Page 58 of Warrior's Walk

“How do you feel?” I ask, knowing it’s too little too late.

He rubs the spot where he punched me and then pats my thigh. “About as good as you do,” he winks.

At least they get it. I may not have an obvious injury with a bandage, but grief hurts just as badly. It bruises your soul from the inside out.

From outside, a loud, obnoxious horn blares, followed by the sound of a mariachi band. “Lunch is here,” Nash calls, jumping up.

Brandt follows, craning his neck out the window. “Is that Nacho?”

“Tacos,” they shout, rushing through the door at once like someone rang the dinner bell.

I can’t eat a thing. My appetite is nonexistent. While the group is outside, I return to my room and grab the camouflage blanket off my bed, wrapping myself up in a cocoon of safety. It’s harder to walk like this, but more comfortable when I’m sitting on the couch surrounded by so many bodies. Before I sit, I peek through the window and see a food truck parked behind my car. Nacho’s Cantina, it reads. Suddenly, the mariachi band makes sense. It’s blaring through a speaker attached to the truck.

A little blond jumps out carrying bags of food. He’s dressed in cut-off denim shorts and cowboy boots. His cropped tank reads, “Do you wanna taste my tacos?” I realize he’s coming inside, and when Mandy sees him come through the door, he immediately tries to cover his face, his body going stiff.

“You must be Rhett,” he guesses, placing a brown bag in my lap. “I’m Tex.”

His light hair has darker strands that offset all the blond. The mussed locks barely kiss his shoulders. He smells like watermelon and I squint, realizing his skin shines like he’s wearing body glitter. He takes a seat beside Mandy, placing his hand over Mandy’s as he urges him to drop his hands from his bandages.

“Does it hurt?” he asks. Mandy nods. The man sighs sadly, shaking his head. “You don’t deserve to hurt. You’re the bravest man I know. Are you hungry? I brought you tacos, the mango habanero ones you like best.”

“Thanks,” Mandy says gruffly. “I’ll eat in a minute.”

“Don’t let them get cold, big guy,” the blond says before placing a kiss on Mandy’s good cheek. Then he sashays out the door, the heels of his boots clacking against the concrete outside.

Mandy looks at me and I swear he’s blushing, which makes me crack a smile for the first time in days. “Was that the guy, the one that works atHooters? Friendzone guy?”

If his face gets any redder, that bandage is going to catch fire and burn away to ash. “That’s him,” he confirms.

“Oh, man,” I cackle. “You’re so fucked. How does he look in those little orange shorts?”

“Don’t worry about how he looks,” Mandy snaps.

I grab the bag of tacos from my lap and place them on the table next to his bag. “You can have my tacos if you want them. I’m not hungry.”

This time, he laughs. “You look like a taco, wrapped up in that blanket.”

“I feel like one, ground up and deep fried.” I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and head. “Maybe tomorrow night we can go out for wings,” I suggest wickedly, thinking of the little blond with the Texan accent.

“Maybe you can fuck off.”

Mandy isn’t Brian. In fact, he couldn’t be more opposite. Mandy isn’t loud or witty, he’s not sarcastic, and his jokes are actually funny, unlike Brian’s were. He’s quieter, more reserved. I guess that’s what happens when you suffer as badly as Mandy has, as I have. Tragedy and grief change your brain chemistry. It’s something that only someone who’s been through it can understand. A shared experience that fills the silence between our words in a way that isn’t awkward, just comfortable. Although Mandy and Brian are as different as night and day, they’re both good for me, and I guess I can call both my best friends.

But Brian’s gone, and that just leaves me with Mandy.

I think that’s enough for me, though.

I never moved off the couch after the guys left. Going back to my bedroom felt too far away, and I just don’t have the strength or will to get there. If I never move again, it’ll be too soon.

An incredibly inconsiderate person knocks on my door. “Fuuuuccckkkk,” I moan. “Go away!”

“Rhett, open up. It’s Riggs.”

I poke my head out of the blanket, sitting up. “Riggs?” I might be able to muster the will to move for him.

Slowly, I hobble without crutches to the door and open it to find him standing there looking tired and irresistible. He’s always irresistible looking, though.

“Hey,” he greets me with a lopsided half-smile. Then he moves aside and…

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