by River Savage
Not the man I’ve fallen in love with these last few weeks.
“Maybe from the start,” I offer, wanting him to lay it all out for me. Is this something that happens all the time? Is it a one-off? So many questions fill my head, but I keep them to myself and wait for him to share.
“My father died three years ago.” He takes a breath. Moving his hands from his lap, he rubs his palm over his mouth. “He shot himself in front of me.” His voice cracks for a second, but he holds himself together long enough to clear it.
“I’m so sorry, Hetch.” I tell him the same thing I told Kota when she filled me in. And just like with Kota, I sound awkward and unsure. I mean, what do you say to someone who’s lived through that? I can’t imagine what they’ve been going through, or the emotions they may have harbored.
“I always thought I was coping, you know?” he continues, gaining more conviction along the away. “Dealing with things in my own way. I mean, most days it doesn’t hit me. Sure, I think about it. But I do my job. I live my life.” He pauses and I count the beats between. “Then the look on that kid’s face today.” He drops his gaze to his lap. “It all came back. I was that kid. I was screaming for my dad again.” He falls silent, his body trembling in silent sobs.
“Hey.” I slide closer, unsure if I should touch him. I’ve never seen a man cry before. Never seen anyone so utterly defeated, so cut down and broken that my stomach aches for them.
“I fucked up, sweetheart.” He looks up. “I fucked up so bad.” He reaches for me, and this time, I don’t pull away. Instead, I welcome his embrace.
“No, you didn’t.” I pull him in closer, needing him to know I’m okay. We’re okay.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what anyone wants from me anymore. I just don’t know.”
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” My eyes burn, and my face heats, as a tear escapes my eye. First one and then two, and before I know it, they are falling rapidly. I cry along with him. For him. For his loss. For the screaming kid inside of him.
“It’s not okay, Liberty. I’m not okay.” He pulls back, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
“I know, but it’s okay to hurt, Hetch. It’s okay not to be okay.”
“But don’t you see? I don’t want to be not okay, Liberty. I don’t want to have to be fixed or changed. I just want you. I need you.” The sentiment should warm me and give me some kind of sign he cares for me like I care for him, but it doesn’t. I can’t become his crutch. He needs to address the issues with his father. To finally release the hurt and the anger he’s been holding on to for so long.
“You have me, honey,” I tell him what he needs to hear. The man doesn't need to be told he’s hit rock bottom. He needs someone to help him climb back up.
“I think I’m falling in love with you, Liberty.” He holds my face between his hands. So gentle. So tender. “I’m not saying this because I was an asshole earlier.”
“I know, Hetch.” My hands cover his as his lips caress mine. I don’t tell him I feel the same way, or the fact I’m already in love with him. It’s not the time or the place. Tonight is about him opening up to me, accepting whatever it is he needs to accept. And letting him know I’m here for him.
“I’m so tired, B. I’m so tired of all of this.” He rests his forehead on mine, exhaustion seeping from the both of us.
“I know you are, honey.” I take his hand and stand. “You have to be so tired. Come with me,” I urge and he stands without hesitation, following me into the bathroom.
“Are we having shower sex?” He cocks a brow while I reach in and turn the shower faucet on.
“No.” I smirk at his ability to lighten the mood. “You’re going to have a shower while I go and get you a change of clean clothes. Then we’re going to bed.” I help him out of his shirt and make quick work of his jeans. He helps me along, kicking off his boots, and stepping out of his jeans and boxers.
When he’s finally naked, and the water is ready, I motion him into the shower, hoping he’s lucid enough to stay standing while I grab him clean clothes.
“You gonna be okay for a minute?” I ask, closing the glass door. He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are closing as he steps under the spray of the water. “Hetch?” I step forward, unsure if I should leave him.
This is more than I can handle, him standing in front of me. I know I haven’t even caught a glimpse of the broken man fighting his way out.
“I’m good,” he finally speaks.
“Okay, I’ll be back.” I hang around for a few beats, before leaving and heading over to his apartment.
It only takes two minutes to grab a pair of boxer briefs, an old SWAT shirt, and a pair of loose-fitting black pants.
But those short two minutes in the shower are all it takes for his defenses to wash away.
“Hetch, honey?” I whisper when I step back into the bathroom and find him on the floor of the shower. Head in hands, his body shaking in grief.
“Hey, you okay?” He looks up at my voice, but it’s as if he doesn’t register I’m here.
“Why did he do it, B?” There’s a rawness to his question, like an open wound that refuses to heal. I open my mouth to answer, but he doesn’t let me, cutting me off and firing off another desperate question.
“What kind of father does that to his son?” His head rears back against the tiles, and a sob rips past my lips at the force of it.
“I don’t know, honey.” I rush toward the shower and open the glass door. Not bothering to undress, I crouch down to his level and hold him against me.
“A man who was sick? He probably didn't think very far ahead. When you try to pull someone out of their horror show, they have a way of dragging you into their nightmares. Maybe your father thought he was trying to save you from his darkness.” I don’t register the words I’m telling him. I just need to get through to him.
“You really believe that?” He looks up, his eyes searching for more than I can give him.
“I do, Hetch. And maybe one day you will see it like I do, too. You’re just hurting right now.”
“Jesus, Liberty.” He reaches for me, leaning forward until he is an inch from my face. “How can you bear to look at me?” His question hurts my heart and burns my throat.
“How could I not? You’re an amazing man, Liam.” I use his first name, needing him to know I see him. The real him.
He doesn’t respond, lost under the stream of the warm water. Lost to the storm inside his head.
“I think we need to get you to bed.” I place my hands over his and start to stand.
“Don't leave me, B,” he whispers. It's so gentle I almost don’t hear it until I look down at him, and he speaks again. “You’re the only person I trust.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” I promise, meaning it more than anything I’ve ever promised.
In my thirty years of life, death has never touched me. I’ve never truly grasped the complexity of it, nor have I comprehended how grief could tear a man down. But the depths of pain someone can live through is unfolding in front of me.
I’m not walking away from him.
I’m in love with him.
Flaws and all.
I am in this for the long haul.
The only problem being, when I wake the following morning, Hetch is gone. No note, no explanation, no word.
Deep down a part of me knew he wouldn’t be here. A proud man like Hetch would be hurting more today.
But if I knew how long it would be before he talked to me again, maybe I wouldn’t have made him leave the shower.
Maybe I would have held on a little tighter.
A little longer.
Maybe I shouldn’t have let go.
Twenty-Five
Hetch
Three weeks later.
“How are you today, Liam?” Dr. Anderson, the force-appointed shrink my lieutenant sanctioned, asks as he sits across from me in his leather armchair. Left leg crosse
d over his right, right arm bent at the elbow, his long fingers wrap around the stainless steel barrel of his ballpoint pen. He’s the epitome of arrogance, with his stuffy suit and pointy shoes, but give him a few minutes, he’ll be a list of contradictions.
“Okay, I guess.” I shrug, not really sure how I’m feeling today.
A little less messed up than yesterday.
A little more desperate today.
“Just okay?” he presses with the right amount of query, then waits.
“Well, I’m not pissing rainbows yet, Doc, but I don’t feel like I’m having a heart attack every five minutes this week. So yeah, just okay.” I don’t know why I’m fighting it today. While it’s protocol for me to talk about the incident that happened three weeks ago on the overpass, it’s my choice to take it seriously this time. My choice to sort my shit out and for once, be honest.
So why am I being an asshole today?
Because you miss her.
“Well, it’s an improvement on your first visit.” He nods, not giving a shit about my foul mood.
It’s my third visit. What started out as a debrief session, soon turned into a standing appointment every Monday for mandatory sessions until Dr. Anderson clears me. If I want to stay on in the tactical unit, this is where I need to be. One slip up, one missed appointment could have me off the team. I knew it was coming. While the mandatory part pisses me off, I still welcome it. After everything I’ve been through the last few years, I’m surprised I lasted this long.
“So, what’s been happening since you stormed out of here last week?” I should hate the way he’s so frank, but I don’t. It’s refreshing for once. It also keeps me in check.
“Nothing,” I answer honestly.
I’ve done fucking nothing other than working out with the boys in our group training sessions. Eating, sleeping and missing Liberty sums up my life. On top of that, I’ve been here, telling this fucker all about how I’ve been doing fuck all.
“Well, that sounds boring as shit.” He continues to roll his pen between his fingers.
“Tell me about it.” His timely, uncensored comment settles me enough to relax back into my chair. “How about you approve me for work and I won’t be so bored?”
“Let’s see how we go today.” He doesn’t reject the notion completely, so there’s still hope.
“Deal.” I nod, a little extra spring in my voice.
“Okay, how are we going to play it today, Sergeant? You want me to try and pry everything out or do you want to cut to the chase and get started?”
He starts the session the same way each time.
Same question. Same bluntness. Same result.
Trepidation trickles through me as I try to figure out which way is less painful.
I’ve done both ways, and to be honest, neither way is pretty.
“I don’t know. How about you start? I’ll try not to be a dick, and we’ll see how we go?” It’s all I can offer.
“Have you spoken to her?” He opens with the sucker punch.
Liberty.
He knows a little about her. It’s the one thing I’ve been reluctant to talk about; however, judging by his play, he’s about to tackle it today.
“Not yet.”
“Communication is key here, Liam. Not only with me but also when you leave here. For me to clear you for work, I need to know you’re talking not just in here, but out there too.”
“You don’t think I know this? Why do you think I’m here? I know I need to talk to her, but I don’t know how.”
“You answered your own problem. All you have to do is talk.”
“She’s going to be pissed.” I reveal a little more.
Do you blame her? You left in the middle of the night and haven’t been back since.
“Why is she going to be pissed?” He presses for more.
“Because I’ve shut her out.”
“And why have you shut her out?”
This is how he works, and maybe before now, his style of peppering me over and over with question upon question would have had me shutting down, but I can’t keep doing that. I need to be able to work through this. I need tools to deal.
“I don’t know why I left.”
“Oh, come on. Yes, you do. You need to be honest with yourself.”
“I don’t know,” I lie as my brow starts to sweat.
“Why have you shut her out, Liam?”
“Because I'm embarrassed.” I pause, waiting for three longer-than-normal beats, then another two before I realize he’s expecting more from me.
“By how I acted. By how unpredictable my grief is,” I blurt before I can censor myself. “One minute I’m fine, and life seems to be moving on, and the next, I’m in a fucking shower, breaking down in front of my woman.”
“You broke down in front of Liberty?” Fuck, there I go, getting carried away. I was hoping to keep that little tidbit of information to myself.
“I shared some things.” I don’t delve too much into it. For one, I’m unsure if what I shared was real or if somehow I made it all up. The night is an array of broken images. Sterling and Kota played a part, but most of it flashes to Liberty climbing into the shower, holding me while I burdened her with my shit.
“What did you share?”
“I don’t know. Things….”
“Okay, let’s leave it there for a minute and talk about your father.” He changes tactics. Hitting me with another question, equally as frustrating. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone before.”
“Sometimes I dream about saving him.” The words spill out of my mouth before I can process them.
“How do you feel in those dreams? When you save him.”
“Happy. Relieved.”
“And do you talk to him after?”
“No, usually, it’s the end of the dream, and then I wake up.”
“And what do you feel after you wake up?”
“Anger.” I pause. “Then heaviness here.” I thump my hand over my heart and tap it twice. The dream is rare. Normally, it’s a replay of what did happen, rather than what I wish would happen.
“What did you tell Liberty that night?” I don’t see the ploy to get me to open up. My head is still in disarray with the dream talk.
“That I didn’t understand why he would do that to me. That I don’t know what people want from me anymore. That I don’t know how to act. How to be.”
Fuck.
“How do you think you should be?” He doesn’t give me a chance to be annoyed, hitting me with another tough question.
“Over it? Fuck, I don’t know.” I adjust my position in my chair, irritation surging through me.
“Do you think you’ll ever be over it?” His twirling of his pen stops, and the uncrossing of his leg alerts me to his change in observing me.
“Isn’t that why I’m here? To get over it?” I shrug while I pick at a hangnail on my thumb.
“I’m not asking you why you’re here. You know why you’re here. We both know there is a lot of pain underneath this façade you have constructed. I’m asking you, do you think you will ever get over your father’s death—”
“Suicide,” I correct him before he can finish.
Death to me was cancer or dying in your sleep. Something you had no control over. My father did. He decided to die. He decided to kill himself.
“Why do you do that? Correct me every time I say he died. Did he not die?”
“He killed himself.”
“Is there a difference?” I don’t know how to answer his question. Is there a difference? Part of me says no. Like cancer, my father was sick, and his illness killed him. But the other part of me—the angry and guilty part—says yes. He didn’t have to stop taking his meds. He could have tried harder.
“I don’t know,” I end up answering. He doesn’t push the issue of death, instead notes something down before continuing with his questions.
“Tell me. What’s one thing about your father dying that has staye
d with you? I’m not talking about the scene, or how he died. I’m talking about you as his son. What’s one thing you’ve missed, or something you realized?”
It takes me a minute to think it through before I come up with something. Normally, if I do think about my father, it’s about the moment he left. I never think about anything else.
“I wasn’t expecting to find myself still losing parts of him months, even years later,” I finally answer.
“What do you mean?”
“Him dying didn’t sever the connection we had.” He holds my stare for a moment, not responding how I expected him to.
“Can you explain that to me?”
“You know, like the house. He was helping me work on it. I didn’t go out there for so long and the first time I did, I couldn’t remember where he had put something. I guess I didn’t, and I still don’t realize how connected to me he was.”
“And you to him.” He picks up my twist of words.
“And me to him.”
“Has anyone ever told you it’s okay to be angry at your father, Liam?”
“No. Usually, it’s used against me.”
“Why did you leave before Liberty woke up?”
“I was scared. I woke up, realized the fucked-up mess I was in and didn’t want her to see it. Didn’t want her to see me.”
Fucker did it again.
“But you let her see a part of it, in the shower?”
“Right. It was rock bottom. She already saw too much. She doesn’t need to see any more of this shit. I’m meant to be looking after her, not the other way around. What type of man breaks down like that?”
“What type of person, you mean? Because I see a man, even when we’ve been deep in session. You’re still a man. You’re still someone’s child. A son. You’re allowed to feel pain, Liam. You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to cry. It doesn’t make you any less of a man. The only way you can move on and find peace with this is to allow yourself to let it happen.”
“By freaking out my woman? By breaking down to the point I have trouble breathing?” I ditch the hangnail and start flexing my fingers. Opening and closing, to calm myself.
