Page 66 of Catch You

I love her enthusiasm and her simple way of thinking. If only reality was that easy.

The sun is beginning to set when I say my goodbyes. I promise to pop in again tomorrow in the hope that she’s feeling better, although something in the pit of my stomach already tells me she won’t be. This is a downward spiral. The only question is how long it’s going to take to get to the bottom. The doctor might have said weeks to months, but we all know that this disease is unpredictable at best, so all I can do is what he suggested and try to prepare for the worst.

Brooke has already left for her date when I get back, so I order myself some takeout and make myself a rum and Coke in the hope it’ll push away just a little of my worries for a moment.

It’s wishful thinking.

When I get into bed later that night, my head is full of concern for my aunt and confusion over Corey.

I have no idea how long I’m there tossing and turning before a noise outside has me fully alert.

Jumping from the bed, I peel the fabric back from the curtain as the doorbell rings through the house. I have no idea what time it is, but it’s late.

I don’t see anyone for a few moments, but then someone stands back and looks right up at me.

Butterflies erupt, and I run from the room to let him in.

17

COREY

The second Harlow’s taxi turned the corner at the end of the street this morning, I took off in the other direction toward the studio.

I was numb, and the only thing I could see was the horror from my nightmare. I knew I’d had it. I always do. Whether I remember the actual images playing out in my sleep or just wake with the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and my body covered in a sheen of sweat, I always know.

I could just about handle them when I first came back to England and was forced to embark on life as a civi, but then my already bullshit life got turned upside down once again. Now the memories, combined with my own imagination and the guilt, almost swallow me whole.

It’s another reason why I don’t allow women to stay over. They don’t need to see the darkness that I manage to fight in daylight but that consumes me at night.

The day passes in a haze of memories and ink. I lose myself in my art.

The only contact I allow myself to have with her is that one text. I typed and retyped it over and over, trying to find the right words. But there weren’t any.

In the end, “thank you” was all I could come up with. I had no idea if I was thanking her for the time we spent together, or for her understanding this morning. Regardless, it just felt right.

If it weren’t for meeting Jonathan, who discovered my hidden talent, and then him introducing me to Zach when we were on leave, I don’t know what would have become of me. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be here now. Without a way to vent, to lose yourself, there’s no way that one person can deal with that much loss in such a short time.

My leg tingles just like it does every time I think of my boys and how lightly I came out of the explosion that day. Two of us walked away. Two. But six years on, I’m the only one who’s still here to tell the tale. It’s a sobering thought, and one I’ve clung to many times over those years. I want to keep their memories alive, even if I never talk about it.

I’ve lost contact with their families now, who I hope have managed to rebuild their lives, and my only connection to Jonathan is Zach. We always raise a toast to him when we get together. To our fallen friend, the one who helped to put us both on the right tracks and find ourselves in ink.

I sit on the edge of my bed, staring down at the tattoo covering my entire left leg. I remember Zach working on it as if it were yesterday. Then, I place my hand to the one covering my heart. I might not be able to see that one so clearly, but it doesn’t mean it hurts any less as I think of the person it’s for.

A lump forms in my throat. I can’t stay here alone tonight, feeling like I’m about to drown in the memories of those I’ve lost.

Pulling on some clean clothes, I walk through my empty apartment and out the front door. I don’t have a destination in mind; I just walk. It’s a hell of a lot better than lying in bed, waiting for my nightmares to claim me.

Eventually, I approach the surf shack. I glance up at the roof of the building and know exactly where I need to sit and think.

Up there is the most peaceful place in the world, watching the waves crash in.

“Good evening, Corey,” one of the waitresses sings as I walk through the front door. “Table for one?”

“Actually, do you mind if I just go and sit up top for a bit?” It’s not the first time I’ve done this, but usually it’s Kat who greets me and allows me special customer privileges.

“Sure thing. You want me to bring you anything up?”

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” She nods and stands aside so I can walk out the back and to the stairs that lead to the roof terrace.

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