“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I can’t … I can’t stop it … I’m sorry?—”
“Shhh,” I whisper, stroking his back, my voice low and steady. “Don’t apologize. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
A sob tears out of him and it’s the kind of crying that sounds like he’s kept a lid on this bottle for years. I hold him tighter, whispering his name as his grief pours out in waves. I don’t try to stop it. I don’t say a word because that might make him tuck it back in.
“Every time I close my eyes, I relive it … their faces … the smell of the diesel … the copper taste of blood in the air, the sound of Hassan calling my name, getting fainter and fainter.”
I swallow because I’m about to lose it. My heart is absolutely breaking for this man who is crying in my arms. This wild, beautiful man who is strong for everyone else around him is coming apart, and now I have to be strong for him.
“It’s okay. You’re home, with me, and I won’t let you go, okay?”
He nods and hugs me tighter. Eventually, his body begins to relax and his trembling slows. He pulls back, eyes bloodshot and glassy. He swipes at his face with the back of his hand.
“Christ,” he mutters. “That’s never happened before. That was embarrassing.”
I cup his warm face in my hands. “Listen to me. Do not be embarrassed. You’ve been holding onto this for so long. You need to get it out.”
He rubs his eyes. He goes quiet for a beat and then nods in agreement. I tilt my head and brush a damp strand of hair off his forehead.
“Do you want to sit outside and cool down again? Get some air?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
I grab the blanket off the end of the bed and throw it around his shoulders as we walk. The patio door slides open with a soft whoosh, and the night air kisses our skin, cool and quiet. We sit side by side on the same lounger. He doesn’t speak at first and I don’t push.
“Everything went sideways,” he says, breaking through the hum of crickets.
“The op?”
He nods once, jaw tightening.
“The intel was bad. We weren’t even supposed to be near that location. Stedman made the call, Topper, Hayamer, Thatcher and I followed orders.”
He clears his throat as he tries to get the words out. “We lost two men. One of them our interpreter, Hassan, who risked everything to help us, and … Hayamer. He was twenty-five.”
His gaze becomes unfocused as he stares out into the trees.
“Duke,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“When command started investigating, they needed someone to blame.” He swallows hard. “The intel failure went all the way up the chain, but that’s not how the military works. They needed a clean story.”
“Stedman?”
“Yeah. It was his op and they needed a scapegoat. Someone they could quietly shuffleout.”
“So you stepped in.”
He scratches his neck. “Yep. Told them I was the one who broke protocol, and they accepted it. They got their scapegoat while I got discharged. No court-martial, just a quiet end to my record. They scrubbed it to look like burnout.”
“And you gave up your career.” I feel like I’m going to sob now.
“I had to. Couldn’t let Stedman take the fall. Twenty-year man with a family. He deserved better than being hung out to dry for following bad intelligence. At least I had a place to come home to. A lot of vets don’t have that. A lot don’t even come home.”
Neither of us says anything for what seems like the longest time.
“Thank you for telling me, for talking about it,” I say.
He finally looks at me, his eyes glassy again. “I don’t talk about it because if I do … I have to admit how much I lost. How much I still carry.”
