Page 43 of His Best Friend's Baby

Jesse sighed and shut his eyes. The bump and sway of the truck over the old asphalt of New Springs lulled him, not to sleep, but to am¬ bivalence. Peaceful uncaring.

“Julia. Mitch. Lots of reasons.”

Mac took a right turn and Jesse’s head swayed against the window. They hit a big bump, the driveway and then pulled to a stop.

Mac turned off the engine and Jesse could feel him turn to look at him.

“The men in the helicopter?”

Jesse nodded, kept his eyes shut, because that just felt better than seeing himself, this house, his old friend.

“It was an accident, Jess. That’s what the army said.”

“There are no such things as accidents,” Jesse muttered. “There are mistakes. Someone makes a mistake. Friendly fire, ambushes, bad machinery—those aren’t accidents, they’re mistakes. We tell ourselves that these things happen in war so we don’t all go nuts.”

I’m going nuts. The thought was as clear as a bell, like a voice in his head. I am losing my mind.

“What happened?” Mac asked, his voice as soft and light as shadow, as starlight. “With Mitch and the helicopter?”

Jesse’s skin crawled from the sympathy, from the tone of Mac’s voice, from the words he knew would come next—it’s not your fault.

He fumbled with the handle, finally found it and yanked the door open. He overbalanced and nearly toppled onto his driveway, but he caught himself on his weaker leg and the pain spread like wildfire up his battered body.

“Jesse,” Mac said, urgent and worried. “Man, let me help you. Let me—”

Jesse shook his head and held up his hand. “Go home, Mac. You’ve done your good deed. You’ve saved me again. Go home.”

Mac sighed, clearly wanting to do more, wanting to fix what could never be fixed. Jesse stumbled away, but Mac was soon right beside him. “Who is Julia?”

Jesse’s head shot up. His eyelids flinched and his hands fisted as all that useless frustration bobbed and jerked in him again.

“Amanda came home talking about her. She thought you guys knew each other.”

“She’s Mitch’s widow,” Jesse said and swallowed the words, dusty in his throat.

“Oh, Jesus,” Mac swore. “What a mess. Amanda said—”

“The roof will be done in another week. Then I’m selling the house and leaving.”

Mac breathed hard through his nose. “But—”

Jesse lurched away.

“Jesse.” Mac caught up with him again. “Let me look at your nose and that eye—”

“Leave me alone!” Jesse finally roared. “Jesus! How many times do I have to say it?” He got in Mac’s face. “Leave me alone!”

“You think you’re the only one who’s mad?” Mac shouted back. “You think you’re the only one hurt by what’s happened? Screw you, Jesse. We’re hurt, too. All of us! Your whole family hurts with you. But you’re too stubborn to see it.”

Jesse’s rage, boiling over for hours, finally evaporated into mist. Spent. He was an empty sack of broken bones and scar tissue. His anger had burned everything in its path and now he had nothing left.

He shook his head and stepped backward onto the broken and cracked driveway. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Tears burned in his eyes and he smiled sadly at his old friend, begging him silently to understand that there was nothing Mac could do for him. Jesse was past help—a lost cause, a survivor who’d actually died in the crash, his body just didn’t know it yet. “I’m tired.” He sighed. “I’m just…tired. Okay?”

Mac nodded, his eyes glowing in the darkness like beacons in the night.

Jesse turned away from the safe harbor and staggered into the dark haunted house of his youth, where he’d never been safe.

Mac followed and Jesse didn’t have the strength to fight or care. He lay still on the couch while Mac cleaned his cuts and put ice on his fat lip.

He smiled when Mac called him a headstrong son of a bitch.

He let Mac throw the blanket over his worn-out body and even pretended to snore just to get Mac out of the house.

As soon as he heard Mac’s truck drive away, his eyes opened and he stared at the ceiling until he felt Wain’s soft nose under his hand.

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