All three of us watch as she cocks her head to the side and smiles brightly at him. It’s not a friendly smile; it’s the kind that saysI could kill you if I wanted to,and it makes Sunday giggle like an idiot beside me.
Thankfully, the noise comes from her because the heat that licks across my chest is embarrassing and shouldn’t be there. I curse myself for helping her the other night because it’s easier to keep myself separated from Sunday’s friends by avoidance, and I had let Rhea walk right in the front door.Get your shit together, Brighton.I flex my hands and dig my fingers into my bicep as she herds the group of men out the front door as the Huskies score to win the game with seconds left on the clock.
The Hollow erupts in cheers, and somewhere in the bar, a loud crash sounds, causing my entire body to seize up in defence. Boone’s hand wraps around my bicep, his grip tight enough to ground me in reality before I can even think about slipping.
“Breathe,” he says, scanning the bar. “It’s just a tipped table. I’ll go help Rhea.”
He says it, but it’s harder than that to fill my lungs, and it feels like someone dumped ice down my spine. My finger itches for a trigger like my hands are still permanently attached to a weapon. I blink slowly, and it’s not until that first, deep breath that Boone’s grip disappears.
I didn’t even notice Sunday slip from the counter, but she hands me a cup of water and helps two girls with their drinks, her eyes constantly drifting toward me in concern. I hate that they have to be on guard like that, or maybe I hate that they’re so good at it after all this time. They shouldn’t have to be the first line of defence between me and the PTSD that blankets my senses at any small moment of trouble.
It’s just a tipped table.
In my head, it never is. To my reflexes, it’s gunfire.
“Focus, Major.”Ghosts of my past flicker across my mind and paralyze me.
I inhale slowly and bring the ice-cold water to my lips, downing it all and letting the frigid temperature shock my system out of defence mode. I nod to Sunday, who’s still staring while she works, and she gives me a small smile in return. Six years of tours, back and forth, balancing the line between warzone and what should be normal life. But the lines blur, and normal life quickly becomes a battlefield, and my siblings are the only people willing to stand in the contact zone.
I spend hours reminding myself that I did this for Daisy, joining the military, doing what I did. I did it for her, and now the fight continues to hold myself together long enough to show her that I could be a good dad on home soil, too. I have to make all the blood and sweat worth it.So much blood.
My fingers itch for a drink.
“Brighton?” Rhea’s voice makes me huff with relief. Her timing is impeccable, and it’s going to drive me insane.
“Bright, Rhea. It’s Bright,” I remind her, and her dark brows furrow. “What?”
“Where’s the broom?” she asks, her fingers rapping against the black bar top.
“Not your job,” I say with a shake of my head.
“There’s glass everywhere,” she argues, and it takes everything in me to keep a straight face. She doesn’t look as sad as she did the other day, her eyes have a little color back in them, and her cheeks are rosy from the heat in the bar.
“Boone will sweep,” I say above the chatter.
She opens her mouth to push the subject, but studies the expression on my face and thinks better of it as Sunday slides in front of me to grab a few menus from the slot below.
“Why don’t you both throw an order in and take food upstairs to Daisy?” I say to Sunday, who gives me a sweet smile, her little hand squeezing into mine before she hands the menus off.
“Are you sure? There’s still an hour until close,” Rhea asks.
“Everyone needs to eat, and you threw the only rowdy people out. It’s dead in here now,” I say without looking around. I can tell by the noise that it, in fact, is not a dead bar, and she stares at me like I’m insane, but once I make up my mind, it’s rare that I budge on a statement.
“Go,” I say as Sunday comes around the bar. “I’ll bring it up when Boone has it ready.”
“Bri’s apartment is about as boring as you’d expect…” Sunday leads me upstairs to her brother’s apartment, and I’m tempted to blurt out that I’ve already been inside, but I keep my mouth shut as she pops the bottom lock.
The smell of apple hits my nose again, mixed with something deeper and spicy, and I realize that it’s Brighton’s cologne. I close the door behind me softly and kick off my boots, sticky from spilled drinks, just in case there’s glass on them.
“Daisy Bell, where are you?” Sunday calls out and disappears down the back hall. I hear a soft knock and a door far away clicks open as I slide onto a stool at the island. I stare across the gap to the kitchen sink and try to combat the memory of Brighton’s impressive back as it threatens to sneak in.
I pull out my phone in a feeble attempt to distract myself from my surroundings and find a photo from Addy in the group chat. She looks so happy, and I try really hard not to be sad about it. Distance is hard, and as happy as I am for her, I miss her.
I type up a reply as Sunday returns with her niece in tow.
Daisy is a small carbon copy of her dad, but she looks like Sunday more than anything. With long blonde hair, big green eyes that clearly belong to her mother, and a grumpy scowl that definitely does not. She pulls her headphones out and sets them on the islandto wave to me.
“Hi, Ms. Drake,” she says.
