“Thanks.” As she hurried off, he opened a search on his phone and turned on the mic instead of trying to spell everything correctly on the tiny keyboard. Then, one by one, he started making a list of everything he’d observed.
A cold, wet nose pressed into Michael’s palm. The engine’s vibration was a low hum, not the bone-shaking roar part of his mind expected. He stared out the unbroken windshield at the white garage door and blinked a few times to soothe his burning eyes.
The driveway. Civilian vehicle. Kaylee, draped uncomfortably and awkwardly across the center console. Her forelegs were on his lap, neck stretched so she could reach his hand.
“I’m okay.” His voice sounded like he’d been breathing sand and smoke. Memory made him cough. “Back, Kaylee. Off.” He had no idea which command to use, because he’d never trained her to climb across the front seat and wedge herself between his legs and the steering wheel. Fuck, that was unsafe. Had she done that while he was driving? For that matter, how the hell had he gotten home without crashing? And where had he—
Shit. Shit. His date with Josh!
He had zero memory of anything that had happened between the diner and right now. He hadn’t blacked out like this in months.
When he got out of the SUV, he nearly collapsed. He caught the door, wobbled, leaned his forehead against the cool driver’s-side window.
Kaylee’s quiet whine got him to straighten up. She was on the driver’s seat, holding the leash in her mouth. He’d trained her to stay in the car until he commanded her out, to keep her from jumping into traffic or hurting herself if her leash got caught.
“Good girl.” He let go of the door and turned carefully. His legs seemed to be working, so he took the leash and stepped back, beckoning her out. She stayed close as if understanding just how shaky he was.
Together, they walked slowly around the SUV so he could check for damage. Nothing. No dents, no scratches. So he hadn’t done a hit and run—not a surprise. He’d had a couple of similar incidents in DC, before he cut back severely on how much driving he did, and he’d never even had a close call, as best he could tell. It was as if all of his defensive driving training, both from high school and the Air Force, took over his body when his brain went to hide under the bed.
Reassured that the cops wouldn’t be coming to arrest him for a vehicular felony, he got his bag out of the passenger-side footwell—at least he hadn’t left the bag behind—and headed for the barn. The big question now was, did Josh hate him? Should he call or text? He’d walked out on Josh and stiffed him for their lunch bill, and he had no idea why. What had triggered him? Some innocent thing Josh had done or said? Or something else, something entirely unrelated to their date?
By now, Michael was depressingly familiar with his list of known triggers: quick movement, anyone sneaking up behind him, breaking glass, loud noises, crowds, dark roads with low visibility, emotional stress . . . Shit. The list was way too long for him to be getting involved with anyone, especially a guy like Josh. He was nice. Innocent. Untouched by politics and money and all the shit that had overcomplicated Michael’s life even before he enlisted.
He should call Josh and apologize. Or maybe text, so Josh didn’t feel obliged to forgive him or say anything or even answer.
Yeah, he’d text. But not now. Now was too soon, and he had no idea what he’d say. He’d go have a hot bath and recover, maybe take something to help slow his racing thoughts, then lie on the couch and come up with a considerate, sincere apology text that he could send to Josh with no expectation of a response.
The thought made his chest go tight. He stopped in his tracks and swallowed against the lump in his throat. No matter what he said, Josh would think—know—he was damaged goods. Maybe if they’d known each other for years, Josh would be willing to take a chance, to look past all of Michael’s issues and give a relationship a try. But they were strangers.
No, all Michael could do was explain his behavior as best he could, apologize, and bow out of Josh’s life for good. Then they could each get on with their lives, separately. He owed Josh that much. Once he was a little more steady on his feet, he’d do that. Later tonight.
Much later tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning.
“Josh? You home?”
Josh sighed up at his bedroom ceiling and rubbed the headache centered between his eyes. “Yeah, Dad!” he shouted, rolling over to sit on the side of his bed. His closet door was propped open with a laundry basket full of jeans and Bagel End polo shirts. He had about twenty of the damned things so he’d never be caught without a uniform if he got called in to cover a shift. One corner of his Middle Earth map was curling up from the door; he couldn’t remember when he’d lost the thumbtack, and he kept forgetting to replace it.
The sight was depressing. He was a grown man, half owner in the family business, and he’d lived away from home for a grand total of six months—one disastrous lease in a shithole apartment when he was nineteen and thought starving on his own was more grown-up than having food in the cupboards. Besides, living at home meant he could keep an eye on his dad’s health, which was the real reason he lived here. At least, that was what he told himself.
The bedroom door was cracked open. When Dad knocked, it swung open the rest of the way. “Hey. You okay? I went to the diner . . .” he said, giving Josh a sympathetic smile.
Betty. She couldn’t resist gossip, and Josh’s date—both the fact of it and how abruptly it had ended—was a good month’s worth of gossip in a small town like Hartsbridge Island. Dad must have gone there out of habit, expecting to meet Josh for their usual end-of-the-day wrap-up meeting, only to be entertained by Betty instead.
Josh sighed and got to his feet. “Yeah.”
Dad tipped his head, beckoning Josh over. “I brought home a double order of fries. They should still be hot.”
Josh managed a faint smile. “Thanks,” he said, following Dad downstairs to the kitchen. The Styrofoam box of fries was there on the kitchen table. Dad had already taken the ketchup out of the fridge.
Stomach rumbling, Josh sat in his usual creaky old chair and opened the box. Dad sat down kitty-corner from him, in reach of the fries. As Josh squeezed ketchup into the box’s lid, Dad asked, “So, you want to talk about it?”
Too much ketchup splashed out of the bottle. Josh cleaned the extra drips with one finger and capped the bottle. “I don’t know, Dad. I mean, I think I know something, but . . .” He shook his head and picked up a fry. Swirling it through the ketchup was only a brief distraction.
“Uh-huh. Clear as mud.” Dad snatched a fry and used it to point at Josh. “Want to try again? Or you can tell me to screw off. Up to you.”
With a snap of teeth, Josh took out his frustration on his own fry. “Things were going really well, and then—boom!—they weren’t.”
Dad leaned over to open the fridge. There were some advantages to a kitchen the size of a postage stamp. He took out two diet sodas and set them on the table. The pop-hiss when he opened his can shattered the silence, but he didn’t say anything.
That was his way of doing things. He’d sit there with Josh, all stoic and silent, offering his support without saying a single word. That tactic was how they’d survived the years after Mom died, when Dad got sick, when Josh dropped out of high school to help at the bagel shop. In the end, stuff that happened was just stuff. What mattered was that they loved each other, no matter what, and weren’t alone.
Of course, Josh couldn’t resist the urge to fill that silence. He lasted three fries before he asked, “What do you know about PTSD?”
Dad let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair, taking a drink. “That explains it.”
Josh’s eyebrows shot up. “Did you skip a few parts there?”
“Betty said your ‘boyfriend’ rushed out when she dropped a tray.” Dad put down his soda can. “‘Left like a zombie, only fast,’ she said. After a loud noise like that?” He nodded, his expression grave and full of sympathy. “It sounds lik
e a couple of soldiers I once knew. Some of them, when they came back . . .”
Josh nodded, breaking a fry in half. He dipped the broken end in the ketchup. “I looked up some stuff on PTSD. It’s not just soldiers. Any traumatic experience can cause it. Right?” he added uncertainly, glancing over at his father. Much as he’d tried to learn everything he could, he’d gotten lost in most of the articles, and his phone’s screen was too small for him to read it for very long.
“True,” Dad conceded. “But he’s got a service dog, right? If he was wounded in combat—”
“He doesn’t seem like a soldier,” Josh interrupted. He couldn’t picture Michael—so soft-spoken and gentle with Kaylee—carrying a gun.
“What’s ‘a soldier’ seem like?” Dad asked, smiling wryly.
“Okay, that’s fair.” Josh shrugged and ate both halves of his fry together. “But he doesn’t act like a soldier. And his hair’s too long.”
“So’s yours.” Dad reached out and tugged on Josh’s curls. “You should stop at the barber’s tomorrow, or we’ll have the health department on our backs.”
“Yeah, yeah. And you get to open tomorrow,” Josh added a little bitterly. Michael had yet to text or phone. There wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d show up at Bagel End tomorrow, so there was no point in Josh getting up at stupid o’clock.
“I figured.” Dad folded his arms on the table, then extended one finger to push the fries closer to Josh. “Eat.”
Obediently Josh picked up two fries. “If it is PTSD, what then?”
Dad let out a long sigh, eyes going distant. “Then you have to decide what you want. If he’s worth it.”
Josh’s eyes narrowed. “Worth what?”
Dad held up one hand. “I’m not an expert.”
“You know something, though,” Josh pressed.
Dad nodded, though he didn’t speak right away. He frowned as he drank his soda, staring absently at the table, brow furrowed. Josh wanted to press him but knew better. He’d speak when he was ready. Not before.
But instead of speaking—instead of imparting some great wisdom or helping to make sense of it all—Dad asked, “Do you like him?”
Instinctively, Josh hunched into his seat just a tiny bit. “I’m not twelve.”
“Josh . . .”
Josh shrugged, focusing on eating his fries. “Yeah,” he muttered between bites. Then he swallowed and glanced up at his dad, adding, “Or I could like him, if I got to know him better. I think.”
“Okay.” Dad leaned back in his seat again. “Back when I was first dating your mom . . . When your grandma and grandpa found out she’d been born with a bad heart, they brought me to see my uncle, Stuart. The cardiologist. He explained . . . everything. What could happen and might happen and probably would happen.”
Josh swallowed, stomach churning. They rarely talked about Mom, and when they did, it was always about her life. Happy memories. Never about her illness or her death. “Dad—”
“Just—” Dad held up a hand and took a deep breath, gathering himself. “Just let me finish. Uncle Stu . . . He got almost everything right. I knew ahead of time—before I even asked her to marry me—about all of it. The doctors, the hospital, everything. I went into it with my eyes open. It was hard and painful and . . .” His voice went tight, and he shook his head, taking a drink.
“I know.” Josh picked up his soda, but he hadn’t opened it. He cringed at how loud it would be if he pulled up the tab, so he didn’t. He just held the can, and the cold aluminum sent chills down his spine.
“But I did it. I asked her to marry me, and if . . . if I had the chance to do it again, I would.” Dad blinked, eyes glassy. “But that’s what I’m saying here, Josh. PTSD . . . it’s not something you can magically fix. If it is PTSD, he’s not going to spend a month with a therapist or get a prescription and be cured. Not even if he falls in love.”
God, all Josh had wanted was a date. “That’s moving a little fast, Dad.”
“Is it?” Dad arched a brow. “The first time I saw your mom, it wasn’t love at first sight. It was . . . it was ‘hot date at first sight,’ you could call it.” He gave Josh a quick, embarrassed smile. “The rest of it—the love, the marriage—everything just snuck up on us. One day we were having fun, and the next, I was looking at rings, and to this day I couldn’t tell you when we crossed the line between dating and forever.”
“But this guy . . .” Josh let his dad’s honesty bolster his courage and said, “I didn’t even know his name until yesterday. He was just . . . Hot Tourist Guy.”
Dad laughed. “‘Hot Tourist Guy’? Really?”
Josh shrugged, torn between embarrassment and laughter of his own. “He paid in cash. Otherwise, I would’ve checked the name on his credit card. Not to be creepy,” he added quickly. “Just, you know, out of curiosity. To be friendly.”
“So, two days ago, you didn’t know Hot Tourist Guy’s name”—Dad smirked; he was having way too much fun with that nickname—“and today you went on a date with him.”
“Or half a date,” Josh corrected, finally opening his soda. “And you still haven’t said if this is your way of saying I shouldn’t try for another date. Or half of one.”
Dad shook his head, his smile softening. “No, this is me saying that if he really has PTSD . . . well, you need to think about whether or not you want to be with him, knowing he has PTSD. If you want to make that commitment. Because that’s what you’d have to live with for the rest of your life.”
This felt too critical of Michael. Josh didn’t even know Michael had PTSD, though he had to admit that was how it looked. He’d done a quick search of Michael’s symptoms on his phone. The top two hits were PTSD and ghostly possession, and Josh flat-out didn’t believe in ghosts. “That’s not really fair, though. It’s not his fault.”
“I know. But you need to go into this with your eyes open.”
“No. Dad, look. It was half a date. I’m not going to go . . . demanding his medical history and a background check—”
“Hang on,” Dad interrupted, holding up both hands. “I’m just saying, educate yourself. That way, you can decide if you can live with being on this side of it. Mom’s heart condition wasn’t hers and hers alone. It affected every decision in our lives, from us getting married to our choosing to adopt you.”
“Yeah, but you said she could’ve died from the stress of getting pregnant,” Josh protested.
“And if I’d been set on a biological child? Because some people are, you know. For some people, that would’ve been a deal-breaker,” Dad said bluntly. “If he does have PTSD—and that’s going to require an honest talk between the two of you—then all I want is for you to understand what you might be getting into, to see if there are any deal-breakers. If there are any potential complications that you can’t accept.”
Josh’s eyes narrowed. Stubbornly, he asked, “And if there aren’t?”
Dad shrugged. “Then you should call him and see about the other half of that date.” He took a quick drink of his soda.
“Huh?”
Dad blinked. “What?”
“You’re not going to try to talk me out of it?” Josh asked, baffled. That was where this had all been going, right?
“Of course not.” Dad leaned an arm on the table, earnestly meeting Josh’s eyes. “I just want you to have all the facts first, before you make a decision either way.”
Josh shook his head and picked up a few more fries. “Right. Okay.” It still felt like a violation of Michael’s privacy, but Dad was right. Josh needed to know. He stabbed the fries into the ketchup and said, “I’ll look it up online or something.”
“You could come to work first thing tomorrow morning. See if Arielle Miller shows up with her wife,” Dad suggested. “She’s a doctor. She’s got to know something about PTSD, right?”
Josh snorted. “Or you’re trying to get out of the opening shift for another day.”
Dad’s grin was bright and innocent, without a
hint of embarrassment. “I’m just trying to help. Besides, I’m kind of enjoying sleeping in. Maybe we should make this shift change permanent.”
Josh’s only answer was to throw a french fry at him.
It took Michael two days to empty the kitchen of everything picked up at the store and ransacked from the main house. Two days before he had the choice between going grocery shopping again or starvation. That didn’t stop him from doing one last check of the fridge and one last search of the cupboards, because the thought of going out was so infuriating that he slammed the pantry door hard enough to make Kaylee yelp in surprise.
“Shit,” he hissed, leaning back against the door so he could slide down to the floor. His head fell back, sadly not hard enough to knock him unconscious, and he snapped, “Shit!” again.
Kaylee crawled across his legs and rolled onto her side, pressing her back into his stomach. He sighed and buried both hands in her fur, taking the hint. Breathe through the anger. The anger just existed. Feel it, acknowledge it, release it. Just like his therapist had taught him.
It was all psychobabble bullshit, but it eventually worked. Well, Kaylee’s heavy presence worked. The mental part was just a lousy way to kill time while his body followed his dog’s example and calmed itself down.
This sort of irrational surge of anger was just one more new and exciting part of life after hospitalization. Honestly, Michael didn’t know which was worse: the anger or the blackouts. He’d never hurt anyone—or himself, for that matter—during any of his episodes, but was that just a lack of opportunity?
No.
He could hear his therapist’s voice in his head. “Isolating yourself to protect others isn’t a solution. It’s an unhealthy coping mechanism.”
And he wasn’t angry anymore. Just hungry, headachey, and lonely. So damned lonely, despite the dog draped over his legs, cutting off the circulation to his feet.
“Okay, okay. Up, mutt,” he grunted, giving Kaylee a push. She got to her feet slowly, stretching one leg at a time, turning it into a full-body yawn that tempted him into tugging on her tongue. She went cross-eyed and jerked her head back, then gave him a disdainful look that made him smile.
Change of Address Page 12
