Page 115 of Luck Be Mine
A gray Navy shirt lay on a large, tan rock. On the pocket, an LC marking confirmed it was Hunt’s. The sand was undisturbed except for footprints from his shirt to the shore’s edge.
Staring out across the water, the rhythm of the waves held no hint of him anywhere. Few swam this beach. Leave it to a SEAL to be one of those few.
Her eyes swept the ebbing water, searching for any sign.
“I hate swimming,” she ground out.
She kicked off her shoes. The wet sand sucked at her toes. Her scrubs would be soaked, but the concern gnawing at her stomach made the choice.
She waded into the water.
§§§§§§§§§§
◊ The Last Meal ◊
Doogie’s phone rang. Sighing, he shut off the mixer, wiped his hands, and answered. “Hey, Senior Chief.”
“Had a call from Doc. What’s up with Hunter?”
Doogie shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Not sure. He’s currently in a non-communicative phase.” That he’d pulled words from Hunt’s evaluations in BUD/S made him frown.
“He needs pried out of that.” The tough words hit the way the man intended.
Doogie straightened. “We all do.”
“Have you had your session with McIvers?” Hernandez’s tone settled from sharp to firm. The shrink had been with their team for five years. Mandatory sessions after a death churned dread and avoidance.
“No. You?”
“Yesterday. Wife made me. Get it done. You, me, Hunt, and Brennan need to set the example. Get Carter off the red sofa, too.”
“Copy, Senior Chief.”
“I’m vetting some new people. I’ll send you files. I can’t step into this non-communicative territory with LC, but you can. As a SEAL and a husband, I recognize the sound in Doc’s voice. When she finds him, he’s about to get his ass kicked.”
“Well, he deserves it. We all do.”
Doogie disconnected and walked to the table where he sat for meals, for coffee, for talk, for home. They made room for him whenever he needed it. Cait let him abuse her pantry and cook here. The smell of the Cajun rice and shrimp skillet he made last night still lingered.
He gazed out the window at the green, thick grass. His lawn never looked this good. His entire life needed reorganization. After putting his mama on a plane for New Orleans, grief slammed him with the force of an ocean storm. He barely made it to his truck before he cried like a baby.
Doogie had been doing this too long not to know the signs. The edge didn’t dull, but the space between missions felt heavier. Promotions brought new rank, not time. He made CW3, might hit CW4 if he stuck it out, but there was a tradeoff. More missions, more loss, and less of himself left for people he cared about.
Coming home left him desolate. His house? Empty. His heart? Emptier. Cooking only went so far, and he didn’t want to talk either. Was it any wonder Hunter didn’t want to?
It was time to admit it.
He stayed at Safe Harbor because there was life here.
There was love here.
There wasn’t any at his house, and he couldn’t stand it.
He stayed for days, dwelling in brotherhood, silence, and service. He cooked to honor a friend.
Time to go home, and ask the Navy if he was going to train men to break things or keep breaking them himself.
His personal life needed attention. He couldn’t wait for a magic someone to appear.
