I picked up my phone, stared at the dark screen, and felt the familiar tug in my chest. Tonight, Sawyer would expect me. He’d flash that crooked grin, tip his hat, and sweep me into another night that left me aching for him long after he was gone.
I typed the words slowly, each letter blurring a little as the headache pulsed harder.
Me: Can’t tonight. Headache. Nothing to worry about.
My finger hovered before I pressed send, but I forced it anyway.
I set the phone face down and leaned back, gazing at the riot of color around me—carnations, tulips, daisies, all shouting joy I couldn’t feel. My heart refused to quiet.
I told myself I didn’t want more.
Deep down, I knew I was better than this. If I kept meeting Sawyer at night, it wouldn’t just be sleep I lost. It would be parts of myself I might never regain.
Chapter Eight
Shadows and Roads
Sawyer
The two lanes stretched straight to the horizon, cutting through hay fields turning green in the April sun. I kept one hand draped on the wheel, the other resting against the open window, but my knuckles were white on the leather.
Billings was still an hour off, and every mile closer tightened something in my chest. Eleven o’clock at the VA loomed, and Monique would be waiting with that steady stare of hers, the one that stripped me bare, no matter how hard I tried to hold the line.
Beside me, Easton flipped through a Harley catalog like it held the secrets of the universe. “Check this one out,” he said, jabbing a finger at a glossy page. “Matte black, six-speed, all torque. Man, can you picture me on this thing?”
I snorted. “Sounds like a midlife crisis to me.”
He laughed. “Midlife? I’m twenty-nine. This is prime time. The Riders head out every month—camping, rallies, nothingbut open road. No bosses. No rules. That’s freedom.” His grin stretched wide, full of restless energy.
I let out a low chuckle, but envy pinched at me. That wide-open future he saw so clearly? It felt like another life to me. I used to know that kind of fire. Before Mosul. Before the heat and the grit worked under my skin and stayed there.
The steady whirr of my tires blurred into the metallic rattle of a Humvee—dust in my teeth. Sweat was burning my eyes. The heavy pause before a blast split the air. My grip locked on the wheel until I forced a slow breath, dragging myself back. Blue sky. Green fields. Easton was still talking about chrome pipes and wind in his hair. Not a rooftop. Not Iraq.
I flexed my fingers, pretending nothing had happened.
Easton didn’t notice. He kept going, his voice quick with excitement, his plans reckless but bright. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, half amused, half wishing I could borrow that hope for just a minute.
The Billings city limits sign came into view, and my gut sank. For a second, I saw another night—four fools in a cramped kitchen, clutching a winning Powerball ticket, laughing like life had just handed us salvation. The money had been a hell of a distraction. Shiny cars, land, noise to drown out the past. But it hadn’t burned away the shadows. They still came for me in the dark.
I turned into the Harley dealership, and Easton was already out the door, bouncing with that untamed grin. “Text me when you’re done with the counselor?” he called over his shoulder.
“It’ll be at least an hour,” I said.
He jogged inside, hungry for chrome and freedom. I watched him go, felt the ache of wanting that kind of weightless future, then shifted gears and pointed my truck toward the VA.
Eleven o’clock was waiting.
The VA lobby smelled like floor wax and burnt coffee. I checked in at 10:58, signed my name where they told me to, and sat just long enough to stare at a poster about mindfulness without reading a single word. At exactly eleven, Monique opened the damned door to the hall and cocked two fingers at me.
“Right on time, Sawyer,” she said.
Monique always looked like she’d just stepped out of a deployment photo—posture straight, hair pulled back, eyes that didn’t miss a damn thing. Ink curled out from under her sleeves, black lines wrapping her forearms like vines over steel. Early forties, ex–Army sergeant, all calm authority with just enough warmth that you didn’t feel like you were being interrogated. I respected her because she knew the terrain. She’d walked her own version of it.
I followed her into the office and took the chair I always took. She settled into hers, flipped open a thin manila folder, and met my gaze. Steady. No nonsense.
“Check-in,” she said. “How’s sleep?”
“Spotty,” I admitted. “Night sweats again. Wake up drenched. Heart hammering hard enough to punch through my ribs.”
