by Donna Alward
They’d been better friends than she. Though, to be fair, she’d been looking for him for a long time, and it had been as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth.
He helped her carry up the casserole and she took the pie, and he exclaimed about the good smells as he led the way back to his apartment.
He’d been right; it wasn’t much. A scarred table with two chairs sat in the small dining area, and the living room held a battered sofa, a chair, and a small wood stand with a television. There were no pictures on the walls, though there was a coffee table with a remote on it and a newspaper of some kind. And in one corner sat a Christmas tree. Just the tree, in a homemade stand, without any lights or decorations. It was the loneliest Christmas tree she’d ever seen.
Still, his apartment was tidy and it was warm and dry and her heart wept a little bit at the defiance she saw in his face when she turned back to face him.
“It’s a good size, isn’t it?” she asked, putting the pie down on the counter in the little galley-style kitchen. “But seriously, you need a woman’s touch. Something on your walls, a print or something. Some little things.”
His jaw was tight, and she knew the barriers were back up again, protecting him against hurt or criticism. “Well, we didn’t have a lot of that stuff in barracks, so I’m right at home.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She made the comment with a deliberate sort of ease. “And the important thing is it’s yours, right? After my divorce, I stayed with my mom and dad for a while until I found the new job and my apartment. Once I moved in, I didn’t have a lot of money to decorate the way I wanted. But it was mine, all mine, and I didn’t care.”
The lines around his forehead smoothed. “Nice try.”
She shrugged. “Hey, it’s true.” The tree was now kind of like the elephant in the room, so she figured she might as well mention it. “Do you have special plans for decorating your tree?”
He shrugged, looking over at the naked, green branches. “Not yet. I need to get some decorations, I guess. This is the first Christmas I’ve celebrated in years. To be honest, I’m finding it a bit overwhelming.”
“Well, it can be as elaborate or as plain as you want. You’re the boss.” She wondered, too, if there would be any presents under his tree. She decided then and there that she’d get him something and wrap it up beautifully so he could put it beneath the branches.
“Do you want to eat now?” she asked. “The shepherd’s pie is still hot.”
“Yes, let’s.”
“Do you have any wine? I never thought . . .” She faltered. She should have picked up a bottle at the market.
He met her gaze. “I don’t drink anymore. I drank too much when I came home. And once I lost everything . . . I know some people have this idea that homeless people are all drunks and addicts, but I wasn’t. At least . . . not for long. I wasn’t just homeless, I was hopeless. But I gave up booze. I stayed sober.”
She melted at his honest response. Her respect for him kept growing exponentially, as well as her empathy for what he’d gone through. She went up to him and on impulse, gave him a hug.
He hesitated a second, then his arms came to rest around her. She was still wearing her jacket, so the contact wasn’t all that close, but even so, it was an intimate gesture.
“What’s the hug for?” he whispered, his breath warm against her hair.
“For being strong.”
“Oh Amy, I’m not. If I was strong, I would have held my shit together.”
She lifted her head and looked into his face. “You’re holding it together now. That says all I need to know. I’m proud of you, George.”
Emotion flickered over his face before he shuttered it away. “Well, let’s eat. I’m starving.”
Too much, too soon, she thought, but let him take the lead. If he wanted to talk to her tonight, she knew it had to be on his own terms.
* * *
George couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten so well, unless it was at Laurel and Aiden’s and their weekly spaghetti night. The shepherd’s pie was delicious, the potato topping melt-in-your-mouth smooth and flavorful. The salad was fresh and the bread crusty on the outside and soft on the inside, just the way he liked it. When she said there was lemon pie for dessert, he wondered if he’d died and gone to heaven.
It was the first time he’d invited anyone to his apartment. Aiden and his brothers, Ethan and Rory, had helped George move in the meager furnishings when he’d first got the place, but he’d never entertained. Hah. The very word made him want to laugh. He didn’t have many friends, but years of being alone had taught him that a few good ones were worth far more than tons of acquaintances.
But he’d invited Amy here. Because he liked her. Because she reminded him of Ian, and the affection they’d shared, and because he knew that he owed her, even if it was hell to think about, let alone talk about. He’d run from this moment for fifteen years; it was time he faced it.
And deep down, while he expected her to hate him, he wondered if she might just offer him a glimpse of forgiveness for what he’d done—or rather, what he hadn’t done. He hadn’t protected Ian as he promised. She’d lost a brother and he’d lost his best friend in the world. Ian had been his brother, too, in all the ways that counted.
The meringue on the pie suddenly lost its flavor. He pushed the plate aside as dread slid down his chest to settle in the pit of his stomach.
“What’s the matter? You don’t like the pie?”
“I’m just full.” He forced a smile. “I haven’t eaten like that in ages. That was delicious.”
She smiled at him, and he wished she wasn’t so pretty or so . . . accepting. She made him want things he had no right to want or expect.
“I bought most of it. To be honest, by the time I’m done my daily commute, I don’t go to a lot of bother to cook for just me. There’s a shocking amount of convenience food in my freezer.”
He toyed with his water glass. “Are you lonely, Amy? You must have friends.” He hesitated a bit. “A boyfriend.”
“Friends, yes. Boyfriend, no.” He watched as she pushed a fluff of meringue around on her plate, mushing it a bit with each touch of her fork. “I haven’t really dated since the divorce. If I’m being honest, too, I’m sitting right on the edge of forty. Most guys are looking for someone younger.”
George frowned. Thirty-seven wasn’t exactly “on the edge” of forty. Who cared about age, anyway? Amy was beautiful and kind. “Well, that’s just dumb,” he replied, and was gratified when she laughed a bit.
“Oh, George.” She met his gaze. “I can’t have kids. That stops a lot of people in their tracks.”
“And it stops you in your tracks, too, doesn’t it?” He stopped moving his glass around and stared at her. “Maybe more than the men in your life.” He frowned. “Did you want children badly?”
The meringue was obliterated now. “Yes, I suppose I did. The stress of trying to conceive took a toll on my marriage. The divorce . . . well, it felt as if it was my fault. I mean, I know I didn’t do this on purpose, but I was bitter and hard on myself just the same.”
“I’m sorry.”
She smiled a little. “Don’t be. Besides, in another few years, I’m not sure I’d want to start with the mom thing, you know?” She shrugged. “I considered adoption, and I considered IVF a few years ago, but both are really expensive. I make a good living, but it would be a strain. Maybe I just have to realize that some things aren’t meant to be.”
She’d make a good mother, he thought, and felt badly that she probably wouldn’t ever experience it. She’d lost enough over the years. She’d come to Darling for answers, and he was going to give them to her. It was the least he could do.
If she left after tonight, it would serve him right. The dinner had been great. He’d loved hearing her laugh, or just the sound of her voice as they talked about Darling and little things about the town. He’d have to carry the memory of that with him, was all. He was pretty sure her friends
hip was temporary. Once she knew the truth, she’d head home and celebrate the holidays where she belonged—with her family.
“Let me help you clear the table,” she said, rising and gathering their dessert plates.
“I’ll get it later, don’t worry. You cooked; the least I can do is the dishes. Why don’t we have a seat in the living room?”
The meal had been comfortable and easy, but now an awkwardness surrounded them as they made their way to the sofa. They sat down together, but with a few feet separating them. This wasn’t about relaxing and making small talk, this was about getting down to the real reason she’d come. He was going to have to tell her the truth and see her face and maybe wipe her tears. He’d rather do anything than see her cry.
He was afraid, too. Afraid of what might happen when he went back to that day in his mind. Sometimes he panicked if he thought about it or the dreams were too vivid. And then he only remembered bits and pieces from those hours of stress, not quite losing time but not having clear recollection, either. When he’d mentioned it to the doctor, he’d been told simply that he had panic attacks, that the medication would help, and that his recall was off because of hyperventilating and heightened adrenaline and the brain trying to protect itself or something.
He took a few calming breaths. Remembered what Willow Gallagher had told him about dealing with the bad times.
“George, are you okay?”
He opened his eyes and met Amy’s concerned gaze. “Kind of.” He smiled weakly. “This is just hard.”
She reached over and took his hand, her warm fingers circling his. “As much as I want to know about Ian, I don’t want to put you through something that’s going to traumatize you.”
“It’s just hard to go back.”
She simply waited, her thumb rubbing across his fingers, creating an anchor that he so desperately needed. She couldn’t know what a help that simple touch was, or the sound of her voice.
He stared straight ahead, and began.
“It really wasn’t anything different from any other day. We’d been up the night before, playing poker, having a few drinks, talking. That morning we were part of a supply convoy, and we were all joking around and feeling good, you know? There hadn’t been a lot of action lately, and things had been quiet for a couple of weeks. We made jokes about getting out for a Sunday drive. Talked about what we were going to do if we made it home for Christmas.” He frowned. “Ian was saying he was going to look up some girl. Melanie? Melody? I can’t remember.” He smiled a little. “He kept saying they’d gone to school together and she had big jugs.” He cupped his hands in front of his chest and laughed a little. “I can’t believe I remember something stupid like that.”
He found her hand again and held it. Still liked having that anchor.
“Melody was a girl in our neighborhood,” Amy supplied. “She was maybe three, four years younger than us, so he’d never asked her out in high school.” Amy laughed a little. “And she did end up with some substantial assets. Consensus is she had a boob job.”
George nodded. He could still see the joy on Ian’s face that morning as he swung up into the passenger seat, and it stabbed at his heart. He swallowed thickly. “So we started out, Ian and me in a Humvee, singing stupid songs. He started on Christmas carols and said I had to go home with him for the holidays because I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I told him I was going to look up Jennie—I’d been seeing her off and on—and he said no, I needed to be with family.”
He looked over at Amy then. “I know I promised to come back to see you, too, Amy. I shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t free to.”
She smiled a little. “I knew that. I didn’t wait around.”
He chuckled a little. God, he loved her honesty.
“What happened then, George?”
He shrugged, let himself be pulled back into the memory. “I don’t know. One minute we were driving, and the next minute the vehicle ahead of us hit an IED. Shooting started; we were ambushed. I told Ian to stay in the Humvee while I got out and returned fire. He yelled at me that he was going to help and I told him to stay put and that was an order. It was the only time I ever pulled rank on him.”
George could hear the sounds, taste the dust. The rapid smack of gunfire, shouts from the men, the grittiness of the sand in his teeth. The smell of gunpowder and blood.
“He stayed where he was. A minute, maybe a few seconds later, the Humvee was hit with an RPG. That’s a—”
“I know what it is,” Amy interrupted, her voice tight.
He looked over at her, but it took a moment or two for his focus to settle, to pull himself out of the memory and register the look on her face. She was pale, her eyes wide. With horror? Revulsion? He didn’t know, couldn’t move past his own emotions to analyze hers.
“He was in the Humvee . . .” she began, prompting him to continue.
“He was halfway out the door when the grenade hit. Never stood a chance. One moment he was there and the next . . .”
George stopped talking. He couldn’t tell her any more of the details. She knew what had happened next; she didn’t need the visuals of the aftermath. It was enough that one of them would remember, and he’d live with those images for the rest of his life.
She was crying, he realized. Silent, salty tears that streaked down her cheeks in a straight line and dripped off her chin. Oddly enough, George felt . . . nothing. He felt empty, numb. Like he should console her but didn’t know how, nor did he deserve that honor. “I failed him, Amy. I promised to protect him and I got him killed instead. He never knew what hit him.”
“You didn’t kill him, George. The enemy did.”
He frowned. “I told him to stay in the Humvee. You don’t think they knew he was in there? Of course they did! If he’d got out with me, we—”
“He could have got shot just as easily. You both could have.”
But he shook his head. He was the one who’d been there. He’d been the one to shout for his best friend, his brother, to stay inside. He should have anticipated the enemy’s firepower.
“You don’t know,” he said harshly, shaking his head. He couldn’t stop seeing the image of Ian on the ground, blood and . . . pieces everywhere. “I failed him, I failed you, I failed my unit. I should have been more vigilant instead of treating that day like a goddamned Sunday picnic.”
She slid over on the sofa and leaned up against his arm. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is my fault,” he insisted harshly. “He’s gone and it’s my fault. I took him away from his parents, and you, and even what’s-her-name with the big boobs. I took away his chance to get married, have children, be a dad. I took away the only family I’d known since I was twenty-one.” George shivered all over, wanting to stop talking, wanting to hide and shut down, but somehow he couldn’t. “You wonder why I dropped off the radar for so many years? Because he died and I didn’t and every damned day I knew it should have been me. No one would have missed me. I didn’t deserve the chance to have the things that he’d never have.”
To his surprise, Amy reached up and cupped his face, forcing him to look at her. “So you trashed your life, thinking it was your penance? That you deserved to feel unhappy and worthless?”
“Yes!” He twisted out of her arms and jumped up from the sofa. “God, yes.”
She met his gaze evenly. She’d stopped crying, but he could still see the streaks from the tears that had run down her face. “George Reilly,” she said sternly, “that is the biggest load of bullshit that I’ve ever heard.”
His mouth dropped open.
“Don’t stare at me like you’re an idiot. You’re not, not really. Your thinking’s pretty warped, but you’re a smart guy.” She pointed at the sofa. “Sit down. Because now I have a few things to say.”
He obeyed because she had issued an order like a CO might, or his third-grade teacher, Mrs. Olson, who had terrified every single kid in her class but had commanded a crazy amount of respect at the
same time.
“You listen to me, George. If Ian was getting out of that truck, he was either disobeying your order or he knew what was coming and was trying to get out. Either way, he left himself exposed and you’re not to blame for that.”
“But—”
“Shh. It’s my turn, remember?”
He stayed silent, waiting for whatever decree was coming next.
“As far as you trashing your life after you got home . . . what a fucking waste.”
His brows lifted. He hadn’t expected that particular word to come out of her sweet little mouth, but there it was. Her eyes were bright and her lips set, the color back in her cheeks.
“You were spared, and you threw it down the toilet. You want to know something? I’m not mad at you about Ian. What we were told was simply that there’d been an IED incident and the location and nothing more. We wanted to know what he was like, if he was happy, what exactly happened, if he suffered long. Now I know those things and I’m not angry at you for that stupid order or whether or not Ian disobeyed . . . that changes nothing. What I’m pissed off about is that you were spared, and you came home, and instead of honoring his memory by doing all the things he couldn’t, you checked out.”
“Jesus, you don’t know—”
“I know I don’t. I don’t know what it’s like to go through what you went through. To try to get past the guilt, even if it’s misplaced. But to disappear . . . what, so Ian wouldn’t ever have a home, so you decided you didn’t deserve one either? No wife, no kids . . . so no personal relationships for you? You just decided to punish yourself forever? Do you think that is what he would have wanted for you?”
George’s throat tightened. He struggled for a few moments, trying to slow his breathing, get a hold of his emotions. When he finally had some semblance of control, he spoke again.
“The topic of mortality only came up once, and I told Ian to shut up about it. But Ian was so down, almost depressed, so I made him promise that if anything happened to me, he’d go out and do all the things we said we’d do after our tour was over. Find a pretty girl and have lots of sex. God, he laughed at that one, and said it was a no brainer.” George smiled a little, remembering. It was bittersweet. “Drink beer and watch sunsets. Take a motorcycle trip from Carolina to Maine in the fall, when all the leaves were changing.”
