At First Light

by Mari Madison

  I held out a hand to stop him. “I know,” I assured him. “Believe me, I know. You were asleep. You were having a nightmare. It sounded like . . .” I trailed off, not knowing if he’d want to know what he was dreaming about. Maybe he already did.

  He hung his head, staring down at his lap. “Thank you for waking me,” he said quietly.

  I nodded and we sat silent for a moment. Then I bit my lower lip. “Do you have . . . a lot of nightmares?” I asked cautiously. I didn’t know if it would be better for him to talk it through or only make things worse.

  After a pause, he answered. “Yes.”

  “About what you went through . . . over there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it makes sense,” I concluded. “I mean you went through something horrible. It’s going to take you a while to recover.”

  “Sure.” He looked up, his expression grim. “It’s perfectly normal. And perfectly fucked up. Here I am trying my best to forget what happened and my dear, sweet brain decides to throw it back in my face every time I close my eyes.” His hands balled into fists at his side. Knuckles whitening with bone. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a decent night’s sleep?”

  My heart shattered at the pain I heard in his voice. I wanted to tell him I couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through—what he was still going through. But I knew that would just sound like empty platitudes. Of course I couldn’t imagine. No one who hadn’t been there could. And what comfort would it be to remind him that he was basically alone in these memories?

  He wasn’t a soldier. He didn’t have a platoon of brothers who had experienced the same nightmare to exchange stories with. He’d had a producer, a photographer. But they had been killed. I wondered if he felt guilty about that. That he was the only one who’d walked away unscathed.

  Well, not completely.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t sleeping well, either,” I told him, trying to keep my voice light again. “Do you want a glass of wine?”

  “How about water?”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  Rising to my feet, I walked over to the kitchen to fill a new cup. Then I walked back out into the living room. In my absence he’d turned off the TV and put his shirt back on. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

  “I don’t think I’ll be going back to sleep anytime soon,” he told me, by way of explanation.

  “Me neither,” I declared, pushing the water into his hands and holding up my wineglass in a toast. “Insomniacs unite!”

  We clinked glasses before bringing them to our mouths. Troy swallowed his water then looked at me. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t want to keep you up.”

  “Meh. Beauty sleep is overrated.”

  “Easy to say when you’re already beautiful,” he said in a low guttural voice that seemed to reach down and stroke my toes. I swallowed hard. Sweet baby Jesus—this man!

  I laughed nervously, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “Yeah, yeah,” I said, waving him off. Then my smile faded. “Would it help to . . . talk about things?” I asked.

  “Things?” He raised an eyebrow. Then his eyes dropped to my nightgown, which I suddenly realized was dipping very low. “What things did you have in mind?”

  My cheeks flushed. I reached to pull my robe closed again. “You know what I mean,” I scolded.

  He sighed. “They assigned me a shrink to talk to.”

  “Please. You’re in SoCal. We all have shrinks,” I teased. Then I gave him a shy smile. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t need friends.”

  “Is that what we are?” he asked, peering at me with those crazy blue eyes of his.

  I swallowed hard. “It’s what we could be,” I clarified.

  It’s all we could be, I added silently.

  He nodded slowly, seeming to accept that. I watched as his gaze switched focus to something behind me. A photograph, I realized, hanging on the wall. Taken on the day we’d participated in our first Water World rally together. He wasn’t in the photo, of course. I’d purged all those from my house the day he walked away. But you could almost feel his presence, just out of frame, all the same.

  “You know I’d actually been thinking of coming home anyway?” he asked suddenly, surprising me with his words. “Before, well, you know.” He made a face. “I’d gotten pretty burned out over the past five years living in crappy hotels, reporting on whatever shitty story the network had dug up for me that day.” He shook his head. “It’s funny. When I first got over there, I really had this idea that I could make a difference, you know? Show America what was really going on behind the scenes, behind the headlines. But in the end, I realized I wasn’t much different than one of your entertainment reports—no offense. Just fodder to fill a newscast. To sell soap during commercial breaks. I’d report. The pundits would argue. Viewers would go online and post outraged comments. And then we’d all go about our days. Caring more about who was killed on The Walking Dead than the latest suicide bombing in Pakistan.”

  I nodded slowly, letting his words sink in. I knew all too well that feeling of disillusionment. That exhaustion that seeps into your bones as you realize all your hard work has been for nothing. That no matter how hard you fight, no one will really care in the end.

  “It’s ironic, really,” Troy added with a bitter laugh. “I never made a lick of difference broadcasting overseas. But when I stopped broadcasting—when I got abducted—that was the point people finally started paying attention.”

  “I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” I said cautiously. “But Troy, I think you’re overstating things. I watched your reports and I . . .”

  I trailed off as his gaze swung back to meet mine and my face flushed as I realized what I’d just inadvertently admitted. That I’d been home, sitting in front of the TV, watching my ex-boyfriend deliver the news from halfway around the world.

  “You watched my reports?” he asked, meeting my eyes with his own. I shivered at the cold steady fire I saw deep within their depths.

  “Oh. Maybe a few. You know, when I happened to catch them as I was flipping the channels,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Right.” Something that looked like disappointment flickered in his eyes. But what did he expect? For me to be that pathetic? To hold a torch for him after he left me high and dry?

  Of course I had done that, but he didn’t need to know it.

  He gave a long sigh. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said, giving me a sheepish look. “Can we . . . talk about something else for a while? I can only take so much of reliving the past in one sitting.”

  I nodded quickly. Setting down my wineglass, I reached for the remote. “Absolutely,” I said. “Besides, I promised you a noir night, right? Maybe we need to get started.”

  Relief flooded his face. “Good idea,” he agreed, watching as I flipped through my DVR menu. “Wow, you have quite a few saved.”

  “AMC had a marathon a few weeks ago,” I explained. “I taped them all.” I leaned over to hand him the remote. “Pick one that looks interesting. I need another glass of wine.”

  “You can pour one for me, too,” he said, taking the remote. I tried not to shiver as, for a brief moment, our fingers connected.

  “I can do that.” Hopping from my seat, I ran back to the kitchen. This time I just grabbed the whole bottle. Clearly it was going to be that kind of night.

  When I returned Troy had a smile playing at the corner of his lips. I looked at him in question.

  “Ever see Sunset Boulevard?” he asked, winking at me.

  I grinned, dropping back onto the couch. “As a matter of fact I have,” I said, reaching out to fill his glass. “Back in college. There was this guy I was dating. He told me it was his favorite movie. Though I have a feeling he said it just to get in my pants.”

 
“Probably so,” Troy agreed, wagging his eyebrows at me. “But that doesn’t make the statement untrue.”

  I giggled, refilling my own wine and placing the bottle on the coffee table. “Well, then, what are we waiting for? I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

  eighteen

  SARAH

  Wake up, my sexy little slut!”

  I groaned, pulling a pillow over my head as rough hands shook me awake. But the hands refused to give up, only shaking harder and harder until finally I reluctantly gave in, sitting up and opening my eyes.

  Troy and I had stayed awake last night for only about half of Sunset Boulevard before falling asleep on opposite ends of the couch. (So much for an entire movie marathon.) I had woken up only once, to realize my sleeping self had seen fit to crawl over to his side of the couch and lay my head in his lap. Embarrassed, I had attempted to move back to neutral territory, but he had shifted and so I just stayed there, not wanting to wake him up again. Besides, it was way more comfy this way anyway.

  But now Troy was gone. He must have pried himself out from under me somehow to head home to change and shower before work. And in his place was Stephanie, giving me a mischievous look.

  “So,” she pronounced, her eyes sparkling. “What were you up to last night?”

  I groaned. “Nothing,” I assured her.

  “Nothing? Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Cause to me that piece of tall, dark, and handsome exiting your beach cottage just before dawn definitely qualifies as something.”

  I grimaced. Busted. “How were you even awake for that? Or,” I gave her a skeptical look, “were you still up from the night before?”

  “I was headed to Equinox, thank you very much,” Stephanie corrected. “For the record, I no longer stay out till the break of dawn on work days. This is the new and improved Stephanie.” Her eyes locked onto me. “So what happened? Did you go out last night? I thought you were going to that nerd festival.”

  “Noir festival,” I corrected with a sigh.

  She waved a hand, as if to say same difference. “Did you meet someone there? Did you bring him home? Did you bump uglies all night long?”

  I made a face. “First of all, never, ever call it that again,” I said. “And second, no. There was no bumping—ugly or otherwise.” When she gave me a skeptical look, I added, “Okay, there might have been a few pre-hookup shenanigans you would have approved of. But we quit while we were ahead.”

  “Oh, Sarah.” She clucked disapprovingly. “Don’t you know? A winner never quits. And quitters never win.”

  “Uh, yeah. Except when it comes to ex-boyfriends.”

  “Wait what?” Stephanie’s eyes widened, as I figured they would. “Was that Troy? I didn’t even recognize him. Oh my God, Sarah Martin, you have completely buried the lede.”

  “I wasn’t burying anything.”

  “That’s what he said,” Stephanie giggled. “But I bet he wanted to! Right into that pretty little——”

  I groaned. “Do you know how much you are not helping right now?” I asked.

  “Aw, come on. I haven’t had a good hookup in a month. Let me live vicariously through you.”

  “You’ll only be disappointed. The only reason he was even here was because we had to leave the noir festival.” I quickly gave her a summary of the day’s events. Her eyes bulged in horror.

  “Oh my god! You could have been killed!”

  I squirmed a little at this. “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Yeah, but . . .” She shook her head. Then her face brightened. “And Troy stepped in as knight in shining armor. How romantic is that? Maybe you guys need to get back together.”

  “Um, I remember you calling me a glutton for punishment for watching him on television. Now you’re planning our wedding?”

  “Look. I’m just not a fan of the unrequited stuff, that’s all. But if he’s game to get back in the game, who am I to stand in the way of true love?” She grinned wickedly. “Or at least really good sex!”

  I plopped back down onto the couch, my mind flashing back to yesterday when Troy had me pinned against it. His mouth on my mouth. His hands all over my body. What would have happened if Carl hadn’t interrupted when he had?

  “We did used to have really good sex,” I admitted with a sigh.

  “And maybe you can again!” Stephanie pronounced. “I mean, why not, right?”

  “Trust me, that would be a very bad idea.”

  “Would it, though? I’m not so sure. I mean, clearly you still carry a torch for this guy, right?” She held up a hand. “Don’t even try to deny it, sister,” she added. “Maybe you just need to screw him and get it out of your system. Then you’ll finally be able to move on with your life.”

  I pursed my lips. I didn’t want to admit it, but maybe she had a point. “I don’t know,” I hedged. “What if I have sex with him and I get even more obsessed than ever?”

  “Come on. It’s been five years. You’ve obviously built him up a lot in your mind. He can’t possibly live up to all those expectations, right? So you can consider it . . . immersion therapy. That’s what the shrinks call it, right?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m pretty sure this is not the kind of thing they’re talking about. Besides, what if he turns me down?”

  “Sarah Martin. Have you ever had a guy turn you down?”

  I blushed. “That’s really not the point.”

  “And Troy—he’s not gay?”

  “No!”

  “And he’s not impotent?”

  I thought back to Troy’s erection pressing up against my thigh.

  “Definitely not.”

  “And he’s not some alien-race type of man who doesn’t think with his dick like every other human man on earth?”

  I laughed. “As far as I know.”

  “Then the verdict is clear, dear Sarah. Troy Young wants to screw the hell out of you. You just have to let him.”

  She made it seem so simple. And maybe it was. Maybe I had built this whole thing up in my mind too much. Maybe it was as easy as just letting myself go. Casual sex, not a new relationship. Cool my obsession and let me move on with my life.

  I realized Stephanie was still waiting for an answer. “I will consider it,” I promised her. “Now, get the hell out of my house so I can change for work.”

  She grinned, then danced to the door. I watched her go, slamming the door behind her. Seriously, she was too much sometimes. But she always made me laugh.

  I rose from the couch, stretching my arms above my head. I was just about to head back to the bedroom to shower and change when Stephanie stuck her head back through my doorway.

  “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” I started to accuse. But the look on her face caused me to pause. “What?” I asked.

  “Sarah? You need to come out here for a moment,” she said, her voice deadly serious. An uninvited chill tripped down my back.

  “What is it?”

  “Just . . . come here. Seriously.”

  I walked to the door, a feeling of foreboding washing over me. My mind flashed back to the movie theater. The rock whizzing past my head.

  What now?

  I stepped outside. Stephanie gestured to the right—to the brick wall above my little tomato garden. I gasped as I saw the writing on the wall—literally.

  I know where you live, it said in a blood-red spray-paint scrawl.

  I staggered backward, knocking into a terra-cotta planter, sending it smashing to the ground. I turned to Stephanie. She was staring at the wall, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “What the hell?” she asked.

  What the hell, indeed.

  nineteen

  TROY

  It took three cold showers before I was ready to head into work. And I still wasn’t sure I was prepared to face
her again. I was exhausted from barely sleeping and my resistance was down. If she walked into work wearing anything short of a burka, I was going to have serious problems controlling myself.

  Thinking back, the night before had almost felt like a dream. To have her in my hands again, against my mouth. Our bodies pressed against one another’s, so close it was hard to tell where one of us ended and the other began. I’d never in a million years imagined that would happen again in real life.

  But strangely that wasn’t the part I remembered most about that night—and perhaps that was the most troubling thing. Sure, Sarah turned me on. She would turn on any red-blooded American man. But it was what happened after the turning on that stuck out most in my mind now. The way she had sat beside me, listening to me talk after waking me from my nightmare. She hadn’t judged me, she hadn’t pitied me. She hadn’t tried to give me useless platitudes like, It’ll get better or You just need to move forward. She hadn’t pretended that she understood what I was going through or tried to relate it to an experience of her own. Instead, she’d just listened as I rambled on. Until I had worked my own way out of my panic.

  And then she had put on the movie and poured me a glass of wine as if everything was normal between us. As if I hadn’t acted like a complete crazy person in the middle of her living room. Which I knew was a lie, but oh God it felt good to lie at that moment. To just feel, for even a second, that it could be possible for me to have a normal life again. And when I woke up to find her snuggled up against my chest, the tenderness I felt for her almost did me in.

  Producer Ben looked up at me when I walked through the door, not bothering to hide his sneer. The guy was pissed at me for moving into his territory, I guess. And to be honest, I didn’t blame him. But what could I do? I could tell him I didn’t ask for this job. That I would be out of his hair as soon as I was able. That I was no threat to him and his little world. But I knew the words would only fall on deaf ears. I just needed to try to be nice.