Page 12 of Doing Life

“Do you know how weird that sounds? I applied to a bunch of jobs in a bunch of places where disabled veterans might go in the hopes that this guy who broke up with me might be there, and that I might be able to win him back. That’s just dumb. You’re not dumb, so just tell me the truth. You knew I was here and you came here.”

“No.” Sloan sighed, the sound gusty and frustrated. “I assumed. I knew you were from Texas. I knew you liked ranches. I knew you were queer. This place is a ranch. It’s in Texas, and it’s queer-friendly. So yeah, I tried harder for this job, and when it came up I jumped at it because yes, I figured you’d be here. I didn’tknow. And maybe it is dumb. People have done stupider things. Like, for instance, breaking up with their lover because they got hurt. I think that counts.”

“That wasn’t dumb. That was incredibly important. I’m not going to saddle you with my sorry ass, and I told you that. I need you to leave after this coffee, and just let it go. I’m not dating anyone ever again.” Notever.

“Because that’s not super drama llama.”

Lance saw red. “I will kick your fucking ass.”

“You’ll try. I mean, if I stood over to one side, maybe you could see me with your peripheral vision, right?”

He heard Sloan’s quick inhale and knew the man was going to be allsorry, sorry, sorry, but it tickled the hell out of him. Lance couldn’t stop the laugh—not for love or money.

That was the funniest thing anybody’d said to him in days.

Maybe months.

“I guess you could make beeping noises to give me a target,” he said between gasps of laughter. Abby nudged his leg, as if she were worried about him. Maybe she was. He probably sounded like he was having a seizure to her.

He ruffled her ears. “I’m okay, girl.”

Sloan snorted. “Are you, though?”

“No.” He sobered fast. “I mean it, Sloan. I want you to go.”

“Tough shit.” Sloan touched his hand on the tabletop, making him jump. “I want to stay and fight for you.”

“What is wrong with you? I’m not a project. I’m broken. Like permanently.” And he wasn’t going to be someone’s pity fuck or inspiration porn.

“Do you think you’re the only one who got out of this with scars?” Sloan demanded, and his eyes went wide, pulling at the edges.

“No, asshole, I know that I’m not. I live with three guys—one in a wheelchair, one with one arm, one who has burns over fifty percent of his body and a brain injury. Not to mention my den mother who spends a ton of time helping guys with PTSD. I realize I’m not the only one. I spend my life surrounded by the knowledge that I wasn’t the only one.”

“I’m not scared of your scars. I’m not scared of the fact that you’re blind. I don’t love you any less because of who you are. I don’t love you any more because of it, either. Are you ahero? Fuck yeah. So are all those other guys. I’d love you anyway. I love you no matter what, and you can’t stop that.”

He didn’t understand. He was giving Sloan a way out. A get-out-of-jail-free card. Somehow the stupid son of a bitch wouldn’t take it.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“A chance. I want to be a something in your life. Even if it’s just a friend. I?—”

The barista came up with the coffees and the pastries, a smile in her voice. “Here you go, guys.”

“Can you tell me where the food is, please?” He asked as soon as she left. He didn’t want to burn himself on the coffee.

“Do you do the clock thing?” Sloan asked. “I read about it.”

Figured. “Yeah, I do the clock thing. Twelve, six, three, nine.” He used his fingers to point the directions of the clock.

“Your pastry is on the plate directly in front of you. Your coffee’s at ten. The handle’s facing out away from your plate.”

“Big handle, or little handle?”

“Big, and there’s a bunch of cinnamon on the top so when you take a sip, don’t breathe in.”

“Good to know. Do you know cinnamon burns like crazy?”

“No. It does?” Sloan let him take that one and run with it, which was good. He needed to ramble about something totally unimportant.

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