I go back inside, lock up, and stretch out on the couch with a blanket from the hall closet. My feet hang off the end and the cushions dip in the middle, but I've slept in a lot worse than this. Concrete floors, transport trucks, a hole I dug outside Djibouti when we couldn't make it back to base before dark. This little rundown sofa is luxury to a guy like me.
My body screams in exhaustion, muscles fatigued in a different way from my normal workouts. Emotional stress is so much heavier and tiring than physical strain. The way it pulls so much more out of you is shocking. I never thought this would be my world when I filed for discharge, but here I am. I don't know how long I'll be able to tolerate this.
Sleep comes quickly after such an emotionally hard day. I drift off and get sucked into a fitful rest almost immediately, and mybrain replays my worst memories over and over, just like every other night.
I'm on a rooftop and the sun is so bright, it burns my eye through my scope. My spotter is calling numbers beside me but his voice is wrong—too high, too fast, and when I glance over, his face doesn't belong to anyone I've served with. The street below is packed and noisy and I'm scanning, dragging the crosshairs from face to face until I find the one they briefed us on. He's younger than the intel said. Nineteen, maybe twenty, and he's holding something in his hands but I can't make it out at this distance. My spotter calls it. I take the shot. The street goes quiet. The kid drops. And the thing in his hands is a phone—not a bomb.
My heart rips out of my chest and suddenly, I'm being attacked, someone behind me, hands wrapped around my throat. And I can't breathe or speak or run.
I come off the couch choking, bolting upright with sweat soaking through my shirt and my heart pounding so hard, it makes my chest hurt. The living room is dark. The clock says 3:17.
I'm in Beaufort.
I'm on my dad's couch.
I'm not on a rooftop.
Sitting up, I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and groan. I'm so exhausted, and this happens every night, sleep evading me as flashbacks torture me. I've been on a few different medications to stop them, but none of them ever worked.
They started right after boot camp when we were sent on that first deployment and things went pear-shaped. I've never beenthe same since, though I've killed enough people to lose track of how many or their names and faces. But I'll never forget that kid—he really was just a kid.
And I'll never forget the fog I lived in for so long. I got leave but I never took it. I let myself drift along whenever the guys went to whatever bar or beach they were at. When my shit got lost in the shuffle, that picture I had of Emily was lost too. And it wasn't that hard to let my own difficult situations blind me to everything I once wanted.
I lay back down, punching the pillow, then hear Dad's bathroom door open and shut. Seems like a restless night for both of us, though I'm sure my return is what's keeping him awake, not the nightmares or PTSD that plague me.
At one point I thought Beaufort could potentially be my home, at least for a little while. I’d return and get Emily and we'd marry and find some place to put down roots—preferably far from here. But as time went on, I felt like I'd never have a home. Seeing her earlier today sparked something in my chest, though I'd never hold out hope that it meant she'd give me a second chance. But something in me came alive seeing her.
Still, this town is not the place I want to stay long-term. And if this is going to be my existence while I'm here, I'd rather just move on and find a new place altogether.
If Dad doesn't care enough to take care of himself, why should I care either?
6
EMILY
Mercy won't stop spinning. She's got on the little yellow dress Mom bought her and the white shoes I told her not to scuff. She's twirling in circles on the church lawn with her arms out, making herself dizzy while I stand there holding her Easter basket, trying not to have a heart attack every time she stumbles near the parking lot’s curb.
"Mercy, baby, come back this way."
She ignores me, obviously, because she's six and the world is a dance floor. I catch her by the arm on the next pass and steer her back toward the lawn where the other kids are gathering near the rope line. The field behind the church is already dotted with plastic eggs in every color, tucked into the grass behind bushes and along the low stone wall that borders the cemetery. They do this every year. Chelsie Cole used to organize the whole thing, and I can't help but notice that nobody's really filled her shoes since she passed. The egg placement is sloppy, there aren't nearly enough volunteers, and the banner over the welcome table is hanging crookedly. It's just not the same at all this year, but the lack of organization isn't the thing that’s throwing me off.
"She looks precious," Leah says, appearing beside me with two cups of lemonade. She hands me one and nods at Mercy, who's already found another girl to spin with. "You did her hair?"
"Took me forty-five minutes and she pulled half the pins out in the car." I take a sip and scan the crowd because I can't help myself. The whole town turns out for this thing. The lawn is packed with families, older couples, teenagers who are too cool to hunt eggs but not too cool for free food.
I spot Roger Cole almost immediately, standing near the dessert table talking to someone I don't recognize. He's got a plastic cup in his hand and he's laughing too loudly the way people do when they've had a few before showing up. His eyes are glassy and wide, but at least he's showing up. A few years ago, it wasn't the case. He missed so much hiding in that cave he calls an office. And if he's here, it means Jaxon is here too, which makes my stomach flip nervously. I chew my lip and sigh, already wishing this thing would get over with so I could leave.
Mom insisted I should bring Mercy because, "You're only young once." She swears if I don't do every single fun thing with her, I'll have regrets later in life when Mercy is a teen and all angsty. I think maybe she and Dad could've handled it and let me have time for some house cleaning, but then Dad pushed too. He thinks I'm dragging my feet about interacting with Jaxon—which I am. I have too much on my plate to deal with his snooping around my life.
"You okay?" Leah bumps my shoulder with hers. "You've been jumpy all morning."
"I'm fine. Just tired." Right now would be the perfect time to yawn, but faking one would look bad. Instead, I rub my eyes andpick Mercy out in the crowd of children her age clustering near the rope.
"Uh-huh." She doesn't buy it, but she lets it go because Charity walks up. The town gossip has ears like a hawk and a mouth like a bullhorn, and if there's even a chance that she catches wind of my little secret, Jaxon will know in under ten seconds. My shoulders tense as she smiles and tosses her hair over her shoulder.
"Ladies," Charity announces, wedging herself between us with a plate of deviled eggs and cheesy crackers. "Did y'all see the sign they put up on the Beaufort Inn? Langford Developers—big as day, right there on the front of the building. I about died."
"He bought the inn?" Leah asks. It's not the first property he's devoured lately, and I'm not surprised. If Roger sells the construction yard, Langford will only have my place and the hair salon left to clamp down on. That man is a nuisance, wanting every bit of coastal property to sink his teeth into, and he'll get it if the salon owner caves too. No way the city will let me keep my little slice of heaven if everyone else sells.
