No way in hell would he stay with Aimee and subject himself to that level of humility. First thing tomorrow, he’d find a hotel.
“Are you in pain at all?” Aimee asked in a low voice.
“No.” None he intended to tell her about.
She let out a heavy sigh. “Look, I know you don’t want me here. I’m sorry I selfishly wanted to see you. I accepted a job in San Antonio that starts after the first of the year. I’ll be out of your hair then.”
Fuck. He’d hurt her. Exactly the reason he’d divorced her—every time he turned around he managed to find some way to wound her. She never said anything, but he heard it in her voice. The brittle edge to her words, despite her calm demeanor, revealed pain she struggled to keep from him.
But what else was he supposed to say? Sure, he might have toned the sharpness out of his response. Softened his voice a little. Still, it was honest. He ached, just not enough to call it pain. No, the pain came from the inside. From seeing Denton’s face one too many times in his dreams. From hearing that fatal gunshot so often that sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat. He couldn’t tell Aimee about that day in Afghanistan. She had known Denton. No doubt, she’d gone to his funeral and grieved alongside Denton’s girlfriend, Gina. She wouldn’t understand.
Worse, she’d view Kyle as a monster.
Sometimes, he wondered if he wasn’t.
“Kyle, would you say something to me?” Aimee steered around the corner and cut a quick glance his way.
In a near whisper he answered, “There’s nothing to say.”
“Nothing?” Her voice rose. “How about what happened over there? What have the doctors said? Why the hell did you want a divorce?”
He flinched, knowing he owed her an answer to at least the last question. And yet, the part of him that died alongside Denton refused to let his tongue work. Sheer meanness kept him chewing on the inside of his cheek, waiting for this intolerably long car ride to come to an end so he could escape into the quiet of their house.
His heart worked its way through the anger he couldn’t keep at bay, telling him Aimee hadn’t caused all this. Regret forced his hand off the console and onto her slender thigh. He squeezed her leg. “I’m sorry.”
****
Sorry wasn’t exactly the response Aimee had hoped to hear. Something more along the lines of an explanation remained at the top of her list. But for Kyle, whatever he was apologizing for meant something she knew better than to dismiss. That he’d reached out and touched her meant a whole lot more.
She nosed into their driveway and pushed the garage door opener. Time ticked by, heavy and oppressive, while she waited for the door to open. When it did, she eased inside and shut off the engine. Twisting in her seat, she faced Kyle. He looked up from where his fingers grazed her jeans, green eyes invitingly warm.
“Two weeks, and you’ll have your freedom. I just want to make sure you’re…safe before I leave.”
Her heart cracked at his short, succinct nod. Bled when he reached for the door handle and let himself out without further conversation. If he’d just talk to her, clue her in on something, she’d know better how to deal with him. She’d know what he needed, what would give him the most benefit. But he’d always been so damned determined to keep his work out of their marriage and his experiences locked away inside. Not just because the nature of his top-secret assignments forbade him to disclose details, but beyond that. And he’d gotten worse after the miscarriage. It became Conner who told her things Kyle refused to even hint at. Conner’s information was the one reason she’d stayed sane this last year.
Knowing Kyle stepped into the heart of danger every time he deployed didn’t bother her nearly as much as not knowing the potential risks. Without any information to go on, other than the unreliable media reports, she would have worked herself into a nervous breakdown. Why couldn’t Kyle realize this?
Shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it all, she climbed out of the car. Kyle had already let himself inside. She followed, entering the kitchen, where she dropped her car keys on the glass-topped table. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat,” he answered from the living room.
“Anything in particular?”
“You pick.”
Ugh. Two weeks of this and she’d strangle the man. Annoyed, she stalked to the refrigerator and pulled out last night’s lasagna. “Leftovers then,” she muttered. If he didn’t want to input, she would decide for him.
The tense silence that filled their house as she waited on the oven to warm up disturbed Aimee more than she’d expected it might. While he kept work out of their life for the most part, Kyle didn’t have a problem expressing himself before they’d lost their baby. Laughter, teasing, even arguments had been healthy, and beneath everything she never doubted that love held them together. He was honest to a fault—when he chose to open up. He’d drifted after their personal tragedy, but the man sitting in the other room, not even watching television, was a stranger. Deep down, the Kyle she’d married lurked inside that gloomy shell. If she could just draw him out…
The oven dinged, alerting her it had reached temperature, and she put the lasagna in to warm.
What bothered her most was that the man in the dark living room needed her more than ever. His silence screamed out for attention. If he’d just talk to her. Let her in a little. He didn’t have to confide State secrets, didn’t even have to go into detail. Just scratch the surface and give her a general idea. What had made him drift away? Had she somehow failed to provide something he needed?
She shook her head. No, Conner had said more than once that Kyle internalized everything in some ridiculous attempt to protect her. Protect her from what? From the truth about marrying a Delta Force operative? For God’s sake, they’d been married six years. Why, after four, had he suddenly decided he needed to shelter her?
She stole a glance at Kyle’s dark head. Did he really think she couldn’t handle it? That her time in the service didn’t expose her to the reality of what he did—that he killed people? Not just across a sand dune with a long-range machine gun, and not from a bomber high in the sky. More like face-to-face unsuspecting, judging from what little, and extremely summarized, information she could gather at her security clearance level.
Kyle, Kyle, Kyle. What’s happened to us?
Determined not to let him stuff her in a corner and forget about what they’d shared for so long, she pushed away from the cabinets and wandered into the living room. Aimee stopped behind the couch, set her hands on his broad shoulders. Squeezing the tight muscles, she asked, “You want me to pick up a Redbox movie for us after dinner? We can watch, and I can massage your leg.”
Like she’d accused him of being a terrorist himself, Kyle rocketed off the couch. “Goddamn it, Aimee, I don’t need to be coddled! If I want to watch a movie, I can get it myself.” He grabbed his cane, hobbled toward the stairs to their bedroom.
Stung beyond all rational means, Aimee’s composure snapped in half. “What the hell is your problem, Kyle Garland? I’m not coddling you. I wouldn’t dream of it. What are you trying to prove? And to who? ’Cause it isn’t working with me.”
He spun at the bottom of the stairs, anger flashing in his jade green eyes. But the quick movement threw him off balance, and the thunderous reply Aimee anticipated vanished as he reached for the hand railing. His right hand grabbed at the smooth wood, but his grip slipped. Kyle toppled to the floor in an awkward heap.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
For a moment, Aimee stood stock still, the truth of Kyle’s injuries settling on her shoulders. He was pissed because she’d come too close to the truth. He did need help. The stubborn fool’s pride just couldn’t accept that. And for Kyle, not being able to do something as simple as walk the stairs would destroy his confidence. His sense of self-worth. He had relied on the strength in his body to accomplish things most men would run from, for way too long. Without it… Kyle didn’t know which foot to put forward first. L
iterally.
She waited for him to untangle himself before going to his side. When she reached the bottom stair, she merely held out her hand. He stared at her extended fingers, fury blistering behind his eyes. As if he couldn’t decide whether to accept or knock her hand aside.
Aimee held her breath and remained motionless, refusing to allow him to push her away.
After several drawn out minutes, Kyle blew out a hard breath, and the anger in his eyes faded to something she couldn’t define. Regret maybe. Defeat? She couldn’t be certain, but gratitude didn’t lurk in the tight corners of his mouth.
He slapped his hand into hers. She closed her fingers, braced her weight against the railing, and pulled. In a hundred years, Aimee couldn’t have begun to lift Kyle, but somehow, with him using his good leg to push, and her holding steady pressure on his left hand, he made it to his feet.
Kyle pulled his hand away and dusted it on his jeans. He readjusted his cane, turned around more slowly, then trudged back to the couch where he sat with a heavy sigh.
Aimee searched for words. She needed to know just what sorts of injuries he’d suffered and just what kind of rehab he still faced. She was a nurse, for God’s sake, and she couldn’t sit on her hands and watch the man she loved struggle.
Quietly, she asked the most impersonal question she could come up with. “Is it muscle deterioration?”
Kyle’s voice came so quietly she had to strain to hear him. “Nerves.”
Grateful his back was to her, she winced. Nerves took a long time to heal…if they ever did. “And your hand?”
“Same thing.”
Oh, Kyle. How she ached to touch him. To run her hands through his hair, kiss his soft mouth, and tell him they’d get through this—he’d get through this.
The timer on the oven dinged, diverting her attention. She went into the kitchen, pulled the lasagna out of the oven, and set two plates on the countertop. “What do you want to drink?”
Couch cushions shifted, telling her he had stretched out. “Leave me alone, Aimee.”
Right. Leave him alone. Don’t help. Let him deal with this on his own. Like he’d been doing for the last nine months.
Sighing, Aimee turned away from the food and headed toward the bedroom stairs before the tears that had welled in her eyes could fall.
Chapter Three
Kyle didn’t know how much time had passed since Aimee fled to the bedroom, but footfalls overhead ended some time ago. The house breathed around him, filling his ears with comfortable white noise. He stared at the unlit Christmas tree in the corner, watching the moonlight play on the tinsel as silver filtered through the window. He’d done all he could to avoid coming home before Christmas. Unfortunately, the doctors in Germany refused to grant an extension, and here he was, stuck in the biggest clusterfuck of his life.
He’d been a supreme dick to Aimee. Had realized that even as he was biting her head off. The small part of his soul that faulted her for his survival, however, wouldn’t shut up and give her the peace she deserved. That portion of his guilt couldn’t move beyond the words Walsh had used to justify dragging Kyle’s body out of that hellhole—Aimee will kick my ass.
That motivator had prompted Walsh to strip the Taliban insurgents of their clothes, dress them both in the filthy rags, and lug him through the desert until sunrise. If it hadn’t been for the inordinate amount of chaos in the village, Walsh’s impromptu plan wouldn’t have worked. But it had. And he’d forced Kyle to face his demons, all the while using Aimee as a guilt trip.
Kyle still didn’t know when Walsh found out about the divorce. He’d been too fucked up to tell him during the ordeal. He hadn’t spoken to his best friend since.
But as much as Kyle wanted to blame Aimee, he couldn’t fault her for anything more than caring just a little too much, and it was that sympathy he didn’t want. Didn’t deserve.
Slowly, he inched his way out of the couch cushions and pushed to his feet. If he didn’t want her empathy, he’d have to show her he didn’t need it. Which meant he and the stairs were going to become intimately familiar with each other. He’d show her he damn well could do this alone, and then, maybe, she’d leave.
He struck a determined path to the staircase and glanced at the overhanging loft above. Fifteen treads.
Gritting his teeth, Kyle bent his knee and planted his left foot on the beige carpeting. Slow and steady he hauled his weight up. When he and Aimee had purchased the home, the private master bed, bath, and sitting room had seemed like a lovers’ paradise. Their own little place that even when they had family and friends over, they could retreat to and shut out the world. Even without guests, they’d spent more time in that sun-lit sitting room than they had in the main room downstairs.
They’d modified it into a temporary nursery. Painted over the pastel blue with olive green…after. And then, they’d taken to the family room, abandoning their sanctuary and the memories that had nearly destroyed Aimee.
Kyle looked around him, impressed he’d made it halfway up without so much as a bobble-step. Seven more. If they hadn’t turned their guest room into an office after her mom—their only extended family—had died, he wouldn’t have to worry about the damn stairs.
But they hadn’t, and he had seven more steps to accomplish. He hefted his bad leg up another, feeling the pull in muscles that weren’t used to strain. Easy does it. Just like rehab. Slow and steady. He took a deep breath, balanced on his cane, and continued up another.
Light emitted from within their bedroom, the faint glow from the adjoining bathroom. A smile stole across his face. When she slept alone, she always left the light on. Once, she’d told him it was so he could find her if he came home in the middle of the night. When she’d shown him how deep her vulnerabilities ran, he came to realize the light offered security. Like a part of her was still afraid of the monsters in the dark.
He hit the landing and let out a relieved breath. Fifteen steps accomplished. Now, to make it back down.
As he turned to descend, the sound of Aimee murmuring in sleep gave him pause. Instantly aware of her nearness, his skin prickled with anticipation. He approached the open doorway against his better judgment and peeked inside.
She lay tangled in the sheets, one leg exposed, the other hopelessly entwined. Like melted chocolate, her long brown hair streamed across the pillows and one shoulder. His gaze pulled to the sliver of skin beneath her gaping collar, the trace of that gentle slope overpowering. Would it still feel like silk? Did she still wear the lotion that reminded him of angel-food cake?
Kyle’s gut wound in on itself as Aimee restlessly tossed. She mumbled something he couldn’t make out that compounded the weight bearing down on his shoulders. Drawn by a force greater than himself, he approached the edge of the bed and smoothed her hair away from her face. Then, he braced his good arm on the pillow, bent over, and pressed a kiss to her temple.
If he ever stopped loving this woman, it would be a miracle.
Straightening, he gave the sheets a tug and freed her leg. When she mumbled again, he froze. If she woke up and found him here, he would have no choice but to crawl into the bed. And sleeping beside Aimee was simply out of the question. With her warm supple body pressing into his, sleep would be the last thing on his mind. And sex—beyond the fact he couldn’t perform worth a damn—opened all the doors he’d deliberately closed.
If things had been different… If they hadn’t suffered such a devastating loss…
Kyle turned away before the memories could swamp him. He’d wanted to try again. To move forward and invest all that love in a second child. But he’d never had the courage to ask Aimee to go through that again. And she’d never indicated she shared the same desire.
Deliberately ignoring the sitting room he had once adored, he grabbed the banister and hefted himself down the stairs. Descending proved more difficult than up; his bad leg shook each time it had to bear his full weight. He willed his fingers not to slip.
One-by-o
ne, little-by-little, he made his way to the living room at a snail’s pace. When he hit the solid floor, melancholy yielded to triumph, and Kyle gave in to a self-satisfied grin. He could do stairs. Now, a few more days of practice, then he could show off his skills and hopefully convince Aimee she didn’t need to stick around.
What would he do then? Here, in this house where every corner reminded him of her?
Find a hobby, he supposed. Something he could do left handed. Maybe paint.
Yeah, right.
Maybe he’d get a dog. He didn’t need two hands for fetch.
Making his way into the bathroom to bathe while Aimee was asleep, Kyle opened the hall closet for fresh towels. As reached for a folded square of fluffy white terry, the shelf above his head caught his eye. Stacked in one corner, colorful scrapbooks marked Aimee’s hideaway. Beside them, two lidless shoeboxes overflowed with photographs.
Man, how long had it been since he’d looked through these? Three years? Had to be, if not longer. Knowing Aimee, she’d done more work while he’d been gone.
He pushed the door open further and grabbed at the green scrapbook. Habit, however, humiliated him once more. He remembered too late his dysfunctional fingers, and as he tugged on the binding, his hand slipped. The book, its companions, and the boxes crashed down around his head.
****
Aimee jerked upright in bed. What the…
Kyle.
She kicked the sheets off and raced out of the room to look over the balcony on the loft. “Kyle?”
“I’m fine,” he called.
If he hadn’t been so bullheaded before, she might have believed that. As it was, the sight of his feet sticking out from behind the closet door made her doubt his claim. Taking the stairs two at a time, she hurried to investigate. If he’d fallen again, she intended to take his cane to his backside and ground him to a couch. It was the middle of the night—he should be asleep, not wandering around the house.
A Broken Christmas Page 3
