Break My Fall (Falling #2)

by Jessica Scott

  I haven't had that certainty of purpose since before I actually encountered my first firefight. Everything since then has been vague, well inside the moral grey area that exists in war.

  The nurse comes out and takes the poor mom and her screaming toddler to the back. The immediate sense of relief from the people around us is palpable.

  "Hope they get him taken care of," I mumble. I can't imagine what she's going through right now. My own heart relaxes a little bit when he's no longer screaming in the waiting room, but it's not from annoyance.

  No, I've heard screams like that before.

  And holy fuck, I am not going down that path of memory lane. Not tonight, not ever again.

  "They've got a really solid pediatric unit here," Eli says.

  "You're pretty tied into the local community, huh?" I need a distraction. Something, anything to keep the memories that started circling around that little boy's screams.

  He shrugs. "No more so than any other local businessman."

  "They don't do write-ups on other local bar owners in the New York Times." It was how I found his bar. There was an article about an Iraq war vet who opened his bar in the old tobacco district and had created a space for student veterans to find each other.

  It worked. It's how I met him and the rest of the guys. Unfortunately, it's how I met Caleb, too, but hey, no one's perfect.

  "Just doing my part, you know?"

  "Yeah." I cover my mouth with my hands. "You know what I regret the most about the war?"

  "What's that?"

  "That it's over." I can feel the silence settle over him like a blanket. He says nothing for a long moment. "Things were simple. Life. Death. Eat. Sleep. Nothing any more complicated than that."

  And it was the simple things that are laden with the most regret. At least in my life they are.

  "We came home, brother. We can't go back. We–you, me–we've got people here counting on us." He jerks his chin toward the door separating us from whatever they're doing to save Caleb’s ass back there.

  I want to argue with him. To tell him that maybe his tour downrange was some Hollywood tour where no one had to make a bad call.

  “I’ve been thinking…about your problem,” Eli says after a few minutes.

  “Oh lovely.” I lean my head back on the chair and close my eyes. “I’m not really in the right frame of mind for this conversation.”

  “Tough shit. We’re here tonight because Caleb couldn’t have that conversation so you’re going to fucking listen to me.” I open my eyes to see him scrubbing his hands over his face. “You know fantasies aren’t reality, right?”

  “Oh god can we please not do this right now?” I swallow. “Isn’t this a fun topic?”

  “I’m fucking serious.”

  “I know that.” I sigh heavily. “I know they’re not reality.”

  “Then why the fuck did you freak out?”

  “It’s not exactly a time for rational action when you start to get a hard-on in the middle of a fight with your girlfriend.” I sit up and adopt a terrible British accent. “Hmm, let me pause for a moment and consider my response. I don’t really want to hurt her, therefore, the blood rushing to my penis must be caused by something else not tied to a sadistic fantasy.”

  He grins. “That’s not funny.”

  “Tell me about it. You’re not the one getting a murder boner around your girlfriend.”

  He glances over at me. “Look, all I’m saying is that maybe you should talk to a doc about this.”

  I make a rude noise. “Sure. And everything will magically be solved with some antidepressants. That or they’ll take all my information and lock me away in a psych ward so I don’t become the next Hannibal Lecter.”

  “This is quite possibly the most fucked-up conversation I’ve ever had.”

  I grin because he’s right. It is fucked up. But then again, everything is. I’m in the waiting room at the hospital for a guy I don’t particularly like; I’m getting fucking hard-ons thinking about hurting a woman I care about. “The only way this whole night gets more fucked up is if you tell me you committed war crimes or something,” I mumble.

  Eli goes silent and still. Only a moment and then it’s gone beneath a flash of a quick grin. “Nah. My trauma is much more mundane.”

  But I can’t deny what I just saw.

  And suddenly, my inappropriate hard-on feels a lot more insignificant.

  But a doc comes out who agrees to talk to us.

  And it’s time once more to set aside my own problems and focus on someone else.

  Abby

  I'm standing in the emergency waiting room. I wish Graham hadn’t told me where I could find Josh. I should probably ask him how he knew in the first place. But that can wait.

  I wish I was smart enough to leave him alone.

  But…I know how this ends. And when your friend is in the hospital, you go. No matter how mad or how much it hurts.

  “You okay?” Graham asks.

  “Not really.” I let the hate flow through me. Hate for the war. Hate for the Army. Hate for the systems that fail our soldiers year after year after they come home from war.

  The coming home videos are a lie. A carefully manufactured moment for everyone to feel good about. No one sees the drinking. The long nights alone. The anger. The distance.

  I wish they were true. Oh god, how I wish Josh could get his happily ever after.

  And as much as he ripped my heart out, he's the only one who made me feel beautiful and loved for who I was, not who he wished I could be.

  My heart hurts.

  "You ready for this?" Graham whispers. I love him for being moral support.

  "I don't think we ever are." I straighten and wipe my hands on my pants.

  “You know this is all your fault,” he says with a grin. "Why couldn't you find one of those well-adjusted Greek billionaires who are into S&M?"

  I choke on a horrified laugh. "I'm not really sure how to respond to that."

  He laughs. "Just trying to help."

  I suck in a deep breath again. "You know how they say God doesn't give you more than you can handle?" I glance over at him. "I wish he didn't trust me so much."

  "You and me both, sister."

  "Stay with me?" I swallow a hard lump in my throat. "In case I break."

  "You won't break. But I'll stay."

  We walk down the halls toward Caleb’s room. I'm glad they let us back without much trouble. And by not much trouble, I mean they search my purse, but not Graham’s pockets. I'm too tired and worn down to even summon the anger over the disparity. Maybe someday. But not right now. It's not worth the fight.

  I pause at the edge of the curtain separating Caleb’s space from the other bed. Eli meets us and pulls Graham into a quick man hug. “Thanks for coming down,” he says to Graham.

  I frown. “I didn’t realize you knew each other.”

  “Eli is trying to poach me away from the Baywater,” Graham says. “I’m about ninety percent on board.” He pauses. “Is Josh still here?”

  Eli nods. “He’s going to be pissed at me for this. But sometimes…sometimes.” He clears his throat and glances over my shoulder.

  Josh is stopped at the end of the corridor. A shadow in the brilliant fluorescent light.

  For a moment, I think he is going to walk away. That he is going to turn and leave me standing there before I get any chance to say anything at all.

  I don’t want to do this with an audience, though.

  Graham squeezes my shoulder as I slip away.

  A thousand emotions flash over his face as I walk toward him. A million more crash through me.

  Was it only yesterday I'd seen him? Only yesterday that he'd resurrected all my fears, all the nightmares from my past.

  I can barely breathe. But I will not run away. I will not be weak and cowering.

  I stop in front of him. “I wanted to check on you.” My voice is thick and rough with fear.

  “I…” For a mom
ent I think he’s going to tell me to leave. That he doesn’t want me here.

  I try to take a deep breath and brace for the fresh renewal of hurt.

  I don't know what he'll say. What can he say that will take away the hurt?

  “Can we go somewhere?”

  I nod. Because I cannot walk away from this. However it ends, I need to know there is nothing I could have done to save things.

  I step into the cool darkness. The air is heavy and moist. I want a sweater and a cup of coffee.

  I want to keep walking. But I don't. Because I need to know. I need to know why.

  I stop near a bench. Close to the bus stop. Near the stairs to the parking garage where those who can't afford a valet walk to their vehicles.

  My heart is tight in my chest.

  I'm waiting. For the hurt to get worse.

  For the end of what we might have been.

  My heart hurts from the loss, but I've got too much pride to beg him to tell me what happened between us.

  Part of me, the part of me that is always waiting for the people in my life to let me down, has adopted an I told you so mentality. That this was bound to happen, and it's better that it happened now before I really fell hard for him.

  But the other part of me hurts and the hurt is real and painful and worse than anything that ever happened since I lost my dad.

  That maybe, this time would be different.

  I was wrong. I always was.

  I sit next to him on the small bench. Close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. Close enough that I want to curl into him.

  Now, though, he's sitting beneath a street lamp. His head is down, cupped in both his hands as rain mists down around him.

  I'm afraid. I wish I wasn't, but I've seen this movie. The one where the naïve fool approaches the guy she's worried about only to discover he's some soul-stealing vampire or something.

  But I'm not that girl anymore, and I will not be afraid of monsters in the dark.

  There isn’t a monster looking back at me. There is only despair.

  My heart cracks a little, even though I'm pissed at him.

  Only now, there's an edge of fear mixed in it. Because I cannot think of anything else to do, I sit next to him. I pick up his hand and thread my fingers with his. It's such a simple, empty gesture.

  "Are you okay?"

  "I don't know." Josh makes an ugly sound. His fingers tense around mine. Silence stretches between us. His hand is heavy on mine. Heavy and rough and solid. Warm and real. He's here. And that's got to mean something, right?

  Silence again. Until I cannot hold back the question burning inside me.

  He drags his hands over his face, leaving them there. It is forever before he speaks.

  It's a long moment before he shifts and leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. Finally he glances over at me. "I found him at his place." His throat moves as he swallows. “Two empty fifths.”

  "I'm sorry," I whisper. Because I am. Despite my anger at Josh, he is hurting right now. And Josh…I'd already started thinking of Josh as mine. And I hate it when people hurt those I care about. "I guess we have to be grateful that you were there for him," I say finally. Because I cannot ask him the question burning inside me.

  "I don't want to do this anymore, Abby," he whispers finally. He glances up at me. "I want to get on with my life. To forget about the war. About the friends I lost. I want to be a normal college guy trying to hook up with girls who are too good for me. I want to drink too much for no fucking reason at all, not because I'm trying to keep the thoughts from coming. I want to worry about grades and tuition and whether the girl I'm crushing on likes me back."

  It is infinitely stupid to allow myself to feel his pain, to care about his hurt. I wrap my arms around his waist and lean against him. He rests his cheek on the top of my head. I wish there was something I could tell him that would magically make it all go away. That would lift the burden from his shoulders and let him be all those things he wanted to be. But then he wouldn't be Josh.

  But maybe if I figured out how to lighten his load, maybe we could lighten mine a little, too.

  "Maybe that's not how life works for people like us," I say when I'm sure I can speak without embarrassing either of us by crying.

  “Why not?” he whispers. “Why can’t we just forget all the bad shit and live for the now?”

  “I don’t know.” My fingers slip beneath his shirt to press against his back. “But I wouldn’t change who you are.” His shoulder is warm and solid beneath my cheek.

  “I would gladly trade who I am to be a normal well-adjusted guy with a working cock.” He lowers his forehead to mine. “I’m so goddamned sorry, Abby.”

  I say nothing.

  He simply sits, his body, his life, threaded with mine as the rain starts to fall around us.

  Chapter 25

  Josh

  Fear is a powerful thing. And when you've been up close and personal to violence, it is not an abstract thing.

  My stomach knots at the idea of hurting her.

  Of getting hard from her pain…My skin crawls.

  She shivers against a chill.

  I'm stymied. I want to pull her close, to keep her warm and safe.

  I want to see if I can feel anything with her, other than the arousing allure of her pain.

  I do the only thing I can.

  It is enough. She breaks a little, sagging against me. I am at once broken and whole.

  I rest my head against her soft curls. I'm home. I'm safe.

  And for the moment, so is she.

  Holding her is the closest thing to peace I've found since I've been home. I cannot let her go.

  But I owe her the truth. About me. About what happened.

  "I panicked." God but those words are hard. My throat closes off. I can barely breathe.

  Her arms tighten around me. "I don't understand."

  I can't say the words. I can't admit what the fight did to me.

  "Walk with me?" Because maybe the words will be easier if I'm in motion.

  When she leans back, though, her golden eyes are shining bright with unshed tears.

  I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb over her smooth dark skin. "Don't cry. Please don't cry."

  I pull her close again.

  "I'm so tired for crying over people I care about."

  "Don't cry for me," I whisper. "I'm not worth your tears."

  She leans back and swipes at her cheeks. "Don't talk about my friend that way."

  "That was pretty corny." I manage to smile and it feels so foreign, so unfamiliar; it feels like it could shatter my face.

  She shrugs. "It's the best I can do on short notice."

  I kiss her because I can do nothing less. I mean it as a teasing kiss, something easy and light, to heal the wounded space between us.

  But it morphs into something else.

  Something that touches the dead space inside me and makes me want to try once more to step out of the darkness and into the light.

  I capture her sigh, breathing her in, needing every gasp of air she breathes.

  It is torture to break away but I have to do this.

  Now before I lose my last shred of courage.

  Brushing my thumb across her cheek, I ease back. Tucking her fingers into mine.

  "You already know about my, ah, problem." God but this is hard.

  We walk, down the sidewalk cast in shadows. My skin is cold and tight.

  I slip my hand from hers.

  "It…yesterday." I clear my throat. "Turns out I've got an S&M streak." A bad joke. Black humor to mask the pain.

  Shame burns hot beneath the cold.

  "Josh." A whisper.

  I clench my fists at my sides. "I…I don't know what I've become." My lungs burn. "My temper. I wanted to lash out yesterday." I can't say it. The words are stuck. Lodged in my throat. "I got hard. For the first time in more than a year, I got fucking hard."

  She doesn’t move. Doesn’
t react. The words are not a relief. They hurt, tearing free from my throat like broken glass.

  “When you were afraid…” I can't breathe. The world is closing in, pushing me back into the darkness and the dead space where I've been living. This is worse. So much worse than the helplessness I've felt before. “I got off on your fear, Abby.”

  I can feel the shadow of the war. I can feel the relentless pleasure at the violence, the joy that we were still alive. I cannot move, cannot fill my lungs.

  The war finally broke me.

  And turned me into a monster.

  Abby

  I've seen this before. The fear, the tension. He is gone away, some place I cannot follow.

  I cannot leave him alone.

  Everything falls into place now. Everything makes sense. His revulsion. His reluctance.

  His flight after I screwed everything up by thinking there was some magical cure.

  I hear the words, let them sink in and wrap around me. I can't explain it. But the pain on his face, the shame carved into the lines around his mouth. “This is not who you are,” I whisper.

  “It’s defined everything I’ve done since I got home.” Words laced with pain. He does not want to take pleasure in pain.

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  And for that, I love him a little more.

  But that does not mean I am safe.

  I want to put my arms around him. Hold him close while the nightmares come.

  But I can't.

  I have seen this nightmare before.

  I have lived it.

  But I am no longer eleven years old.

  I will do better.

  "Josh."

  I don't touch him. I can't reach him right now.

  And I have no way of knowing if he would feel my hands on him or if he would think they belonged to his nightmares.

  "Josh." I breathe out quietly. "Look at me." A whisper. A prayer. An urgent hope that he can hear me.

  That he will open his eyes and see me.

  It is forever and a moment more before he opens his eyes. They are dark, darker than the shadows that are normally hiding there. His mouth is pressed into a flat line.