How long was it since I’d allowed myself to be vulnerable around another person, to feel the combination of friendship, attraction, and support?
I’d always told myself I didn’t need any of that. Because I had Evan.
It had always been just Evan and me. It’s what always made sense for the past six years of my life.
I’d had Evan since I was eighteen, and he’d been my safety net, the one consistent thing in my life. He’d always loved me no matter what, and he brought joy into my life that no relationship ever could.
But now Evan was telling me I didn’t need that safety net anymore.
Perhaps he was right. There were times when I felt a lifetime of isolation stretching out before me, as endless as the sea.
Maybe I needed to burn my boats, jump into the water, and see where it would take me.
But was it too late?
At the sound of footsteps approaching, I looked up.
“I’ve come bearing gifts.” Julian smiled, appearing with coffee, croissants, and donuts.
“Thank you.” I accepted the coffee gratefully, along with a buttery croissant.
“You bet.” He sank into the seat beside me.
For a little while, we sat in companionable silence, sipping our piping-hot coffee.
After a time, Julian said, “You holding up all right?”
“No.” Maybe. “Yes,” I murmured, even though I wasn’t. The loss of control was unnerving. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. Not now. I had to be as strong as I could until I knew Evan was better. “I’ll be glad when this is all over.”
“It will be,” he assured me.
I sighed. “I just want this to be over in a New York minute, but it’ll probably be a New York year.”
“Talk to me,” he said lightly. “It’ll help take your mind off things… make time go by a little faster.”
“Okay.” I sighed again. “Ask me anything.”
There was a brief silence before he spoke again. “Is it tough? Raising Evan all by yourself?”
I wanted to say, “Tough doesn’t even begin to describe it, and not just because of the financial insecurity, the late-night trips to the ER alone, and the absence of someone to share the joy with, someone who loves my son the way I do and revels in his accomplishments. The tough part is there are no breaks. There is never enough time in a day and no matter how much I love my son, I get tired and I get sick and I want time to myself. But there is never any time for me. And sometimes I just feel like yelling out loud that maybe I’m not as strong as I think I am. The toughest part is working tirelessly to keep him happy, secure, and healthy, and at the end of the day feeling like that was not enough… that really hurts, especially right now when I don’t even know if his health will improve after the procedure.”
Instead, I said, “It is. But it gets easier. If it’s one thing, I’ve learned that I can rely on myself and my own judgment.”
“Has Evan’s dad ever come back into the picture?”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “Never.” I no longer felt like talking about Evan’s dad, so I turned the tables back on Julian. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”
“Sure,” he said easily. “What would you like to know?”
Chewing on my bottom lip, I was quiet for a heartbeat before I said, “At the Christmas party, you told me a little about your time in the army. I’m curious to know more.” I hesitated before adding, “Only if you’re willing to share.”
He was slow to answer, and when he did, his voice was decidedly quiet. “I’m okay talking about it as long as you’re okay with listening to my stories. Some of them may be hard for you to stomach.”
“I’m sure I can handle it,” I told him, but as soon as the words had slipped from my mouth, I wasn’t so sure anymore.
“Don’t worry.” He smiled. “I’m not gonna take you anywhere I can’t go myself.”
When I looked into his eyes and nodded with understanding, he drew a long, deep breath and exhaled.
In time, he began to talk. He told me about his platoon, Bravo Company, and the friends he’d served with. The jokes they shared, the laughs they had during their downtime. He talked about his combat missions in Iraq, how he’d lived every day with the reality that he might be killed, or that he might kill others. He spoke about how he’d felt—that painful moment of awareness—when he filled out the form listing his next of kin. He told me about a pretty girl he’d met at a ROTC ball before he shipped out, then moments later he talked about a young Iraqi girl he saw dead on the roadside who reminded him of her. He told me about the friends he’d lost, how cold their transfer cases felt as he loaded them onto the waiting airplanes. And he told me about how good it felt to come home to see his family.
When he finished, I just stared at him, at a loss for words. Listening to all his stories—both the good and the bad—was hard. I tried to listen without judgment, without trying to fix anything. I didn’t discount his feelings. I let him feel what he felt.
In the end, I got to see a different side to Julian. A side I had a feeling he rarely ever shared. It made me look at him with fresh eyes. And I felt touched, honored even, that he trusted me enough to share his stories and his burdens with me.
In the next breath, he said, “I can only speak for myself, though. Everyone’s experience is different. I was a different person when I joined the army, and I’m a different person now that I’m home. Yeah, the war was enough to make anyone crazy, but that does not mean all of us who served come back home likely to flip out and hurt ourselves or hurt others at any moment.”
“I know that,” I said quietly. “You just seem so… so normal.”
He laughed—a harsh, humorless sound. “Trust me, I used to be one miserable fuck.”
“Like me?”
His reply was a soft chuckle through the silence.
“How do you do it?” I asked. “How do you keep on going?”
He gave a short shrug. “I just do, I guess. All you can do is keep going until you can’t anymore, right?”
I found myself nodding even though he wasn’t expecting an answer. “So what changed you?”
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t let others decide who I am, who I’ve become. I’m not a hero, and neither am I a villain. I take full responsibility for what I’ve done, for what I did over there… things I’m not proud of. I don’t need the media or the politicians or people telling me what the ‘meaning’ of my experience was. I decide what my military experience means for myself.”
A question hovered on my lips, but before I could ask it, Julian said, “Some days it means something, it feels like it mattered, and others days it means nothing at all… like none of it even mattered. All I know is that I want to give meaning to my life now. And I want to be present for the people around me—my sister, my niece, people I care about.”
“Your parents?”
“They… uh.” He paused. “They’re not around anymore. They passed twelve years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked down, staring at the Styrofoam cup in his hands. “You know, I aspire to be like my dad. He wasn’t perfect, but he was always present for those around him. He was always there for me, for my sis.” Another pause. “I want to live my life like that.”
I thought about what he’d said. He seemed so sure about what he wanted, where he was going. He even seemed so certain of the choices he’d made. And I found myself wanting to know more. “Why did you decide to go into advertising? That’s a huge leap, to go from the Army to Advertising.”
His mouth lifted in a half smile, making him look so charismatic, so charming. “Who wouldn’t want to go into Advertising? It’s a sexy industry.” His cynical tone was not lost on me.
These days, the advertising world was far from sexy. It was a far cry from the heyday of Madison Avenue, when Don Draper and his company came up with ad campaigns over three martini lunches.
“But really, why did you?” I asked
. “That’s quite a big change.”
His gaze turned inward as he pondered. “Remember what Evan said earlier? About burning your boats?” I nodded, and he went on, “Well, I did. I left the army after five years of active duty. I’d joined the service straight out of high school at seventeen because I wasn’t ready for college and I was at a place in my life where I just wanted to get the fuck out of here. So I did. And when I left the service, the army was all I’d known. But I knew I didn’t want to go back.” He paused. “I could not go back.”
“So you burned your boats.”
“Yep.” He gave a single nod. “I put myself in a situation that scared the shit out of me. And I guess it kind of worked out. It surprises me, you know… the things I’ll do, the confidence I suddenly pull out of nowhere, the challenges I’ll face when failure isn’t an option and everyone is expecting the best from me. And,” he added with a wry grin, “my sister, Vivian, expected nothing but the best from me.”
“So you started out as a copywriter?”
“Uh-huh. But it wasn’t a conscious decision. I just knew I wanted to do funny, edgy work. Before that, I co-wrote a book with a friend of mine. That didn’t pan out too well, but I learned that I enjoyed writing copy and telling stories. And I like operating on adrenaline. New ideas excite me, and advertising—be it design, production, promotion, packaging—it’s all about telling stories.”
“It is,” I agreed.
“So…” he continued. “I learned to tell stories people could relate to. I learned to write toward a deadline, to let the adrenaline pick me up and carry me through a campaign. I know it’s fast-paced, but it’s fresh and I love every minute of it. Every day is different; every project is different. I’m kind of a knowledge junkie, so getting to immerse myself in say… baby diapers one day, and the next day looking at the inner workings of mayonnaise culture is pretty awesome if you ask me. And I like to stay busy, I like to stay focused, I like to stay creative, and there is always so much to do, so much to create, and I get the freedom to think as big and as outrageous as I want. I’m not limited by medium or platform. The canvas of possibilities is vast.”
“Whoa.” I blinked. “I can tell you really—really—love your job.”
“Hey.” He rubbed the back of his neck and flashed a self-deprecating grin. “It’s the greatest shot of adrenaline.”
As I watched how his face had lit up when he talked about his work, a sort of realization dawned on me… how close he could have come to actually losing his job—all because of me.
While I’d never filed an official complaint against Julian, and had no intention of ever doing so, the fact that I even accused him of sexual harassment was so grave and so severe that it could have cost him his job.
A job he was so passionate about.
Now I felt awful. I felt like an ass.
“Julian,” I said softly. “I’m really sorry for what I said.” My temples flushed hot and I prayed he wouldn’t notice. “You know, about—”
“I know.” After a drawn-out pause, he quickly put me out of my misery. “Don’t worry about it. It’s all water under the bridge now.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that. And I appreciate you being here for me.”
“Anytime, Sadie.” His answer was swift and sure. “I’m always here for you.”
“Really?” The note of hope and longing in my voice surprised me.
“Really.”
A beat passed.
Then another.
There was a lull in our conversation, and I didn’t know how to fill it.
It seemed as if he didn’t know how to fill it either.
In the lingering silence, Julian sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
He looked first at his hands in front of him, clasped together, and then gradually his eyes rose to meet mine.
The directness of his gaze made my knees weak, forcing me to look down at my own hands. It had been years since I’d had to flirt.
I found myself wondering what to do, how to act, what to say.
“I don’t mean to be difficult.” My words were awkward and stilted. “Really, I don’t.”
“Of course you do,” he said in a playful voice. “It’s one of your charms.”
When I lifted my gaze, I caught him staring at me with such hunger in his eyes, such gentleness in his smile, that I couldn’t help but smile back at him.
Burn your boats, Mom. I heard Evan’s commanding voice in my heart.
I thought it might have been too late.
But maybe it wasn’t too late after all.
Chapter Sixteen
Three weeks after Evan’s cardiac catheterization to place a stent in his left pulmonary artery, the PLE symptoms were gone. Evan recovered beautifully. And throughout the whole ordeal, Julian was by my side, helping me weather the storm. Calm in a crisis—that was him.
Evan’s recovery was a difficult time, and the intensity of emotions and events brought us closer much more quickly. Julian had seen me an emotional wreck, and Evan’s illness was as real as it got, but he hadn’t run for the hills.
When it came down to it, I think it was Julian’s understanding, his patience, and acceptance that helped me feel comfortable with the reality of my life.
I was a working mom with responsibilities and he was okay with that.
He was also okay with the fact that I was a loner. An introvert. I didn’t like to go out and socialize. I didn’t party or go to bars or do much over the weekends, and Julian never made me feel bad about who I was. He wanted to spend time with me all the time.
And he was supportive in all my dealings with my mom. More importantly, he never complained about the time I spent with Evan and seemed happy to devote plenty of his own time, too.
He saw how hectic my life was, how much I had to fit into each day, and he came to dinner most nights ready to roll his sleeves up and help out with anything. He was always the first to reach the sink and he swore that loading the dishwasher and washing the pots and pans was a form of relaxation for him.
After dinner, he’d sit at our kitchen table and help Evan out with his math homework. Then later, he’d drive my mom to her AA meetings while I put Evan to bed. Most nights, he was content to just stay in and massage my tired shoulders as I folded laundry or watched TV.
“Aren’t you bored with all this?” I asked him one night after Evan was in bed and my mom had retired to her room, leaving us alone in the living room. “I don’t go out, I don’t do anything fun. My life isn’t exciting. My daily grind consists of all the mundane things that make up a day… working all day, cooking and cleaning up, folding laundry, helping Evan with homework, sharing stories of the day. Wouldn’t you rather be out at a club or something?”
“Nah,” he said. “I mean, I used to like that scene… going out for drinks with my buddies, the music, everything. But the last couple years, I go to a club and I kinda wish I was home.” He searched my eyes and smiled, his face lighting with warmth. “And in these last couple weeks, I go home and I wish I was with you.”
At his words, I felt a blush rise on my neck and throat.
He reached for my hand. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? Letting me into your home. Into your life?”
Looking down at our joined hands, fingers entwined, I said quietly, “Before you… before this, I rarely said yes to myself. Evan’s needs, my mom’s problems, they always came first. I made no time for me, no time for any relationship. The ridiculous thing is I now realize I was the one creating those rules.”
“And Evan…” he said carefully. “How does he feel about you breaking all your rules?”
“He couldn’t be happier.” I bit back a smile. “Especially since he’s the one who encouraged me to break them.”
“Big E is the man,” he said with a laugh. “And I owe him one.” He was silent for a moment before continuing. “The other day, he asked me if I felt butterflies in my stomach when I was with you.”
&nb
sp; “Oh yeah?” Nervous energy had my mouth drying out. “And what did you tell him?”
“I told him that when I’m with you, I feel the bears, the elk, the deer.” He gazed into my eyes as his fingers lightly traced the shape of my lips. “I feel the entire forest in my stomach when I’m with you.”
Emotion pinched sweetly in my chest. “The entire forest, eh?”
He sent me a lazy grin. An utterly charming and devastating grin. “The entire fucking forest.”
“And,” I said, my breath catching as his gaze latched on to my lips as I fought to draw in air. “What did Evan say to that?”
“He said: Whoa! You must really like my mom.”
I began to giggle, then to laugh.
In the silence that followed, the sexual tension heightened to a painful state as he stared at me without speaking, his eyes blazing with heat and desire and a deeper emotion that made my heart beat hard and fast in my chest.
It was something like relief when he lowered his lips to mine, his breathing slow and thick as he kissed me, hesitant at first, but growing more confident as I responded.
Closing my eyes, I melted into him, losing myself in the feel of him, losing myself in the kiss… it was slow and long and sensual, and he gave a satisfied groan as I slid my tongue between his lips.
Too soon, he broke the kiss and his eyes roamed my face as if he were reading my thoughts, or wanted to.
In the heated silence, I stared up at him, confident and certain that I wanted this, that I wanted him. Instinctively, my hands slid behind his neck and he crushed his mouth to mine, devouring me with the demanding pressure of his lips.
It was a hard, starving, bruising kiss.
Nothing else mattered except his lips slanting across mine, his tongue stroking deep into my mouth, probing, thrusting, tasting, exploring.
I kissed him back just as passionately, my hands slipping under his shirt, skimming down the slope of his muscled back, trying to pull him closer as my body arched beneath him, aching to feel skin against skin.
As if reading my mind, he slid his fingers beneath the straps on my shoulders and dragged them down my arms until my camisole was bunched around my waist and my breasts were freed.
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