Bittersweet Symphony (The Damaged Souls series Book 2)

by Belinda Boring

  “Every super hero needs a cape so here’s yours,” Rebecca gushed. “You’re our very own Clark Kent, minus the nerd glasses.”

  “What did you say?” The coldness in Cooper’s tone was unmistakable as he stared in disbelief at the socks, refusing to accept them. Something was wrong. His body language all but screamed it.

  “Cooper?” I asked, resting my hand on his arm.

  He flinched, yanking away from the contact.

  “I don’t want them.”

  Even Rebecca was puzzled by his dramatic change in demeanor. “What’s wrong? I thought you liked super heroes. You’re just like them, after all.”

  Like a light bulb going off in my head, I suddenly understood.

  Hero.

  The one word Cooper loathed with a passion.

  The one word he refused to allow anyone to attach to him.

  The one word he felt was a slap in the face.

  Hero.

  My boyfriend was about to lose it.

  Chapter Three

  Cooper

  If she waved those fucking socks one more time in my face, I was going to say or do something I’d regret—right here in front of everyone. I would look like the complete asshole, but I didn’t care.

  That word.

  Hero.

  It repeated over and over again inside my mind like a goddamn nail being pounded into wood—flesh—me.

  The trigger was always the same. Someone with good intentions would start spouting platitudes, flinging it about as if they were proclaiming me a saint when in fact it felt like acid scorching a painfully open wound.

  A wound that refused to heal—that would never heal. Not as long as Owen remained dead and buried.

  It was like returning home again—the words that spewed out of mouths that didn’t know what the hell they were saying, but did so out of desperation anyway. They felt bad—sympathetic to the broken man left crippled by war. They thought it would help soothe those jagged pieces, that somehow, miraculously, being elevated to saint status would erase the agony.

  That was the problem. Nothing would soften the blow or make up for the choices made in the heat of battle, for the calculated decisions made each day so they could enjoy their freedoms.

  I knew what I had signed up for, or at least I believed I had. It was about making the world a better and safer place for humanity. It was about standing up to those who would seek control via cruelty. It was about fighting for those unable to defend themselves.

  It was all these things and so much more.

  But hero . . . the word felt dirty, angry, bitter in my mouth.

  I would never be a hero.

  Killing. Murder. Failure. Those were not accolades to be praised for.

  Death was death—no matter the justification. I was merely a weapon to be wielded.

  Even with all that buzzing around in my head like a swarm of angry bees hell-bent on destruction, those words weren’t the driving force behind my rage.

  Yes, there was an all-consuming fury boiling beneath the surface demanding for release. It was an emotion I kept heavily guarded because once freed it would burn the world around it to the ground. It didn’t discriminate. It simply laid waste to everything it touched—Caylee included.

  I’d been toxic before time had taught me control—tools to manage my grief and anger.

  Hero.

  A hero didn’t fail to protect those in his charge.

  A hero did everything within his power—even if it meant sacrificing his own life.

  A hero didn’t submit to bullet wounds.

  He didn’t roll over and lie helpless in the middle of gunfire.

  He didn’t look on as his best friend and brother bled out on foreign soil.

  He did something—anything.

  He fought.

  He fought with his last breath.

  He saved.

  He fucking acted like a hero not a goddamn coward lying in the dirt.

  Tears rolled over my cheek, leaving a hot trail behind as I swiped at my face, annoyed. More weakness. More proof that the socks still being shoved at me were for someone else.

  They were for cartoon figures with superhuman powers, who could leap tall buildings in a single-bound—for those who could and did stop bullets.

  At the mere thought, my thigh started throbbing, the ever-present reminder that I managed to walk away while the true hero died.

  Owen. It always came back to him.

  He should’ve been here—stealing kisses from his wife, celebrating one more birthday, basking in the love and support of his friends.

  Suddenly the large S stitched on the socks took on a new meaning. It didn’t mean super at all. It meant something truer, more real, something much more deserving.

  Scum.

  That’s what I was. I was a scumbag for deserting my friend and an even bigger one for then hooking up with his wife.

  It didn’t matter that she was now his widow. It didn’t matter what anyone said or how they’d tried to convince me that none of it was my fault. Staring at those damned socks was all the proof that I needed.

  Being with Caylee was just another in a long line of mistakes. She would never be mine, despite how desperately I needed her to be.

  I’d forgotten that my happiness wasn’t important—that the only way I could see me making penance for my failures was to deny myself the very thing that would save me.

  What kind of hero took what wasn’t his?

  I was the villain in this story.

  The die had been cast.

  There was no undoing the past or rewriting this part of my story.

  And just like that my fury broke free and with it, the pent-up breath I’d kept caged within me. With what little sanity I could quickly grasp hold of, I stormed by a bewildered Rebecca, banging shoulders with Marty, who stood torn between comforting his girlfriend and grabbing my arm in an effort to stop me.

  I couldn’t even bring myself to glance at Caylee.

  My beautiful, shining, perfect, Caylee.

  The one person I couldn’t let my darkness touch.

  I’d tainted her too much already.

  “Cooper!” she cried out, the sound of heartbreak in her voice enough to make my steps falter. Deep inside my chest came the need to stop—to shove this ferocity back inside the prison I’d kept it in.

  Kept. The idea made me snort it was so fucking hilarious.

  I didn’t keep anything.

  I was the master of nothing.

  My emotions governed me, dictating my every move like I was a puppet on a string and created to dance for its pleasure. I was a fool to think that somehow I had control over how I felt. That I’d incorporated the tools gleaned from shrinks and their psychobabble.

  I was triggered and there was no casual talk down or breathing technique to calm me.

  No, what I needed—what my friends needed—was for me to get the hell out of Dodge before I destroyed the very things that helped me survive.

  Their friendships.

  “No,” I growled in response, not bothering to turn around. I couldn’t look at her. If I did, it would shatter the fraction of common sense I could muster. There was only so much guilt I could handle and one more mouthful and I’d suffocate.

  “Dude!” Marty exclaimed but I didn’t wait long enough to hear whatever he wanted to say. I knew I was being a colossal asshole, and maybe, just maybe, I would laugh once this passed and realized that I’d overreacted.

  But not now.

  I couldn’t.

  Reason had come and gone—leaving me nothing to work with.

  All because of one fucking word that held the power of a sledgehammer.

  “Please, Cooper. I didn’t mean it. Please, wait. Don’t go.”

  Tears, all I could hear were tears.

  Sympathy. Horror. Regret. Confusion.

  I’d heard those sentiments before and closed my heart against it. I couldn’t open myself up to it and live. I couldn’t listen and
stop myself from lashing out in pain and anger.

  Hero.

  Motherfucking hero.

  I was choking on the word.

  The fresh air from outside did little to cool my temper, and as I looked about for an escape, I silently begged that they’d give me the breathing space I needed—that God or whatever higher power out there would inspire them to not follow.

  “Cooper!”

  I closed my eyes, my fists tightening by my sides. Grinding my teeth in an attempt to find a semblance of clarity, I counted to ten beneath my breath.

  “Walk away, Caylee. Please.” My voice cracked with emotion. I couldn’t get into it here with her. Not while I still felt so out of control.

  “Talk to me. I understand. She didn’t mean it.”

  “They never do,” I answered bitterly, spitting out my anger. “To them, it’s such a pretty fucking word.”

  Caylee didn’t move, standing her ground behind me. I was grateful for that small mercy. The last thing I needed was to see the pity I knew I’d find in her eyes. That’s just who she was. She loved me.

  She’d loved him and now she felt that same way for me.

  It would be too much, and I was grateful she made no attempt to touch me. She recognized that, like a wounded wild animal, she was wiser to keep her distance.

  “I know, Cooper. I know.” Her words floated in the air around me, not quite easing the tension, but soothing nonetheless. “I didn’t know she’d planned that.”

  “You’re not responsible for me. You shouldn’t have to screen every interaction people have with your boyfriend.” That’s what irritated me the most—that feeling of needing to be handled. She was my girlfriend—someone to love and laugh with—not be protected and sheltered by.

  The last thing I ever wanted in this relationship was to know she was more caregiver than anything.

  No one needed that kind of burden.

  “I never said I was. You’re a grown man, Cooper. We all know that, but whether you like it or not, you can’t control how people care for you. We do it instinctively because of what you mean to us.”

  “I warned you about this,” I countered, ignoring her last comment. She was attempting to talk me off the ledge, but what she didn’t understand was I lived here—with the constant threat of toppling over at any given moment. “Walk away now, Caylee. While you still can.”

  “Now who’s being treated like they’re fragile?” There was heat in her accusation, and rightfully so. I was doing the exact same thing to her, but damn it, it was safer for all of us if she’d simply leave and never look back.

  I still hadn’t turned around. In the background people exited the bar, some happily laughing as they staggered away, their night of drinking at an end. What I wouldn’t give to exchange places with these strangers and experience how life should’ve been.

  “This is different.”

  “Bullshit. It’s exactly the same and you know it.”

  It took every ounce of strength not to whip around and argue. Weariness hit me and suddenly the only place I wanted to be was in the safety of my room. The anger that had gripped me so tightly slowly began to recede. “I need to go home, sweetheart. Please. Not now.”

  There must’ve been something in my voice because her next words came gentler, empty of all fight and determination. “Let me help you.”

  Before I could answer, Marty stepped in. “I got him. I’ll make sure he gets home okay. Let Rebecca know I’ll stop by later.”

  Rebecca.

  Fuck, I’d probably freaked her out with my meltdown and rudeness.

  “Look, man,” I started, ducking my head in embarrassment. “I—”

  “She’ll be okay. I’m not going to lie, the first time witnessing you get triggered this hard is brutal. But she cares about you. She understands.”

  “Maybe I should go back inside and apologize.” I turned around only to be filled with disappointment that Caylee was gone. Maybe it was for the best she hadn’t been standing there. I still wasn’t ready to face her just yet. “Fuck. I totally ruined tonight.”

  Marty gripped my shoulder, squeezing it slightly. “Yeah, you did, but the best thing you can do is go home and sleep it off. Put some distance between it.”

  Scrubbing my face with a tired hand, I couldn’t shake the need to go make things right. “How bad is it?”

  I didn’t need to elaborate. Marty knew exactly what I meant. “I think you surprised her is all. It could’ve been worse. Remember the first time I said something that set you off?”

  I cringed at the memory. “Fuck. I don’t even remember hitting you.” Casting a sidelong glance at my best friend, I was amazed he was still standing by my side after all we’d gone through—after all I’d put our friendship through.

  “No hard feelings either. You’ve gone through hell, Coop, so no one could really blame you for losing your shit once in a while. Just make sure you work it out with her tomorrow and explain what happened. She only wanted to let you know she loves you and that you matter to her.”

  “Yeah, she didn’t know what that word means to me,” I continued, feeling my body relax further.

  “No, she didn’t otherwise, she’d never have used it.” Slapping my back with one hand and waving for a cab with the other, Marty offered me a crooked smile. “Seriously, go home and sleep this off. You look like crap.”

  “Fuck you.” I laughed, the sound of my chuckle feeling somewhat foreign after the maelstrom of emotions earlier. “Let them know I’m okay, will you?” I asked, throwing one last glance at the bar. Caylee and Rebecca were still inside, believing goodness knows what about me.

  I just hoped that whatever damage I’d done with my outburst could be fixed.

  “I will. Promise. Text me if you need anything, bro.” He pulled me into a quick bear hug before stepping back and waving me off.

  After giving the driver my address, I sank into exhaustion and let my head fall back onto the top of the seat.

  Happy fucking birthday, Cooper. Scenes from tonight were already replaying in my head.

  Sooner or later this would have to get easier.

  Right?

  Chapter Four

  Caylee

  The heavenly scent of bacon cooking wafted into my room, waking me from a nightmare I was grateful to escape.

  My heart thudded heavily in my chest. Damn. My textbooks spoke about how our minds processed things during sleep and they weren’t kidding if the monster Cooper had turned into was any representation.

  Not that I believed he was one, but after spending hours talking with Rebecca and helping her understand how the intention of her gift had backfired, it was no wonder I spent the majority of my night confronting an aggressive two-headed Cooper in my dreams.

  Volatile hostility had rolled off him in waves as he screamed and gnashed his teeth, his snapping jaws threatening to eat me whole.

  Meanwhile, piles of superhero socks burned in a blazing fire pit between us.

  Brushing damp hair away from my face, it took a second to focus and relinquish the already fading images back into my subconscious.

  That wasn’t who Cooper was.

  It was merely how I saw his PTSD—the disorder that flared whenever it felt like rendering him a prisoner in that moment to its demands. I knew I couldn’t begin to understand what it felt like for him or how out of control I assumed it left him.

  That was the frustrating part—all I had was assumptions paired with the research I’d done in preparation for when Owen came home. It was something us military wives whispered to each other as we braced ourselves for the uncertainty we faced when our husbands returned from deployment.

  Some did just fine and were able to adapt back into civilian life with grace and smiles. Sure, there were adjustments to be made and the occasional slip, but for the most part, we prayed for the best and celebrated when our spouses didn’t become a statistic.

  Our unofficial mantra was it wouldn’t happen to us. We were strong
enough to beat it. Our soldiers were resilient. They faced horrors we couldn’t even imagine and coming home was a piece of cake. Where they stumbled or found themselves lacking, we made up the difference.

  Like a well-oiled machine, we would not let our loved ones falter or fall by the wayside. We wouldn’t let them become another casualty to a war that already cost way too much.

  Checks and balances. We would stand guard and not let them suffer in silence.

  Unfortunately, even the most vigilant came up empty sometimes and no amount of prayer could save those who lost their way.

  I’d lost my Owen. Not to the erosiveness of dealing with trauma but to a twisted game of chance and circumstance. While I’d slowly accepted that these were the cards dealt us, I refused to lose another person to such cruelty.

  Yes, Cooper had flipped out over something last night and shown that side of himself that was blistered and savage, but it wasn’t who he was.

  It was simply the result of something that had happened to him.

  I knew it.

  After leaving Rebecca earlier as she continued reading about PTSD and it’s triggers online, she believed it, too.

  We all saw the real Cooper—the one who hated that side of himself—and accepted him . . . flaws and all.

  I just hoped, after giving him the space he asked for last night outside the bar, that he could also see we would never abandon him.

  He was ours and we were his—through thick and thin. We would always keep fighting. He wasn’t alone and I would beat that into that stubborn head of his if I had to.

  My stomach rumbled in response to the unrelenting delicious smell of breakfast. There was a brief scratching at the door as I stood and stretched. A cute brown nose poked through the crack.

  Lola.

  Wait. Lola was here?

  Crouching, I opened my arms, welcoming the warm softness of Cooper’s beloved dog beneath my fingers as I snuggled with her. “Hey there, girl. Did you bring our boy to come visit?”

  I kissed the top of her head and laughed when her ears flickered in response. She caught me by surprise with a lick of her tongue.

  Puppy kisses were wonderful first thing in the morning, but they paled in comparison to Cooper’s. If she was here, it meant he was as well.