He took a few deep breaths, and the line went silent for a few minutes. PTSD was a bitch, but it seemed like it was hitting Oliver differently.
“Have you been talking to someone?”
He huffed. “Like a fucking therapist? You sound like Millie now.”
“Seeing a therapist isn’t a bad thing. I’ve thought about it.”
“You have?” he asked.
“Yeah. It’s a hard adjustment to civilian life.”
He hesitated. “Yeah. I’ll think about it. I gotta go pick up Millie from her appointment. Thanks, man.”
The phone call ended abruptly.
I scooted back and took off my prosthetic. The swelling had finally gone down, and I was grateful. Military life was fast paced and filled with duties. We didn’t have the chance to sit down and think about the shit we’d done. Hopefully, Oliver would work it out and talk to someone.
My eyelids fluttered closed as my thoughts drifted toward Evelyn. I was scared shitless of what would happen tomorrow.
I gripped the edge of my sink as I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. I’d let my hair air dry from the shower this morning, and the curls were wild. My eyes were wide and curious of what the conversation would mean. I wore a simple, green flowing dress that hit just above the knee. I was optimistic but couldn’t stop the doubts from creeping in.
I yawned, shaking my head. My bed sheets were in a knot from twisting and turning all night. I'd been so lost in formulating scenarios for the afternoon ahead. My heart thudded hard against the cage of my chest. I’d rehearsed the conversation a million times in my head, each time it ended differently.
A knock on the door signaled that Flynn was here. I glanced at my watch and sure enough, it was noon on the dot. He’d always been punctual. A smile formed on my lips as I maneuvered through my house to the front door. I took a steady breath before turning the knob and pulling the door open.
He had his dark brown hair tousled, and it was thick and lustrous. I wasn’t sure if it was the hairdresser in me that wanted to run my hands through it or the woman who’d been in love with him since high school. It was probably both.
As his gray eyes swept over me, flecks of silvery light twinkled in his irises. His facial structure was strong and defined. His perfect pink lips were stretched into a thin line, and his broad shoulders were tense.
I blinked a few times as if I were coming down from a daze. My body always reacted to him that way. I cleared my throat as I widened the door. “Come in.”
“Thanks,” he said, walking past me. If I hadn’t been paying attention, I wouldn’t have noticed the limp as he made his way to my sofa and sat down.
I shut and locked the door before following him. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Water would be great.”
I went to the fridge and pulled out two bottles before sitting down next to him. I offered the bottle and he took it, his fingers grazing mine. Just a small touch turned me into mush. I couldn’t imagine what kissing him again would be like.
“Are you alright? You seem like you’re in your head.” His eyes were trained on me as he took a sip of water.
A chill jolted down my spine. What was wrong with me? I brushed my palms together and glanced up at him. “Sorry. I’ve actually been nervous about talking to you.”
He smirked. “You’ve been nervous?”
I sucked on my bottom lip and shrugged. “After reading the letters, I realized you’d been through more than I could ever imagine. I can’t relate to it, but I can sympathize.”
He twisted his mouth to the side as he stared at me. “I’m assuming you’ve read about why I left in the first place.”
I nodded. It was a blanket statement that didn’t go into much detail, and I’d come up with so many different backstories to explain it. “It said you and your father didn’t get along and that you had to get out. Another letter mentioned a bottle being broken on you.”
“Well, shit.” His rough hands rubbed against his facial hair. “My father was a drunk. He’d drink himself stupid. Go on rants and smash bottles. The night I left, he smashed a bottle here.” He pointed to the scar above his lip.
My lips parted, instinctively I reached over and trailed my index finger over the scar. The scar was raised, rugged. It hurt me to know his father had done this to him.
“Evelyn?” His voice was hoarse and his eyes met mine with an intensity that snapped me back to where I was.
I pulled my hand back and sat it in my lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to—”
