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“Not for over a month,” Noah whispered.
Sighing, Dad put his arm around Noah’s shoulder. Every one of Noah’s muscles braced against the urge to curl into his father’s chest like he’d done when he was a little boy. “You need some way to let this out, Noah.”
The echo of his own thoughts—his own yearning—brought a sharp, unexpected sting to the backs of Noah’s eyes. Blinking fast, he nodded. “I know. Kristina gave me this.” He pulled the rolled-up blue pages from the back pocket of his jeans and spread them out on the counter in front of them. “I was thinking…maybe…if I tried something that didn’t make me talk…”
His dad leafed through the pages.
An embarrassed restlessness flooded through Noah as he waited for a reaction from one of the men he admired most in the world. “I mean, I don’t know. It’s probably stupid. I’m not an artist. And I don’t really see how painting a picture could help—”
“Give it a try. Kristina could be on to something here.” His dad looked up at him, his expression full of rock-solid support and encouragement. “Hell, give a couple a try until you find the right outlet. And stop beating yourself up.” The older man cupped Noah’s cheek in his big, calloused hand. “You’ve suffered a traumatic brain injury. The doctors said it’d be a while before you got to whatever your new normal is. Don’t make that any harder on yourself than it already is.”
A fast nod, and then Noah had to dash his fist against a little moisture at the corner of his eye. Damnit.
“Now, you good to hang while the tile guy finishes up? He didn’t think it would take long to patch, but I should head out to work.” His dad turned away to clean up his coffee and paper.
“Yeah, I’m good. And I’m covering the bill.”
“Yes, you are.” His dad winked as he gathered his things. “I’m always here for you, Noah.”
Noah nodded. “Thanks. For everything.”
“Yup. Lock up on your way out,” his dad called as he headed down the hall.
All alone, Noah checked on the tile guy’s progress and then settled at the island with the list of art therapy classes. He ruled the theater and writing classes out right off the bat. Both seemed too much like talking, one thing he knew for sure didn’t work for him. Same for singing and songwriting classes. Next, he ruled out all the dancing classes. He just couldn’t see himself taking a class called Soldiers Who Salsa. That mostly left various studio art classes, but since he knew next to nothing about art, he wasn’t sure how to judge what he might like.
Part of the description of a class called War Graffiti caught his eye.
According to a recent CBS 60 Minutes story, when Vietnam veterans came back, it took 8 to 10 years before they succumbed to homelessness. Now, within a year of separation from the Armed Forces, our warfighters are on the street, homeless. Though some of them are victims of our economy, these staggering statistics point to the increased occurrence of invisible wounds such as TBI and PTSD.
God, Noah didn’t want that to be him.
Did these classes really help people so much?
He read on, and came to a class called Masks of War. It was aimed at active-duty service-members and veterans suffering from PTSD, TBI, and other psychological health concerns. Over the course of four Saturday mornings, they’d make masks that illustrated hidden feelings. That last part of the description made Noah grimace a little, but the masks sounded kinda cool. And it was onl
y four classes. The instructor’s bio listed him as a vet, too. Those parts sounded decent.
What the hell.
He carried the flyer into his parents’ study and booted up the desktop computer. Before he gave himself the chance to second-guess it, he registered for the mask class.
When he was done, he found himself wanting to tell Kristina. He picked up his cell and found he had a text from her.
Okay. You?
Hmm. He knew Kristina-speak after all these years, and okay was not actually okay.
Which meant she was upset. And it was his fault.
Noah had to find a way to make things right between them. Pronto.
Chapter Ten
Kristina came out of school and stepped into the warm June sun. She felt restless and kinda down. And she didn’t have to think too hard to figure out why.
The fight with Noah. And the fact that he hadn’t bothered to call or text her until this morning.
The three days of silence had her repeatedly analyzing why she’d agreed to go out with Ethan. Maybe she had accepted to make Noah jealous? Maybe even unconsciously? Either way, she felt like crap about the silence that had been between them ever since.
