She glanced at the clock on the stove as she spread the last of the frosting.
I have twenty minutes to clean Charity’s kitchen.
It had been almost thirty minutes since Charity texted her saying she'd just picked up Steven and Damon at the airport and was headed home.
Grace wanted to be the one to fly home with him, but she and Charity both agreed Damon wouldn’t appreciate thatconsidering the scowl he’d given her each time he spotted her watching him do his PT exercises through the window at the rehab center.
He sent her a sincere thank you letter via email on Christmas Day and they'd texted ever since. Sort of. She sent him daily messages of encouragement, jokes, and stories about Lily. He only responded occasionally, and his communications felt impersonal. There had been no flirty undertones in his messages. No new bucket list items. And no real emotion.
He planned to get his prosthetic from a company in Washington, in the Tri-Cities area. So he wouldn't have to travel so far every time he needed an adjustment. His first fitting was in two weeks. In the meantime, he’d continue his PT with Gabe and work on his mental health with Emily.
Grace cried when she learned of Damon’s struggles with PTSD.
“I know he’s downplaying it, so I don’t worry so much,” Chairty had said. “But his PTSD is pretty bad. He has flashbacks and nightmares all the time.”
When Grace finished cleaning up, she grabbed her coat and headed to the front door. She caught a glimpse through the family room window of Charity's car pulling into the driveway.
Shoot.
As eager as she was to see Damon, she doubted he wanted to see her. Yet. Hopefully, that changed soon. Besides, his welcome home party wasn't until tomorrow evening. He needed time to adjust before being bombarded.
She retraced her steps to the kitchen, paced for a moment, then darted out the back door into the cold. After Damon and the others went inside, she would sneak out the side gate and across the front yard.
"Are you ready for this?"Steven asked as Mom parked the car in the driveway.
Damon studied the house that he grew up in. For the first time in twelve years, he was coming home to stay. That in and of itself was a strange thought, but the fact that he was not the same person he used to be made it all feel foreign.
"Does it matter?"
Over the last two months, Damon had learned that life didn't wait for him to be ready to face it. If it did, he wouldn't be home from deployment two months early, honorably discharged from the Army and missing part of his leg.
Being discharged from the Army didn't bother him so much as not being able to make it happen on his own terms. Although, the benefits and compensation package were much better than he would have received if he’d left of his own accord.
Nor was he ready to face more PT and therapy appointments, fittings for his prothesis, as well as finding a fertility doctor. He didn’t look forward to any of it, but he dreaded that last one the most. He didn’t want to find out that—in his case—there were no options.
Steven threw open his car door. "Do you want to use the wheelchair to get into the house? I can see if Matt or Robert are available to help me haul you in."
"No. I can get inside by myself with the crutches." Being treated like an invalid was getting old.
Damon's progress up the stairs was slow and exhausting. He'd practiced going up and down stairs at the rehab center, but their set-up only had three steps. His mom's house had eight. At least the bedrooms, family room, and kitchen were all on themain floor. He doubted he'd have to venture downstairs very often.
The mouth-watering smell of fresh-baked dough and cinnamon hit him the moment he walked through the door. He inhaled deeply.
Now, this smells like home.
Mom must have gotten up early to make cinnamon rolls before driving to the airport.
Steven was right behind him with the suitcase he'd brought to carry home the stuff Damon had accumulated. "I'll put your stuff in your room. I'm sure Mom will have it unpacked before you know it."
Damon watched his brother walk down the hall to his old room. He turned to his mom. "I thought you moved your sewing room into my bedroom."
"I did, but then I moved it into Faith's old room." She shrugged. "I figured you'd be more comfortable in your room. Although since Grace helped me paint and redecorate it, it doesn't look like your old room anymore."
Grace.
The name was like a knife to his chest. He didn't have the heart to keep ignoring her after her thoughtful Christmas gifts. He’d restrained himself, however, to keep from pouring out his heart to her. To not complain about how painful PT was, how frustrated he was with his slow progress, and how horrible the nightmares were.
He wanted to share new bucket list things with her like watching the sunrise over the lake. With her, of course. He wanted to do everything with her.
