Page 8 of Heart to Heart

“It’s been empty for over a decade, but it’s solid. It won’t take much to get it up and running. Should be a quick turnaround. Three months, tops. Maybe a little longer if we have supply delays. You know how that goes.”

Three months.

I could handle three months. I’d handled a lot worse in my life. What could be so hard about seeing one beautiful, irresistible woman day in and day out compared to what I’d done in the Army?

“Great. Perfect. I’m going to head home and try to get some sleep.”

“I thought we were going to talk. And what about the ribs?” His eyes narrowed on mine. He knew something was off with me, but Holly was the one thing I couldn’t discuss with him. Not yet anyway, and maybe not ever. “You’re always invited, you know that right? No matter who is here. You’re family, Liam.”

“I know, and it’s appreciated. I’m just tired.”

“Okay.” His shoulders relaxed as the tension left. He believed me. “Take it easy. Get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Tired. That excuse worked every time. I headed to my truck to go to my place and hopefully get some damn rest.

Chapter4

Liam

Iawoke gasping for air, covered in a cold sweat, and shivering in the dark of my bedroom. Shadows shifting and swirling across my ceiling had become an all-too-familiar sight and I was sick of it. I flipped to my stomach and punched my pillow with a growl. I was frustrated, fucking tired beyond belief, and not sure what to do about it beyond what I’d been doing. Therapy, my support group, and talking things out with Luke had worked for everything else, but not my insomnia.

As soon as I got home from Luke’s I’d showered and went to bed, falling asleep almost the second my body hit the mattress. But it didn’t last. Maybe I required complete exhaustion. Or maybe there was something I was missing. Therapy could only do so much; how could I talk about the shit buried in my subconscious when I didn’t even fucking remember it?

I threw my legs over the side of the mattress, scooting it back into place as I stood. With a flick, I turned my bedside light on, squinting against the sudden glare. After a quick glance I located my shorts, grabbed my socks, shoes, and keys, and headed out the front door to wear myself out.

The bite of the cold air felt good on my bare skin as I took off on a slow jog, gaining speed the closer I got to the road.

I never used to have trouble with sleep. I used to be able to crash anywhere—on the ground, in a truck, surrounded by dust and heat, with my senses filled with unbearable sounds and smells. But easy sleep ended after my discharge.

I knew I had left part of myself behind when I left the hospital. All I could recall was waking up in a truck bed with my head in Luke’s lap and him telling me to hold on as he tried to staunch the endless flow of blood coming from my back and head. He’d saved my life but was unable to save the rest of our unit. Our positions in the front of the Humvee had spared our lives. I was grateful I hadn’t let him drive, or he would have almost died instead of me. He had a family who needed him. What did I have? I had nothing.Not yet, anyway.

The wounds to my back had been primarily superficial. The few deeper ones had been stitched up and had since healed. The head injury had been more serious. I’d been knocked unconscious and left with a concussion. It had wiped my memory clean and left me with recurring headaches. My back and scalp were now riddled with scars left by the shrapnel from the IED explosion that had taken our unit out and because I was the driver, I’d developed a sense of guilt that I had not been able to shake off.

Between therapy and Luke telling me what had gone down, I knew there was nothing I could have done to prevent the attack, but the guilt still lingered. It came in fleeting waves—illusory, enigmatic, and baffling, because while rationally I knew I held no blame for what had happened, that logic held no power over my subconscious mind and my feelings often came at me the hardest when I was asleep. I knew I had nightmares; the state of my bed upon waking had made that fact all too clear.

And then there was the one thing I didn’t want to remember at all and still can’t believe I’d done. A few months back—the day my grandmother died—I got black-out drunk and came to my senses with a gun in my hand. Luke and Lily had broken down my door, their terrified eyes the first thing to register in my brain as Luke’s dog, Rocky, inserted himself between the gun and my head. Luke took it from me, disassembled it, and when I returned home, he helped me get rid of it.

The alarm and worry on their faces were something I never wanted to see again. It was the reason why I refused to take medication to sleep or get drunk ever again. I needed to be in my right mind, always.

I remembered feeling alone that day.

I remembered no longer being able to handle the unbearable crushing weight of solitude. I had wanted to feel something else, anything but the relentless fucking tragedy my life seemed to always be drowning in.

But I couldn’t remember actually wanting to die.

I don’t want to die.

Even though I was the last one left in my family, deep down I knew I still had a lot to live for and I wanted to make them proud. I couldn’t reconcile what I had done with how I felt now that I had been getting help. The feelings wouldn’t sort into something I could explain, even to myself. Maybe I would always wonder what had gotten into me that day.

My grandmother had raised me after my parents died and I had no siblings. My dad passed from lung cancer when I was ten, then my mother was killed four years later by a drunk driver while on her way to pick me up from school. Luke’s mother had passed the same way; it was one of the things that had bonded us. He was like a brother to me and I didn’t want to let him down. After what we’d been through, we needed each other. Somehow, no matter how messed up we got over the years, we had managed to keep each other steady. Until that one day.

My grandmother would have been so disappointed in me; she’d be horrified that I chose to get wasted the day she died instead of honoring her memory by doing something useful. Maybe that’s what’s been keeping me up at night—not being able to make it right with her. She had taught me the importance of forgiveness, of being understood, and never letting the sun set on your bad feelings. God, how I wished I could talk to her one last time.

Enough.

I’d come outside to ease my mind, to clear it. Not get bogged down and buried in nostalgia and loss and grief over things I had no power to change.

I ran a hand over my beard as I reached the gate at the front of Luke’s property. I would jog into town, go to the office, take a nap, then get an early start on the day. There was a shower in the office suite I shared with Luke. I kept spare clothes and essentials there and I could always catch a ride home tonight with Luke or Lily.

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