Loving the Wounded Warrior

by Adriana Anders

  “Ready?”

  I nodded, lips pressed into a hard line.

  The scuff of our feet and crunch of the wheels was familiar and sad. Like the last day of summer camp as a kid. Bittersweet. Because it had to end.

  Just like this.

  I glanced his way and caught his eyes on me, so bright in that darkly tanned face.

  “You okay?”

  “Oh.” I paused, one foot in the air, surprised at the question, for some silly reason. Because of course he would ask. He was a good guy. He’d always been one of the good ones. I resumed walking. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” Lying through my teeth, but it was that or tell him too much. “You?”

  He sniffed and half-shrugged. “I’m…” He made this low, self-deprecating laugh sound. “I’m kind of a mess, to be honest.”

  That shocked me. “You are?”

  “Last night was…big. For me.”

  Right. You didn’t lose your virginity every day. I nodded at that, squinted in understanding. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. A big deal, right? Handing in your V card.”

  When he didn’t answer right away, I wondered if I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Like, maybe he’d wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened that way or something. He picked up his pace a bit and I followed. God, O’Neal. Way to mess up.

  “Yeah.” His voice sounded forced. Everything about this was forced. I screwed my eyes shut for three steps, picturing the ride into town.

  “Well, it was really good.” And there. Out in the open. Word vomit, or whatever.

  “You said that.”

  I stumbled. Holy crap. Was it bad for him?

  “Was it…” I had to know, but asking seemed pathetic. “Did you…enjoy it?”

  “Are you kidding me? It was amazing.”

  I nodded, not even a little relieved. Because this was the worst. The conversation, the silences, the way my body reminded me while my brain tried to shut it all down.

  “All right, then.” I smiled hard and forged down the path beside him, wishing myself anyplace but here.

  It wasn’t until we reached the last bend before the car that the frantic thing in my chest calmed. I glanced at Kurt, took in the hardened lines around his mouth, the tightness in his jaw, the stiff way he walked. This was worse for him than for me, wasn’t it?

  I took a deep, calming breath, reminding myself that I wasn’t that high school kid, fueled on hormones and emotions. I was an adult, and though I’d spent most of my years avoiding mature relationships, I should make an effort at this one. For him.

  Pushing back every single one of the doubts that hounded me, I reached out to where he gripped the wheelchair and placed my hand over his. That was it. Just that one contact. But it was enough.

  It would have to be.

  * * *

  Kurt

  A couple hundred feet from where she’d parked, where the path was widest, she rested a hand over mine, where it still gripped Sebio’s chair. I came close to losing it on the side of the mountain.

  We walked through pea soup fog to the car, she opened the trunk, threw in her pack, leaving room for my stuff, and turned to me, keys suspended. “Want to drive?”

  Oh, yes. The perfect distraction.

  I forced a smirk. “Cause you’re so bad at it?”

  “You any better than I am?”

  “Absolutely.” My smirk turned into a real grin. This was more like it. That weirdness from before was unbearable after how easy we’d been the rest of the time. It wasn’t just O’Neal’s body that did it for me, after all, she turned me on. Her humor along with that no-bullshit thing pulled at every one of my strings.

  “Let’s go.”

  We got in the car, where I adjusted the seat back and checked the mirrors, tsking when the central one fell off in my hand. “This thing is a mess.”

  “I know.”

  It felt strange to twist the key in the ignition, to accelerate and turn the wheel. The sensation of asphalt slipping by beneath me was so unfamiliar, I was like a wild man or a boy raised by wolves, getting my first taste of modern civilization.

  “You okay?” she asked after a few minutes.

  “Yeah.”

  “You look a little stressed.”

  I swallowed, letting myself feel the quick pulse in my neck, the heavy beating in my heart. “Yeah.” I squinted. “Foggy.”

  “I can drive.”

  I shook my head and flipped on the lights as we rounded a corner and—

  “Shit!”

  A screeching monster lunged out of the mist, right toward the windshield. Beside me, O’Neal screamed.

  Instinct took over and I jerked the wheel hard to the right, pumped the brakes, and just barely missed the flapping, beady-eyed nightmare.

  “Holy fuck, what was that?” Adrenaline rushed my veins, squeezed my eyeballs, and tingled in my limbs.

  “I don’t—” She turned to me, glanced over my shoulder with a start, and squealed again before slapping her hands over her mouth, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, sinking into a fit of laughter.

  Beside us stood a cluster of animals, their beady eyes focused straight at the car.

  “It’s the turkeys!” O’Neal wheezed, hiccupped, and slapped me on the arm. “It’s the turkeys they just released.”

  I exhaled and sank deeper into the seat, needing a second before I got us the hell out of this goat rodeo. Talk about a heart attack. “They look like they’re out to get us.”

  “Don’t they? They’re hangry.” She laughed again. “Come on, Kurt, drive! Before they peck their way in and eat us.”

  I caught her eye and grinned. Man, she was cute.

  Pretending the sight of her didn’t twist something in my gut, I turned the wheel and let the car roll on through the thick clouds.

  “For the record. You don’t drive any better than I do.”

  “You see how scary those bastards were?” After a pause, I went on. “Good thing I was the one driving.”

  She made a half-hearted humphing sound, but when I shot her a look, she was smiling. Our eyes met for a second, like a slotting back into place.

  “Stay at my house tonight.”

  My breath hitched and I slid my eyes back to the road.

  Shit. I wanted to. More than anything. But…

  “I don’t… No. No, I need to do this on my own.” What, I wasn’t exactly sure. I just knew that I had to wind up this trip somehow. I’d never been one to take the easy way out.

  When she didn’t respond, I flicked a glance her way and saw what might have been disappointment on her face.

  “Give me your address. And your number and stuff. I’ll look you up.”

  I could tell she didn’t believe me. Honestly, I hardly believed it myself.

  “You got a phone?”

  “Yeah. But it’s not charged.” I reached into my pocket and handed it to her. She plugged it in and I had a frantic urge to unplug it again, to stay off the grid, where I could ignore the hundreds of unread texts and voicemails I'd have to face shortly.

  “I’ll put it all in there when it wakes up.”

  Okay. Okay.

  I steadied my breathing, relaxed my grip on the wheel, and found that I could do this. I could drive. I could act normal, despite the phantom walking my legs were still doing. When had I not walked over the past year? Even when I’d twisted my ankle, I'd hiked long and hard. Every single day.

  We rode in silence until lone houses turned into groupings and, finally, we hit the relative hubbub of the city limits.

  “Where should I go?”

  “Up to you.” Her voice was noncommittal, which turned my stomach sour.

  We passed a cheap chain hotel, with a grocery store less than a block away. I pulled into the lot and parked.

  Why’d I have to work up the courage to look at her? Just to look? None of this made sense.

  “Thank you, O’Neal.”

  She nodded, pressing her lips together.

  “I…I…” I’m glad you were th
ere? You saved my life? I’m still so fucked up, I can’t hang out? I don’t want to ruin things for you? What the hell did I want to say to this woman? Take me with you felt like a big one, but I ignored the hell out of that.

  “Don’t say anything, Kurt. Here.” She handed me my phone and leaned in for an awkward car hug. “Don’t be a stranger,” she whispered against my ear.

  “Yeah.”

  We got out, unloaded my stuff, including Sebio’s wheelchair.

  “Okay. Bye.” I gave her a wave and turned, our last hug still echoing inside my rib cage—a spike to my innards that wouldn’t disappear as I walked off, alone, without the fate of my best friend to anchor me.

  7

  Kurt

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the day eating and showering and doing my best to catch up on the latest news and shows, before deciding it was the last thing I should be doing.

  After so many months spent putting miles on my body, there was only so much time I could waste around the room before I got restless.

  Toward the end of the day, I headed downtown, O’Neal’s number and address burning a hole in my phone. I wanted to see her face, touch her, get her to make those insane sex noises again, but I shouldn’t. My brand of messed up was the last thing she needed right now.

  No, I'd do the tourist thing, check out the place. Maybe buy myself a fancy-ass dinner.

  That’s what Sebio would have done.

  As soon as the thought hit me, I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, cars streaming past on one side, and stared at my empty hands, the wide open space in front of me. For a few slow heartbeats, I waited, resisting the urge to head back for the chair.

  It took a while to make myself walk again and even longer to reach that swift, steady ground-eating pace I'd adopted months and miles and a lifetime ago.

  By the time I reached the more crowded downtown sidewalks, I'd adjusted to walking alone. The need for a mission, however, wouldn’t go away. I wandered, thought about grabbing an ice cream and then freaked out at the flavors: green tea, chai, fucking rose? Whatever happened to good old chocolate?

  It was when I stumbled back outside that I saw the man begging on the sidewalk—filthy, stinking of booze, and utterly desperate.

  “Gotta dollar, man?” The man’s voice had seen the burnt end of way too many cigarettes.

  “Yeah.” I reached into my wallet, flipped through the bills and pulled out a twenty, which I handed over. After a couple seconds, I squatted down beside him. “You a vet?”

  “Sure am. U.S. Army.”

  “Marines. Retired.” I reached out for a handshake. “Gunnery Sergeant Kurt Anderson.”

  “Jerry Robie. Corporal.”

  “How long you been out here, Corporal?” It was impossible to tell the soldier’s age. His skin was worn, his teeth looked like crap, but who knew? A guy in his forties, without medical or dental care, could look sixty pretty darned fast.

  He shrugged. “Few years, I guess.”

  I nodded. “You okay? Got a place to stay? Got what you need?”

  Another shrug and then a vague wave. “Place to sleep down there. Shelter for guys like me.”

  “Vets?”

  “Homeless people.”

  Those words and their hopeless delivery crushed my chest.

  “VA hospital around here?”

  “Vet center right here in town.”

  “Yeah? You use their services?”

  “Nah.”

  “Why not?”

  Another shrug was the only response.

  “The vet center people go to the homeless shelter? They work together?”

  “Never seen any.”

  I took a look around before asking, “What do you need right now? What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing, man. I’m good.” He didn’t look good, but it wasn’t my place to argue.

  I gave the guy my number, scrawled on a paper napkin from the ice cream place, told him to call any time, day or night, and took off in search of the homeless shelter, my steps surer than they’d been in a while, my back steeled by a new sense of purpose.

  Hours later, as I left the shelter in the direction of my hotel, I noticed the sea smell in the air for the first time.

  Though I'd only lived beside water once in my life, and that had been during the hellish weeks of boot camp, it struck an undeniable chord.

  I was home. Finally.

  * * *

  O’Neal

  I had no desire to answer my door. It was midafternoon on Thanksgiving Day, and I wanted my friends to leave me the hell alone. I’d already lost it once on the phone with my best friend earlier and I wanted to hide out, not celebrate with people who wouldn’t understand. How could they get it, when I still could barely come to grips with what felt like one long hallucination? High school crush appears on the side of the road, shows me some sort of alternate dimension, and utterly destroys me in the process.

  I'd been just fine before he came along. I'd been perfectly happy working for the paper, with one-night stands and surface-only relationships. I mean, my friendships were real. That had always been enough. Before.

  Why did that sound so sad?

  A few days out and I still had no desire to socialize with my friends, either, though. Ruined by Kurt Anderson.

  The knocking came again, harder this time. When I’d told Veronica that I couldn’t make dinner—sobbed it really—she and Zach rushed over, as if she weren’t about to have a baby, with a huge platter of turkey and sides, along with a bottle of vodka. Which I’d somehow managed not to open yet.

  Booze wouldn’t mix well with this level of miserable.

  Why were they back?

  I slid out from the sofa nest I'd built in the past few days, stomped to the front door, and threw it open, ready to tear into her. Well, not really, but ready to—

  Oh. Not Veronica. Not a neighbor or a colleague or anyone else I'd expect to harass me into being social on Thanksgiving.

  “Kurt.” I sounded dumb. But he was there on my doorstep. Unexpected and whole and so terribly beautiful. Everything in me picked up at the sight of him. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

  “I want you to take the story,” he said, voice solid.

  “What?”

  “My story.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Here.”

  He handed me an envelope and stepped back.

  “What’s this?”

  “Photos of me and Sebio. Our team in Afghanistan. I also wrote out names, addresses, treatment hospitals. All of it.”

  I blinked at the envelope, then back to him a couple times, and watched, dumb, as he turned to leave. He’d made it about halfway down my front walk when I got my brain back.

  “Hey! What the hell are you doing?” I called after him, more than a little angry.

  “Giving you my story. Sebio’s story.” He lifted a chin toward the envelope in my hands. “It’s all there.”

  “I don’t—” I shook my head. “What the hell?”

  “You’re the one who said it. There’s a story there. Our system failed him. I’ve blamed myself, but it can’t all be on me, right?”

  I opened my mouth and closed it. But…but I didn’t want his stinking story. Did he think that was what I wanted? How could he, after everything?

  “You tell it.” More hurt than angry, I stepped out onto the porch. “It’s your story. Not mine.” I didn’t want the story. I wanted him.

  While he blinked, looking utterly confused, I stared.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off this man, transformed from the one he’d been a little less than a week ago. It couldn’t happen overnight, I knew that. You didn’t fix your ailments in the blink of an eye. You didn’t obliterate a history in just a handful of days, but while I’d melted into a puddle of sadness, he’d apparently gone to work to put himself back together again.

  And it looked good. He was clean-shaven, wearing what appeared
to be new clothes. Without the puffy coat, I could see the strong lines of his shoulders. I wanted to run my hands over them, feel that strength all over me again.

  I shut my eyes hard against the sense-memory of him. The thing was, I felt him, still, imprinted in every cell of my body. And those stupid cells thought he was here to see me. To do it again, maybe.

  Because he’d rocked my world. In a little more than twenty-four hours, he’d turned me upside down. So, here I was a mess in the aftermath, and he looked like everything.

  “Where’ve you been?” I hated how needy I sounded.

  “Took Sebio’s chair to a downtown shelter a few days ago, donated it. You know how many homeless vets there are around here?” He paused and stood up a little taller. “Got a job working with veterans at the homeless shelter. It’s cause you gave me hope, O’Neal. Purpose.” He waved a hand to the envelope I hadn’t realized I still held in my hand. “That’s to say thank you.”

  A good story. It was always what I wanted, right? Had this been anyone else, at any other time, I’d already be inside at my computer, ready to get cranking on this thing.

  The envelope was visibly shaking when I held it out. He went very still, his eyes narrowing.

  “I can’t.”

  His face hardened into those mean lines that made me wet between the legs. “I want you to. Somebody needs to talk about this. You said it yourself. The way vets are underrepresented? The high instances of suicide. You said this was a story! I’ve been reading about PTSD, about what happened to him. To me.” He turned to the side, ran a hand through his freshly-cut hair and cleared his throat before looking me straight in the eye. “Somebody needs to tell the story. I’m asking you to do this.”

  He grabbed my hand and I could only stare at it for a few seconds, caught in his. Finally, I raised my gaze to his face. “You tell the story. You write it, Kurt.”

  “I can’t write.”

  “You’ve got more than ninety percent of the writers out there. You’ve got a good story. An amazing story. Here.” I put the envelope in his hand and folded his fingers over it. It was hard to drop my arm, to tear myself away from the rough, vital pull of his skin. “I could help you if you wanted. Find resources. There are probably groups who help vets write their stories. And I could edit. Look…” I sucked in a painful breath. “I like you.” I shook my head, hard and pressed the tears back with every bit of willpower I had. “No. It’s more than that. I feel so much more.”