
If only it were that easy. “Can we please let it rest? I’ve got enough on my mind at the moment.”
“In your dream you thought I died.” Brooke completely ignored his request. “Why?”
Shane leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his fingers together. He looked down toward his feet and let out a breath. “I don’t want to do this.” She’d throw PTSD at him and he did not have post-traumatic stress disorder, did not need medication or counseling or Brooke feeling sorry for him—or, worse, thinking him unstable.
“Tell me,” she said quietly. “Please.”
He let the silence drag on. Waited for Brooke to fill it or get frustrated and storm from the room.
She did neither.
And you know what? He decided to give her what she wanted, a peek inside of his head, to see how she’d react, to prove she wasn’t strong enough to handle a man like him. “You were in the vehicle with me when the RPG hit. The impact blew your head off…” He removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose trying to…Hell, he had no idea why. “In real life it was my buddy Shep sitting there. In my dream, it’s you.” The psyc
h doc insisted it had happened too quickly. It wasn’t possible for Shane to have actually witnessed Shep’s head being blown off when Shane had been catapulted from their vehicle on impact. But Shane had a vivid, gorily detailed memory of the event.
He felt her hand on his back a second before she sat up beside him. Then her arms were wrapped around his middle, her head rested on his upper arm. “Start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”
And there in the darkness, with Brooke’s arms holding him together, Shane did, starting from how routine the morning of the attack had been, and how he and Shep had been joking around on patrol, nothing out of the ordinary. Then boom. “It’s crazy,” he said, taking a break from his story. “The randomness of war. It doesn’t matter how good a soldier you are. Something as simple as where you sit or stand or the route you choose to take can be the difference between life and death.”
She tightened her arms around him.
“You see the bloody, shot up, blown-apart bodies of the dead and you feel lucky to not be among them.” He rubbed his hands together, a particular gruesome scene coming to mind. He shook his head to get rid of it, but the memories never left for good. They always lurked in the dark corners of his mind, waiting to reveal themselves as soon as he let down his guard.
“Then you get back to base and have time to think, and guilt sets in. What makes me so special? Why did I live when they didn’t?” A justifiable reason continued to elude him.
“Then you come home injured. Life isn’t anything like it used to be, you can’t move the same or see the same, you’re in pain, you can’t do the job you were trained to do—the job you love—your future options have dried up. And on really bad days, you start to think maybe you weren’t one of the lucky ones after all, because it feels like dying would have been easier than living.”
There. He said it. Put it all out there. Let her know exactly how he was feeling. He waited for her to spew the typical rah-rah nonsense, “Of course you’re lucky to be alive.” “It’s going to get better, you’ll see.” “Don’t think about the bad things. Focus on the good.”
But instead, Brooke removed her arms, slid away, and turned to face him in the dark. “Wow. That’s surprising. I never took you for someone who looked for the easy way out. I thought you were a fighter.”
Her words got him thinking. When had he stopped pushing through the pain of workouts with the goal of being stronger today than he was yesterday? When had he stopped working hard and always striving to do his best, to be the best? When had he stopped fighting to get his life back? When had he given up?
“And your future options haven’t dried up. There are jobs you could do.”
The momentary return of his motivation left him. He slouched back on the couch. “Yeah, if I’m okay with going from serving my country to serving burgers, which I’m not, by the way.”
“I’ve done some research. The VA has educational and career counseling. You could go back to school on the GI Bill.”
“I hated school and didn’t do all that good in it.”
“Now you have me. I’ll help you.”
“You won’t be here.” His words hung in the air between them, an ever-present reminder their time together would soon come to an end. Part of him hoped she would contradict his statement, maybe offer to stick around for a while. Forever.
How selfish was that? Brooke deserved more than the small, limited life he could give her. A fact she apparently agreed with, because for once she kept quiet.
After a few uncomfortable minutes, both of them sitting still in the dark, she said, “You may be having that dream because deep down you’re worried about losing me like you lost Shep. But that’s not going to happen. We don’t have to—”
“Stop.” Yes they did have to stop seeing each other and corresponding. Because after meeting her in person, nothing short of having her in his life full-time, exclusively, would work for him. And that was out of the question. “Please, spare me your amateur dream analysis.”
“All I’m saying is—”
“You want me in your life so you can keep thinking of me as your long-distance boyfriend? So you can continue to use me to avoid dating the men your mom picks out for you?”
“That’s not—”
“Maybe you want us to meet up a couple of times a year for some hot sex. I could be your secret boyfriend. We’ll have a wild weekend, then you’ll go back to your world and I’ll come back to mine. You know, until you find someone more suitable.”
She sat up. “Why would you say such a thing?”
Because he couldn’t keep her. He wasn’t good enough, and when she left, she’d be gone from his life for good. Exactly like Shep and Tommy and so many of his other friends.
“I’m not fit to be around people right now,” he said. “Maybe you should go upstairs.”
She scooted to the edge of the couch and hesitated. “Is that what you want?”
No! “Yes.”
He listened to her hushed footsteps climbing the stairs. The bedroom door closed. Shane sat in the dark in the TV room, feeling more alone than he’d ever felt in his life.
Chapter Nineteen
On Sunday morning Brooke hurried to shower and dress for Tommy’s service. Patsy would need help to load her desserts into a friend’s van for delivery to Sal’s Place, where the post-memorial luncheon would be held.
In a sign that didn’t bode well for the day, she ran into Charlotte at the bottom of the stairs. Once again she scrutinized Brooke with an expression of distaste. “You look just like the priss who stole my Danny,” Charlotte snapped, but quietly so only Brooke would hear. “All sweet and innocent, helpless, and in need of a man to take care of you. It makes me sick.”
Sweet and innocent, okay. But she wasn’t helpless, and she took care of herself. “Well, I’m not her, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop treating me like I am.” Brooke stood tall. Years of verbal sparring with her sisters had made her exceptionally accomplished and confident in fending off a verbal assault. “And paying attention to my appearance, being kind to others, and preferring to use my grown-up words rather than violence to settle a conflict in no way makes me helpless and in need of a man to take care of me.”
Charlotte smiled and called out, “Seems your girl has some bite to her after all, little brother.”
Busy thinking how much she was starting to like being referred to as Shane’s girl, Brooke was caught by surprise when Charlotte jerked forward in a fake lunge. Luckily Brooke quickly recognized the maneuver for what it was and chose to step away rather than respond. Of course, Charlotte took her lack of action as weakness and laughed. “Not so tough after all, are you, princess?”
“Cut the shit, Charlotte,” Shane warned, limping out of the dining room still wearing the sweatpants Brooke had thrown down for him last night. This morning he’d added a matching sweatshirt. He pushed between them, positioning his large body so it blocked his sister from view, a move perfectly fine with Brooke. “Why are you all dressed up?” he asked.
“For the memorial service.” A black pencil skirt; black-and-white thick-striped knit tank with matching three-quarter-sleeve sweater; and black patent leather, peep-toe, sling-back pumps. “Is this not okay?”
“You’re not going,” he said.
“I most certainly am going.”
Charlotte appeared, rubbing her hands together. “This is going to be good.” She looked toward the kitchen and yelled, “First fight.”
Patsy walked out of the dining room holding a pie in each hand. “For heaven’s sake, Charlotte. If you’re not going to help, I don’t need you here.”
Jillian walked by carrying a huge platter of cookies. “Morning, Brooke. You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Brooke smiled and waved. “So do you.”
Okay, so Jillian and Charlotte both wore black slacks. But Brooke felt certain her outfit was completely appropriate for a church memorial service. Not too dressy. Not too casual. Classy without bei
ng snobbish. She’d spent a good deal of time picking it out before she’d left home.
“You look lovely, Brooke,” Patsy said.
“She’s not going,” Shane said to his mother.
“Of course she is.”
“It’s a full mass,” Shane said to Brooke. “At church.”
“Yes,” she looked up at him. “You’re mother mentioned that. You know I’ve been to mass before, for weddings and funerals.” Not too many, but a few. “I’ve attended Christmas services with Neve’s family. They let Jewish people in. I promise I won’t embarrass you.”
“It’s not that.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Why would you want to go when you don’t have to? I don’t even want to go.”
“Shane!” Patsy swatted him with her dishtowel.
“Well, it’s true.”
“I want to pay my respects to Tommy and show my support for his family. I want to be there for you.”
“Hundreds of people could show up, and the press. What if someone recognizes you?”
“You leave that to Lucy.” Patsy shooed him away. “Go get dressed. We leave in half an hour.”
With a perfectly timed entrance, Lucy hurried in through the front door, a big black tote bag slung over her shoulder, carrying a large rectangular case with metal trim. “Sorry I’m late.”
Thank goodness she wore a skirt and shoes similar to Brooke’s.
“What’s all that?” Shane asked.
“Ma asked me to make up Brooke so she doesn’t look like her picture on the Internet,” Lucy explained, looking confused. “Did I misunderstand?”
Please let her be referring to my school yearbook picture and not the negligee shot on Facebook.
“No, you did not misunderstand,” Patsy said. “The downstairs bathroom is all yours. Go work your magic. Daddy’s finishing his coffee in the kitchen. Charlotte, Jillian, and Matt are on dessert detail. And Shane and I are going to get dressed.”
“Okay,” he relented, grudgingly. “Lucy can give it a shot. But if I think there’s even the slightest chance someone will notice a resemblance to her picture online, Brooke is not going.”
Loving You Is Easy Page 19
