Page 12 of Warrior's Walk

“Absolutely riveting,” I mock in a deadpan voice.

“You know, I’ve got a whole bookshelf at home. I could lend you some titles that are actually riveting,” she suggests.

“Like?” I’ve never been a big reader. There just wasn’t time for it. I prefer more physical hobbies. But now that I’m stuck upside down on my ass, why the fuck not? I haven’t got anything better to do.

Liza shrugs. “I read mostly romance, but I’ll see what I’ve got.”

Great, my life has been reduced to reading medical brochures andHarlequinromances. Shoot me now. If only I had my paracord, I could hang myself and end my suffering.

“Don’t give me that look, marshmallow,” she chastises. “I’m trying to do you a favor. Reading spicy sex scenes has got to be better than educating yourself about the opioid trap.”

There’s that nickname again,marshmallow. She’s been using it for the last few days, trying to cheer me up. It’s fewer syllables than Specialist Marsh, and she swears that I’m soft and gooey on the inside, despite my misery.

“Fine, bring me your trashy smut. Now get out. I’m taking a nap,” I grump.

“When aren’t you?” she snaps, placing my pill cup on the tray table.

I glare at the stack of books on my tray table. Some are worn and some look brand new.Loving Emmaby Raquel Riley,A FairWarningby Dianna Roman,Fighting the Lureby Katherine McIntyre, and a book on origami. Leafing through the back covers, I skim the blurbs. Fighting the Lure is an MMA book about two chicks, a sister’s best friend trope.Kinky. Actually, that explains a lot about Liza. Loving Emma says it’s about a taboo relationship between an older man and the young girl he adopts.What the fuck is she into?I return it to the stack and grab the book on origami, the safest bet.

I pass two hours learning the ancient Japanese art of folding paper until a man enters my room holding a medical file. I assume it’s mine.

“Specialist Marsh, I’m Tony Soliel, the physical therapist assigned to you.” He glances at my chart. “I see you’ve been with us for almost four weeks now. Time to start getting back in shape.”

I’d laugh if I found it even remotely funny. But it’s just sad. “I don’t know what you’re expectin’ of me, doc, but there ain’t much I can do laid up in bed with two broken legs.”

“I understand that,” he laughs. “But there’s still plenty we can do. You know, patients on bedrest lose up to five percent muscle mass each day, and you can lose up to forty percent of your strength in the first week. I’ve got a list of simple exercises we can start with to strengthen your core and your back and arms. You can do them right from the bed.”

Fuck. Not only am I an invalid with two broken legs, but now he’s telling me I’m gonna get fat and flabby while I’m waiting to recover. Can my life suck any harder?

Embrace it. That’s what we say in the Army—embrace the suck.

“Whatever, just tell me what you want me to do.” Then I can get back to my nap and folding my little fucking papers.

It takesme nearly a week to work up the courage to track down Drake’s info. Using the address on the envelope, I found him online. He lives in Fort Worth, went to school with Brian, and they’re the same age. Were they sweethearts in high school? Had they been hiding their relationship that long?

Taking a deep breath, I dial his number, almost hoping he doesn’t answer, or that I have the wrong number. But I don’t. He answers on the third ring.

“Hello?” He sounds curious, or suspicious, and I wonder what the caller ID shows.

“Is this—” I have to clear my throat and try again. “Is this Drake Wahl?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“My name’s Rhett Marsh. I’m Brian’s buddy.”

“How’d you get this number?” He’s definitely suspicious now, but then he asks, “Is Brian okay?”

“Uh, so, we were, um…” What the fuck am I supposed to say? “We served together. He was my best friend.”

“Yeah, he’s mentioned you.” Drake doesn’t notice my use of past tense, which only makes this harder ’cause I’m gonna have to spell it out for him.

“He…he’s never mentioned you before.”

“I’ll ask you again, Rhett. How’d you get this number?”

“I looked it up. Listen, about Brian, he… we… he’s gone, Drake. We were deployed, and we had to make a dangerous jump, and he…” My throat closes up and I have to swallow hard to push down the lump of emotion blocking it. “He got shot. He died.” Clearing my throat again, I repeat, “He’s gone, Drake.”

He’s silent, and then I hear an anguished sob. “No. No, he’s coming home. Two more months left of his deployment and he’s coming home. We… we had plans.”

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