“You know I was a Marine,” Caleb says. “Three years ago, I retired. But it wasn’t because I wanted to. I had to.”
I’m not sure if I should say anything, so I just nod in silent encouragement.
“I was medically retired,” he explains. “That’s whenthe military deems you no longer fit to serve. A lot of the time, it happens when someone’s badly injured. They lose a limb, like Gage did. Or they suffer a traumatic brain injury.”
The thought of Caleb injured brings fresh tears to my eyes. “Were you?—”
He shakes his head. “I wasn’t injured. Not like that. I’ve had my share of broken bones, bullet—” As my eyes widen, he stops. “Anyway. That wasn’t why. It was PTSD. I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t get over the paranoia. The flashbacks. Just the thought of going back out there…”
His gaze shifts to the window, and he releases a heavy sigh. “I was on an op in Somalia with my team. It was about eight months before I retired. There were fourteen of us, and we were all close. With the time we spent together, we had to be.”
I thread my fingers between his. “And?”
“One of the guys—Trevor—had been struggling, but I had no idea how badly. And one night, he snapped. We were on the way to our exfil—extraction—point, and we’d set up camp for the night.” Caleb’s gaze darkens. “We were asleep when the gunshots started.”
I gasp. “He shot you?”
“Not me. Once we realized what was happening, me and a couple of the other guys managed to stop him. But not before…” Caleb’s face twists. “He killed three men that night. Good men. Men with wives and families and… Shit. It was horrible.”
My heart wrenches at the pain in his eyes. “Caleb. I’m so sorry.”
His mouth presses into a thin line. “Yeah. Me too.” After a few silent seconds, he adds, “Not long after, I started having symptoms of PTSD. I went to counseling, but it didn’t help. Things just kept getting worse. I couldn’t leave my apartment without having a panic attack. Everywhere I looked, I thought there were enemies coming to get me.”
“Caleb.”
“I didn’t want to leave. But I couldn’t do my job, either. Even if, by some miracle, I made it out on an op, I would have been a liability to everyone on my team. So when the doctors brought up medical retirement, I went along with it.”
“Then what?” I ask.
Caleb makes a small gesture with his chin. “I moved back here. My parents had been talking about moving south for a while, so I bought the place from them. They stayed in Vermont for about six months while I was living here—to make sure I didn’t lose my shit, I’m sure—but once I could convince them I was okay, they left.”
Hearing his story, Caleb’s claim about preferring to be alone makes more sense. I haven’t known him long, but enough to know the kind of man he is.
He’s a strong man. A proud one. One who wouldn’t want to show any weakness. Of course it would be easier to hide away than face the inevitable questions of why he came back to Bliss.
“I’ve kept to myself,” Caleb says. “The other night, on the road? I was coming back from dinner at my buddy Enzo’s house. He’s been asking me for years,and I only just said yes. Because I didn’t want to face people. I didn’t want them to see what a failure I was.”
“A failure?” I clutch his hand. “You’re not a failure. Not even close.”
He gives me a small smile. “I’ve come around to that. But it took time.” His thumb strokes across the back of my hand. “It wasn’t just that, though. It was the guilt.”
“But—”
“Guilt isn’t always rational. I know that now. But before… I blamed myself for not realizing how unstable Trevor had gotten. I blamed myself for not stopping him sooner. For being asleep when he started shooting. I felt guilty for surviving when my friends didn’t.”
Suddenly, I feel foolish for my own self-pity when Caleb’s been through so much worse. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell him. “You didn’t. And I’m…” My voice shakes with emotion. “I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know if that helps, but…”
“It does.” One hand comes to my cheek, resting there for a moment. “I’m not telling you this because I want you to feel bad for me. I’m much better now. My PTSD is pretty well under control, aside from some nightmares and not liking fireworks much. Keeping to myself became a habit. One I convinced myself was better.”
“I understand.” It’s the same reason I avoided close friendships. After being deserted by my mom and shifted from one foster family to the next, I thought itwas better—safer—to avoid close friendships than risk being hurt again.
“But the guilt,” Caleb says. “I let it control me. I let it isolate me. And shit, Vienna. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you. Especially when you have no reason to feel guilty.”
It’s hard to let go of it. “But?—”
“And.” He presses on. “It wouldn’t matter. Even if we find out itwasthe extra log. I don’t care. All I care about is that you’re okay. And… I don’t want you to leave. If you really want to, I’ll help you find a safe place to stay. But I’d much rather you stay here.”
“Why?” I ask.
