How many summer nights had Declan, Scarlett, and I spent listening to my grandmother’s stories? Learning card games from her, and just escaping from the world? Or commiserating after she passed away four years ago, leaving me all alone?
The silence stretched between us before Percival tried again. “Look, man, you can’t hide away forever. It’s been a year since?—”
“Since I fucked up?” My voice came out harder than intended. But no one understood, not even the guys who’d been there. None of them realized how distracted I’d been by Brooke. I should have seen the gunman. Should have taken him out before he nearly killed us.
Another pause. “Have you talked to Brooke at all?”
My throat tightened at her name. “No.”
“You haven’t called her? At all?” Disbelief colored his voice. “You two were?—”
“I’m not ready to talk about this.”
“I ran into her a couple of months ago. She was asking about you.” Percival’s tone grew brighter, but it was all an act. “She was only in the hospital for a few weeks. Treatment of the burns went well.”
Burns. I couldn’t even remember what had happened to her.
My last memory was tackling Brooke as the weapon appeared in the window. The crack of gunfire. Then nothing until waking up in a hospital bed, tubes snaking from my body, doctors talking about nerve damage and multiple surgeries.
“If you’re blaming yourself for what happened to her, you’re being an idiot,” Percival continued. “You threw yourself in front of an armed man to save her. If you hadn’t, she’d be dead.”
I closed my eyes. “I need to go.”
“Rav—”
I ended the call before he said more, and I tossed the phone onto the couch. The empty cottage amplified the voice in my head.Failure. Washout. Not good enough.
The physical evaluation after my recovery replayed in my mind. The doctor’s clinical voice explaining that the damage would never fully heal. That I couldn’t meet the basic physical requirements of a JTF2 operator.
I could have done other things. Training. Intelligence analysis. But they didn’t needmefor those jobs. I was a broken soldier. What did I have to give anyone?
Four years with one of the world’s premier military outfits, and now I was nothing.
No one.
My thoughts drifted to last month, when Brooke’s name had appeared on my phone screen. I’d stared at it until the call went to voicemail, paralyzed by what to say.
How could I face her after failing her so completely?
I couldn’t.
Because you’re a coward.
I’d deleted her voicemail without even listening to it.
On the coffee table in front of the couch lay my disassembled Glock, next to my one printed photo of Brooke. I’d cleaned the pistol twice, and when I’d started a third time, all I could think about was Brooke teasing me about my cleaning obsession. There wasn’t dust hanging in the air here, but I’d kept the habit.
Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to finish the cleaning.
So I’d left the weapon in pieces on the table, just as unable to put it back together as I was unable to put my soul back together.
I’d been staring at those pieces for three days, working through my reasons to continue living—finding none that outweighed the emptiness, the uselessness, or the fragmented memories.
The gun was the easiest solution. The one that would end the replays of gunfire. Of bullets tearing through my shoulder. Of waking up alone. Of knowing I wasn’t good enough for thewoman who’d lit up my entire world from the moment I’d first seen her.
Every time I looked at her photo, I heard her laugh. Saw her smile. What would she think? Would she care?
Did it matter?
