Page 3 of Tactical Revival

Her expression completely lights up, and for a moment, it steals the air from my lungs. Margot is my friend. My best friend’s sister, so there can be no romance between us. But I can certainly appreciate the beauty she absolutely radiates. Especially when a smile from her brightens every aspect of my day. “Matty would love that so much. I’ll have him get with you about setting up a game.”

“Great.” I finish my coffee, then rinse the cup and stick it in the dishwasher before turning to Margot. “I’ll see you later. Let me know if you have a to-do list for me once the Butlers check out. I really can help if you need me.”

As I head upstairs, I mentally tally everything I need to accomplish today, from grabbing breakfast at the diner to updating my paperwork, the installation, and one final follow-up with Doc. It’s been nearly eight months since I was shot, but because of the fact that my back has already been broken once and is pieced together with a rod and pins—thanks to an IED that nearly killed me overseas—he’s been monitoring my recovery a bit closer than he would have anyone else.

According to him, if the bullet had been a centimeter to the left, it would have blown out the rod and likely paralyzed me permanently, given there wouldn’t have been enough bone left to stabilize me. Thank God it wasn’t.

I’m just getting out of the shower when I hear my phone ding. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I cross over and note the name on my screen. My heart drops, and my stomach twists into knots.

Not again.

Rosalie: Hey, I’m just checking in again. It’s been a few weeks since we talked, and I would love an update on your care. Talk soon.

I cringe at the message. I’d accidentally answered one phone call because I hadn’t been paying attention to the caller, and it opened a door I closed a long time ago.

Still, I suppose there is some irony in the fact that both Margot’s ex-husband and my ex-wife decided to try and make contact on the same day.

My phone rings again, and I half expect it to be her calling, but thankfully it’s my brother’s name on the screen. I have a moment of hesitation but shove it aside to put the phone on speaker. “Hey, Tyler, what’s up?”

“How you feeling, bro?”

“Back to normal. How are things with you?”

He sighs into the phone, Tyler Payne’s code for bad news delivery. Great. “Not too bad. Sherry is about ready to pop any day now.” His wife of two years is pregnant with their first child, a little boy due next month.

“I bet.” But I don’t buy into the good news. It’s his typical delivery method. Hit me with the good news, then slam a right hook of bad straight into my jaw when I’m not looking.

“So listen—” He trails off a moment. “Dad’s been trying to get in touch with you.”

“Not interested.”

“Jaxson.”

“Not interested,” I repeat. “You want a relationship with him? Good for you. I, however, want nothing to do with the man.”

“You can’t hate him forever. He’s all we’ve got.”

“No. He’s all you’ve got. I have you, and I don’t need him.” Our dad left us when we were young. Bailed on our mom, who was already struggling with being a parent as it was. She wanted nothing to do with us, so she dropped us off at a shelter and never came back. I was sixteen, and my brother was nine.

It’s why I have no tolerance for Chad. My father abandoned me, too.

Tyler and I barely scraped by, living on the streets until I turned eighteen and could legally adopt him. And that was a fight in and of itself. Two years of stealing food, sleeping in alleys or shelters, and hiding from the authorities who would have thrown us in different group homes. We likely never would have seen each other again.

“What happened to forgiveness?” he asks me, knowing I’ve been on a journey to grow my faith for the past few years.

“I can forgive him and want nothing to do with him,” I reply. “Is that all you had to say?”

He sighs again. “He wants to talk to you. To air things out.”

“There’s nothing to air out.” The familiar anger climbs up the back of my neck, and I have to force it down and remind myself that it’s not Tyler’s fault. He’d been young then, younger when our dad bailed.

He doesn’t remember all the fighting.

The horrible words spoken.

But I do.

And while I am working to forgive, forgetting is not something I’m sure I can do.

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