Another idea struck, and she grabbed the pencil again and drew out three little circles in one corner. “Structures for climbing beans. So the guys can stand to work.”
Crew issued a noise low in his throat, and when he spoke, he sounded choked up. “I love your inclusive vision.”
She searched his face. “Why does it sound like there’s a ‘but’ in there?”
He dropped his stare to his boots. “No buts. It’s just that I’m nearing the end of my stay here. I guess I’m a little sad that I can’t see your vision through.”
Chapter Four
Crew almost felt bad about playing poker with some of the guys in the program. Most were decent players. Some, like Pope, possessed skills that were so professional it was scary.
And others, like Truman, were terrible. Hell, Truman’s German shepherd, Ranger, had a better poker face.
He watched the young guy’s lips twitch in the grimace Crew had picked up early as his tell.
Pope caught it too—he shot a sideways glance at Crew before shifting his attention to his own hand of cards.
Two months before, Crew started organizing poker as a way to get Pope out of his room. Before he did, the guy had holed himself up all day and prowled the hallways all night.
Before long, Crew realized he enjoyed the camaraderie and the competitive spirit. After all, betting on who performed ranch chores faster didn’t have the same feel.
Crew scanned the faces around the table. All damn good men. Guys he’d gladly fight alongside if it ever came down to it. Guys he was glad to call his friends.
But did anyone ever keep in touch after they left the program?
The thought slid in sharp and unwelcome. Leaving wasn’t some abstract future anymore. His review date was coming up. He could already hear the words.
You’ve made significant progress.
Translation: time to go.
Time to figure out who the hell he was without a schedule, a safety net and men who understood what it meant to live with blood on their hands.
The fist that always seemed to clamp around his stomach when he thought about leaving was back, squeezing harder than usual. When he left, he’d miss Truman’s awful poker face and how they all ignored that Bobby struggled to stack the chips one-handed.
He’d miss the structure most of all. The rules. The walls. Outside this place, there were no therapists checking in, no alarms reminding him to eat or sleep. Just choices.
Too many of them.
He’d miss other things too—Chef’s fluffier-than-clouds buttermilk biscuits, music therapy with the world-renowned Juliette Malone, wife of Theo. Hell, he’d even miss art therapy with Honor. He hated working with tiny beads, but painting helped, especially if the therapy baby was there.
Navy.
He forced himself to think her name just to prove he could. Because if he left, there would be no more afternoons with her balanced on his knee either.
Truman issued a grunt and folded, as they all expected.
Crew sent the younger man a sympathetic look and made a mental note to talk to him about masking his face better. The therapists might want honesty, but in poker, it was a punishment.
“Better luck next time, bro.”
Truman slumped in his seat. “Pass the pretzels.”
Crew pushed the bowl his way, and Truman grabbed a handful like it might save him next time while reaching down with the other hand to settle on Ranger’s head.
The game continued with the kind of trash talk that came with men playing cards. The atmosphere in the rec room relaxed, and soon the place felt even less like a rehab center and more like they were just a group of friends getting together on a Friday night.
Pope eyed him over the cards fanned in his broad hand. Each knuckle carried a stark black letter—PASTand PAID. He’d never explained what the ink meant to him, but Crew—and a few of the others—had their theories. Time served. Damage done. A debt he believed he’d already paid.
