I shouldn’t be alive.
I can’t breathe.
The lack of oxygen makes my eyes water, but I keep shaking hands, cold touch after cold touch, telling me that I’m lucky, I’m alive, I should buy a lottery ticket.
I bought a gun instead.
An older man stands in front of me, his eyes cold and tight. “Mr. Henry.” Wyatt’s father. “I’m sorry for your loss.” I choke out.
“Go home to your daughter, Major.” There’s a venom in his voice, a resentment that I deserve to shoulder.There should be seven. The sentence echoes in the back of my head. “Hold her tight.”Daisy.
A child cries nearby, and I turn my head to see Noah Wales' wife…widow, trying to calm down their toddler. He looks so much like Noah, it makes me sick to my stomach. I need out of here. I can’t do this.
I move on hobbled steps, my ankle screaming at me to slow down, but the walls are closing in on me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. I push out of the church doors, and the air hits me like a ton of bricks, but it does nothing. The vomit rises faster than I can stop it, and the nearby bushes that line the steps fall victim to what little food is in my stomach. Pure acid rolls up my throat over and over until I’m dry heaving and nothing but spit is spilling from my lips.
I use the planter to steady myself as I inhale slowly, trying to get air into my lungs that doesn’t feel like ice.
“Here.” I turn my crutch on the voice, ready to hit him, and he steps back, the cloth in his hand still extended out. “Careful with that,” he says, and I lower the steel back beneath my armpit. He stares at me with the most intense green eyes I’ve ever seen on a person, and he’s on guard, unsure of what I might do. “It’s just a napkin, kid.”
“Thanks,” I grunt, taking it from him and wiping the spit from under my lip. “Sorry about your bushes.”
“I’m sure they’ve seen their fair share of puke,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. He’s dressed in casual jeans and a t-shirt, his graying hair pushed back off his face.He’s out of place.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I say to him.
“Sergeant Landon Gaboury,” he nods. “And you’re Major Brighton Black,” he says before I can introduce myself. “I’m part of the military’s effort to help soldiers acclimate after traumatic events.”
“They sent a shrink to the funeral?” I bark out a hollow laugh.
“I’m not a therapist, I’m a veteran.” He shakes his head at me and digs in his pocket before holding out a business card. “I offer group sessions in this very church for guys like you,guys like me.” He adds.
“Yeah? You ever watch your best friends be gunned down like fish in a barrel by a bunch of kids?” I snapped at him. He flinches.One by one. Your hands are covered in their blood. You should have saved them.“I didn’t think so.”
He watches me for a few more seconds, studying my anger, and I hate it. I feel like an animal in a cage, and there’s nothing I can do about it.What are you going to do? Fight some old man with one good ankle? Tough guy.
“Take the card, kid,” he says, not breaking eye contact. I put my fingers around it, but he doesn’t let go right away. “My number is on there. Before you kill yourself tonight, call me. I’ll tell you a story.”
Fuck you.
He lets go of the card, and I look down to inspect it.
“I don’t need a bedtime story,” I say, looking back up, but the church door slams closed, and I realize I’m alone again.
Brighton storms into the kitchen while I’m running my fingers through my hair, socks clenched between my teeth, halfway through pulling on tights and a sweatshirt.
“Go back to bed,” he says in a tone I don’t recognize—and don’t like. He grabs his keys and shoves his feet into a pair of boots, clumsy and frantic.
“No.” I slip my socks on and then a pair of sneakers. “Wherever you’re going, you need a friend,” I snap, and he stares at me for a long, tense moment. For a second, I think he might argue further, but he pops open the front door and waits for me to lead him out.
The truck ride is silent. Neither of us says a word. I don’t even bother to put on music. Brighton pulls the truck into a dark, empty parking lot of a massive church I’ve never seen before and shuts off the engine.
“Someone very important to me took his life last night.” He says. “I have to go inside and deal with a bunch of questions, and I don’t have answers for them.”
His jaw tightens uncomfortably, and it’s pretty clear that he’s trying to keep himself together. Whether it’s for me or for himself, I don’t know, but either way, I hate it.
“Okay, give me the keys,” I say. “You’re all going to want coffee.”
He stares at me for a moment and hands the keys over.
