Alive Day: Homefront, Book 2

by Rebecca Crowley

  Whereas one glimpse of his hesitant smile and the responding flutter of her heart proved she was so far from okay she could barely remember what it looked like.

  It’d been almost exactly forty-eight hours since that moment in the back of the bookstore, when even the dust particles floating through the air had seemed to pause in reverence. The more time elapsed, the more confused she became, her emotions careening and colliding until she couldn’t decide whether Ethan was a beam of light pouring through the crack in a long-locked door or the latest testament to her persistent inability to make good romantic judgments.

  Just look at him—he’s a mess. Hernandez had resumed speaking, and Ethan stared at a point in the middle of the circle, his gaze unfocused, clenching and unclenching his hands in his lap, his jaw clamped so tightly that every muscle stood out. To her professionally trained eyes, a career-ending PTSD diagnosis was practically inscribed on his forehead, and his ability to dodge it only made her more wary. There were clear signs that he was abusing alcohol, had potentially impairing sleep patterns, and she’d bet money the onset of that intermittent hand tremor was post-deployment. He’d undergone unusually high combat exposure for an officer of his rank, and while he probably thought he could tough this out on his own, refusing to acknowledge his trauma and evading therapeutic intervention would make things much worse in the long run.

  And it wasn’t like her relationship track record wasn’t bad enough that she needed to add an unstable soldier to her list of conquests. Ever since the night she’d come to throbbing consciousness naked in Jake’s bed with a sickeningly telltale ache between her legs, she’d deliberately accepted dates with assholes so she could blame them when things went no further. On the few occasions her bad boys went good, she sabotaged the burgeoning relationship through withdrawal, avoidance and out-and-out rejection before it could threaten her pathetically fragile heart.

  She knew all this—she was a psychologist. She had no problem pointing her high-powered behavioral microscope at herself. That didn’t mean she knew how to change it, or necessarily wanted to.

  Of course she fantasized about finally meeting the right man, the one whose perfect combination of shielding masculinity and emotional transparency made her feel safe enough to open up. He was chivalrous yet progressive, rugged yet erudite and he’d love her brain as much as her body. She was solidly convinced he didn’t exist.

  Which made her silly infatuation with Ethan all the more ridiculous. Yes, he was good-looking and intriguing in a sort of Byronic way, but a healthy literature collection and one lingering touch did not make him boyfriend material.

  Even if that touch was so scalding that she could still feel every fraction of an inch of it, suspected she could pick out exactly which strands of hair he’d pushed aside, marveled that the heat of his fingertip hadn’t branded her skin, declaring his possession and daring anyone else to challenge it.

  A lull in the soldiers’ discussion snapped her back to the present and she bit her lower lip, ashamed of her daydreaming. They were about a third of the way through their biweekly sessions and today they were recollecting an offensive mission into the forest surrounding their camp. It happened early in the nine-month deployment and resulted in two fatalities and several more casualties, setting a grim precedent for the rest of their time in Afghanistan.

  “Thanks, Gabe.” She looked around the circle of somber faces. “Who else?”

  Jessop cleared his throat. Mia braced herself for another of his derailing exhortations about the glory of war, but when he spoke it was with uncharacteristic meekness.

  “I shot the goat,” he admitted softly. “We’d been in country five days and I hadn’t gotten to fire my weapon. When it came up to the perimeter it was limping and half-starved and I figured it was on its way out anyway. Artillery had bombed the crap out of the village the night before—those people had so little left, who knew they’d get so riled about one scrawny piece of livestock?”

  He ducked his head as if anticipating a blow, but after a few seconds of silence Watkins ventured, “We all knew it was you, Jessop. Even before we left on the forest maneuver. No one said anything because it shouldn’t have been a big deal. You’re right. It was just a goat.”

  “If I’d known they’d come back on us with that ambush, that we’d lose two guys because of it—” Jessop dropped his gaze to the floor, repeatedly shaking his head as he pounded his fist into his open palm.

  “That ambush wasn’t just about the goat,” Hernandez urged. “Infantry had been rummaging through that village looking for Taliban for months before we showed up.”

  “The goat mobilized the villagers,” Jessop insisted. “I fucked up their livelihood so they fucked up our guys.”

  “You don’t carry Wright and Evans any more than the rest of us. The Taliban killed them, not anyone in this room.” Watkins’s tone had an undercurrent of finality, and the room fell silent.

  Mia folded her hands in her lap, not wanting to rush the soldiers out of this moment of reflection, glad they were taking the time to process their experiences. After a minute she opened her mouth to reawaken the discussion when the squeak of a boot sole against the linoleum had every head in the room turning toward Ethan.

  “I carry Troy Wright. His death is on my shoulders.” Pitched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring unseeingly at his laced fingers, he muttered so quietly she could barely hear him.

  Mia quickly glanced around the room to assess the impact of this admission on the troops. The expressions of sympathetic but stubborn disagreement she found suggested this wasn’t the first time Ethan had laid claim to this particular casualty.

  “You know that’s not true,” Watkins admonished him gently. “We all thought we left you in a secure position while we advanced into the forest. No one could’ve predicted the insurgents would send armed scouts that far forward.”

  “I should’ve sent Wright out with the platoon. I shouldn’t have held him behind.”

  “He was excited to stay with you. He finally had his chance to put all that radio jamming training to use.”

  “And if I’d let him man the comms our positions would’ve been switched and I would’ve taken that hit.”

  “Which would’ve left us where? In the middle of an ambush, taking heavy fire from multiple angles, with no company commander whose situational awareness was broad enough to maneuver us out.” Watkins sat up straighter. “With respect, sir, the only man responsible for Wright’s death is the insurgent who pulled the trigger.”

  As Ethan shifted to face his NCO, his gaze inadvertently locked with hers, and in that split second Mia saw pain so raw and jagged it stole her breath. When he looked away she instinctively raised her hand to the flesh over her heart to put pressure on the wound, and it was only when her fingertips found the crisp cotton of her blouse that she realized she wasn’t actually bleeding.

  Ethan leaned back in his chair and flattened his palms on his thighs, shrugging on his commander’s composure so heavily Mia marveled that his spine didn’t buckle with the weight of it.

  “I suppose the point I’m trying to make is that we all make decisions in the field that have life-or-death consequences, whether we realize it at the time or not. We can’t know how different choices might’ve made things better—they might’ve made things a lot worse. We can’t change them either way, but we can acknowledge them. It was my call to keep Wright at my position, and while I still have a way to go before I’m okay with that, I feel like facing up to the results of that judgment isn’t a bad first step.” He looked at Mia. “Right?”

  She smiled. “Right.”

  By the time Mia concluded the session twenty minutes later, every soldier in the room had shared an unprecedentedly honest account of their experiences in combat and the effects on their lives back home. She couldn’t stop beaming as she bid farewell to each one in turn, bolstered by their progress and even more delighted that Ethan was there to witness it. She touched his sleeve to
stall him as the rest of the men filed out.

  “I wanted to thank you for your contribution to the discussion today,” she told him earnestly, trying hard to ignore the thrill of being alone with him in the empty room. “These guys look up to you, and the example you set this afternoon helped them open up in a way I haven’t seen before.”

  He shifted his weight from foot to foot, opening and closing the Velcro cuff on his sleeve as he frowned at the floor. Mia could practically feel his discomfort with her compliment, that he was unsure how to process the positive feedback yet forcibly restraining himself from rejecting it at the same time.

  “Thanks,” he managed eventually, wrenching his gaze up from the ground. “I sent them into that forest, and a lot of them are still there. I guess it’s up to me to light the way back out.”

  She studied him in the unforgiving fluorescent lighting. They were the same age, but time had inscribed itself so much more visibly on his face. Worry lines cut across his high forehead, and the indentations between his brows bore testament to thousands of decisions made under intense pressure. His blue eyes were bright but the space around them was shadowed, and she thought about everything he’d seen in thirty years and how little life she’d lived in comparison.

  He flashed her one of his trademark sheepish smiles and for an instant she saw him—the clever, powerful man lost somewhere in this weary shell, yet very much alive. The sudden impulse to comfort him, to encourage him, to shake him until he understood that he was still a good and worthwhile person was almost overwhelming.

  She surged toward him, only dimly aware of her own movements as she gripped his arms above his elbows, absorbing the impression of firm, warm muscle through the ripstop fabric. His eyes flickered in surprise, his brows drew together, his lips parted but he didn’t have a chance to speak because in the next second her mouth was on his.

  Mia registered the shock stiffening Ethan’s body, but he didn’t pull away and he didn’t protest, and soon his posture eased as he slid one hand across her back. He raised his other hand tentatively, and she realized with a pang that he was probably worried it would shake. But when his palm cupped her jaw and his thumb smoothed across her cheek, his touch was steady and sure.

  Reassured by his response, Mia let herself relax into the kiss, draping her arms around his neck to support the tiptoe stance their height difference required. In answer Ethan stooped slightly, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her against his chest. The press of her breasts against the hard planes of his torso tore a hungry moan from her throat, but her last-minute attempt to quell it made it more of a girlish squeak. Mentally she cringed, but it must’ve had more sex appeal than she thought because all of a sudden Ethan’s tongue was tracing her lower lip, the insistent press of his lips asking for more.

  She gave it to him. She invited him in, tilting her head back and widening her jaw, and he accepted eagerly. Ethan kissed with an almost incredulous enthusiasm, occasionally pausing for a second as if to make sure this was really happening before renewing his advance on her mouth with the gusto of a man determined to enjoy his good fortune as long as it lasted.

  She smiled into his lips, running her fingertips up the buzzed sides of his head to the couple inches of soft hair at the top, trying to remember the last time simply kissing a man felt this good. By this point her mind had usually wandered to all kinds of big questions about what this meant, how much did she like this guy, did she want to take the next step and when, tinged with her characteristic paranoia about not letting things move too fast or too far.

  Now her brain was so full of the pressure of Ethan’s lips, the place where his nylon collar gave way to the warm skin of his neck, the familiar taste of peppermint tea on his tongue, that it barely had room for the thought, I hope this never ends.

  But it did, and all too soon. Ethan pulled back, his eyes searching hers as he cradled her chin in his hand.

  “What are we doing?” His voice was soft and genuinely inquisitive, like he’d woken up in the passenger seat on a long car journey and wanted to know how far they’d gone.

  We’re farther than I ever thought we’d be. Turns out it isn’t nearly far enough.

  “Speaking as a professional psychologist—” she offered a playful smile, “—I believe we were just engaged in a common human behavior called kissing. It’s perfectly normal, nothing to worry about.”

  “Normal and I parted ways some months back.”

  “I noticed. Was that the same day you took up with extraordinary?”

  He grinned. “Isn’t it my job to make wildly flattering comments?”

  “I’m a feminist. I believe in equal access to flirty remarks.”

  “Got it. I thought this was the part where I asked you out on a date, but if you’d rather—”

  “That’s okay,” she interjected, running her hands up the insides of his forearms. “I also believe in equal access to date requests.”

  “In that case, can I take you to dinner on Saturday night?”

  “That would be great, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. It could all go horribly wrong.” The lift of his mouth was teasing, but an authentic concern underpinned his words.

  “I know Meridian’s restaurants aren’t exactly haute cuisine, but I’m sure we’ll find something.” She squeezed his wrists. “We’ll have fun, I promise.”

  Without warning he yanked her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. The patch bearing his embroidered captain’s bars sat just below her chin, and when she tilted her face she saw his service tape, the raised letters spelling, U.S. Army.

  Before she had a chance to think about that too carefully he thrust her away as swiftly as he’d embraced her, already backing toward the door.

  “I’ll call you about Saturday,” he pledged, wearing a grin bigger than she thought him capable of sustaining. “Or I’ll stop by. Maybe tomorrow.”

  She nodded. “Whenever.”

  “Bye, Mia.” He lifted his hand in farewell and then he was gone, booted footsteps echoing down the corridor.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, futilely trying to recreate the peculiar security she’d felt in Ethan’s grip. That familiar, nagging voice was still there in the back of her mind. How could you lose control like that? You know how bad you are at setting boundaries, and you practically flung yourself at him. He probably thinks you’ll give your body away now—and he’s probably prepared to take it if you don’t.

  But another, louder voice purred over it, echoing the heady rush of desire racing through her veins, encouraging her when she brought a lock of her hair to her nose, delighted when his juniper scent lingered there.

  She knew she was being reckless, jumping from too great a height with too complex a man, but she didn’t care. She had no other choice. She had to know him.

  Ethan shut the deadbolt on the front door and banged through the house to the kitchen, yanking a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet and unscrewing the cap. He’d brought it halfway to his lips, his stomach already clenching in anticipation of the wincing scorch and the hot slide and the deadening relief, when he changed his mind.

  He put the bottle on the counter and stared at it, waiting for that desperate, glugging thirst that typically had him knocking back shots in quick succession for the first ten minutes he was home from work.

  But it wasn’t there.

  He studied the whiskey for another minute, the pretty amber square created by the early evening light shining through the bottle, the scents of ethanol and oak discernible from where he stood. This was usually his favorite part of the day, the moment he looked forward to during aimless mornings and tedious meetings and slow traffic. After that afternoon’s kiss with Mia he figured he’d need to drink more than ever, that the only way to still his zigzagging emotions would be to drown them in spirits.

  Except he didn’t want to. He didn’t want a beer either, or to sleep, or to lose a couple of hours in a pulpy book. He felt
more than he had in months, like the press of Mia’s mouth had woken all his nerve endings from a long hibernation, but it wasn’t scary or overwhelming or even particularly uncomfortable.

  On the contrary, he felt good. Really good. Like he might be able to handle this home front life after all. Like everything might be okay.

  He replaced the cap on the whiskey and put it back in the cabinet stuffed with rows of identical bottles. Tomorrow was the one-year anniversary of Wright’s death during the forest mission and he’d practically cleaned out the liquor store in preparation, intent on getting blackout drunk as early as possible so the next time he opened his eyes that day would be safely behind him.

  That urge might still resurface tomorrow, or even later that evening. He might still have to drink himself to sleep tonight, and pass out on the floor tomorrow, and wake up on Saturday with a hangover that threatened to ruin his plans with Mia. He knew all of that was possible, and he wasn’t pressuring himself to ensure otherwise.

  But right now he was sober. He didn’t feel like drinking. He didn’t long to pass out or fall asleep, and he had a date with his gorgeous next-door neighbor. He planned to enjoy this happiness while it lasted.

  He made his way to the sitting room and flopped down on the couch. He shrugged out of his ACU jacket, stripping down to the tan T-shirt he wore beneath, then leaned over and unlaced his boots. As he loosened the drawstrings on the cuffs of his trousers and tugged off his socks, he noticed that a book had fallen off the top of one of the towering piles against the opposite wall and was lying open on the floor. He crossed the room and put it back, straightening the pile to make it steadier.

  He stood back and looked at the room around him. He knew this space—he’d woken up in it that very morning after falling asleep on the couch, and yet it seemed completely unfamiliar, like he was visiting a friend he hadn’t seen in a long time and realizing how much they’d both changed. Empty beer and whiskey bottles congregated in clumps, scattered tools bore testament to abandoned home-improvement projects, and a cardboard box labeled “miscellaneous” sat unopened near the doorway, representing the myriad ways he’d failed to reintegrate into CONUS service in the months since returning from Afghanistan.