Page 72 of Single Mom's Mountain Men
Breaths pass between us, each one an ice age in duration.
He doesn’t say anything and neither do I. We simply stare at each other, panting our shock. With the glassy look in his eyes, I suspect that whilst Mitch is certainly staring at me, he may not actually be seeing me.
His gaze is slightly unfocused as though he's stuck in whatever nightmare he was having.
It only starts to clear after some time.
“Patty," he whispers.
"Um yeah. It's me." I swallow. "Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. I just wanted to check in on you.” My voice trails off into breathlessness as I become more aware of our position.
His body hovers over mine, low enough that his naked chest almost brushes against my breasts. The gold St. Christopher medallion he wears rests between my cleavage, and a delicious thrill of dangerous desire fuels me. He smells good, like the fresh outdoors, and I suddenly have the mad thought to lick the sweat off his neck
“Jesus." He suddenly releases me and rolls over to sit. “I’m sorry about that. Did I hurt you?"
“Uh no,” I shake my head. "Sorry. I probably shouldn't have woken you up like that but I thought we were sick...or maybe having a bad dream."
His face tightens and he swallows. He looks off silently, his jaw working slowly as he chews on something.
"Was it a nightmare?" I venture.
He pushes his face into his palms and even without words, I feel his pain so poignantly that I have to lay a hand on his shoulder, wanting to absorb it, to release him from its grasp.
"I don't know why the fuck I can't forget it," he rasps.
"Forget what?" And then I realize. "Is it...the Marines?"
He hesitates and then nods tightly. "I wasn't the worst off. Not even close. I came home, and not on a stretcher. I have all my limbs. I have a place to live and a job to go to. I'm supposed to put that shit behind me and sometimes I feel like I have. But then I go to bed and find myself right back there."
My heart aches. I've heard so many stories about vets with PTSD. My foster father was one of them and even though he was a mean bastard of a man, I've always sympathized with the haunted look in his eyes, the way he flinched whenever someone moved a tad too fast in his peripheral vision.
"Sometimes it takes time," I say even though my words feel lame in my own ears. "You went through something awful, you can't expect to be over it overnight."
"It's been years," he says.
"Yes. And you came back to meet your mother dying and your family business failing. In a way, it was like you'd been transported into another warzone and the stakes were much more personal here. Have you ever given yourself time to relax and process everything that has happened?"
His lips move but it's not a smile. "Time. That's not a commodity I have a lot of lately."
"The world won't end if you take a day off."
"It feels like it would."
I shake my head. “What you’re doing, how hard you work, it can’t be healthy. Why do you do it? Do you even enjoy it?”
His smile is crooked. “My sergeant used to tell me ‘You don’t gotta like it, but you gotta do it anyway.’ That’s how I view my work.”
Poor thing. I rub his shoulders, wishing I could take some of his burden away and somehow force him to relax. I would love to give him a massage but it's too risky.
"Have you thought about talking to a therapist?" I ask.
"Talk about what? My feelings?" His tone has just enough mockery to be insulting. It's such a male answer I roll my eyes.
"It doesn't make you any less of a macho man to talk to someone."
He smiles. "I've never doubted how macho I am. It's just therapy as a whole. I've tried it before and it was pointless. I just talk and talk and then what? They can't fix it. Can't fix me."
I stare at him trying not to expose the pity I feel.
