Page 16 of Point of Contact

Carl poured them each a mug of the chamomile tea, and sat down next to Trevor, their knees touching. They sipped in silence for a few moments before Carl said softly, “Talk to me, Trev.”

Trevor put down his mug and buried his face in his hands. “He was shot, hurt, and I didn’t even know it, Carl! I was just going on about my life and my baby had a bullet in him! What if he—”

Carl reached out and rubbed Trevor’s knee. “But he’s okay, Trev. He’s okay, though.” Trevor shuddered, and Carl murmured, “Focus on that, honey. Not on the ‘what-ifs.’ You just spoke to him. You know he’s okay.”

Carl kept up the soothing touch. “You’ve got to trust in him,” he said reasonably. “Trust in the training he’s received, the leadership, the men around him. What else can you do? You’re going to drive yourself crazy if you start ‘what-ifing.’”

Trevor took a deep breath and just barely restrained himself from snapping, “Easier said than fucking done, Carl.” Instead he muttered, “I’ll try. But I just received a hell of a shock.”

“I know.” Carl patted his knee again. “But it’s over. And now you need to put it behind you and focus on the positives, not dwell on the negatives. I don’t want to see you wallowing in this, Trev. For your sake.”

Carl stood up, and took their half-empty mugs to the sink, then held out his hand. “Let’s try and get a little more sleep. We have a couple of hours yet.”

Trevor let Carl lead him to the bedroom, and they took off their robes and slid into bed, the sheets still warm. Carl spooned up to Trevor’s back and held him close, and soon Trevor could hear his breathing deepen as Carl drifted off to sleep while his own mind raced.

Shot. How close had the bullet come to Riley’s neck, or the artery in his arm? Had the medic had to dig the projectile out, or had it been a true graze? Had he lost a lot of blood, been in a lot of pain? The worst part was not knowing, not being able to process any of the true facts or information. His imagination was running wild, and Trevor wanted to pound his fist on the mattress in frustration.

Carl must have felt his distress even in his sleep, because he shifted and tightened his arms, sighing into Trevor’s neck. Trevor swallowed, biting hard on his lip to hold back the tears that were threatening to overflow. Carl was right, and so was Riley. There was nothing Trevor could do about anything, and worrying and what-ifing was going to drive him crazy. He could pray, though, and while it had been years since Trevor had thought about any kind of higher power, he bowed his head and closed his eyes, praying fervently to a God he hoped was listening.

Chapter Five

Trevor must have dozed off, and the feel of Carl’s hands stroking gently over his body eased him awake. He blinked against the weak morning sunlight streaming in through the cracked blinds, trying to focus on the clock next to the bed.

“Got a few minutes before the alarm,” Carl whispered in his ear, kissing just behind it and down Trevor’s neck, causing goose bumps to pebble Trevor’s skin. With a sigh he gave himself over to the pleasure, to the familiarity and comfort of being in Carl’s arms. They wallowed together until their breathing slowed, and Carl eased himself away with one last brush of his lips. Trevor heard the rush of water as he turned the shower on, and he rolled to his back, listening to Carl’s soft, tuneless whistling.

Amazing, how life just...goes on. The sun rises, people make love, have jobs to go to, routines to keep, no matter what might be happening to a nineteen-year-old boy and his teammates on the other side of the world.

Soon the bed dipped as Carl sat back down and carded his fingers through Trevor’s hair. “Okay?” he asked softly, and Trevor nodded, summoning a smile. What else could he do?

“Just didn’t sleep all that well.”

Carl opened his mouth to say something, and Trevor put two fingers over his lips. “Go to work, Carl. I’m fine.”

Carl looked searchingly at him for a moment before standing up. “I’ll be home early, and how about we go to Fiorini’s for dinner tonight? I realize it’s not even Thanksgiving yet, but I’d like to talk about our Christmas plans.”

“Sure,” Trevor said. “Sounds good.” Carl leaned down and kissed him again, then was gone. Trevor lay there for a while in the rumpled bed, staring at the ceiling. December. Christmas. It was going to be a very difficult month, and Trevor couldn’t avoid thinking about it anymore.

On impulse he got up and opened the walk-in closet doors, rooting on the shelf for a dusty old box he hadn’t looked through in years. He pulled it down and carried it to the bright, airy kitchen, setting it on the island before fixing himself a cup of coffee. Finally, perched on a bar stool, he opened the box flaps, sneezing twice from the dust that floated in the air. There were three leather photo albums inside, and Trevor scanned each spine for the date embossed in gold there, finding the first one in sequence: 1987.

He traced his fingertips over each digit, thinking about that year, that December almost twenty years ago when his life changed forever. Trevor sipped his coffee and opened the album, smiling at the old-school peel-and-stick pages crammed full of pictures, each one lovingly captioned by Trevor’s Aunt Marilyn.

The first one was taken in the delivery room, the spidery handwriting proclaiming Proud Daddy! Trevor, looking so heartbreakingly young at eighteen, was standing next to Larissa’s hospital bed, one of his hands resting on the huge mound of her stomach, the other stroking her tangled brown hair away from her sweaty, scrunched-up face as he grinned nervously into the camera.

“Teen moms,” Trevor remembered a nurse muttering to another nurse as Larissa had writhed and moaned on the bed, deep in labor, begging for drugs.

“Breathe through it, honey,” the nurse called out to Larissa. “Women have been having babies for thousands of years.”

“I need a fucking epidural,” Larissa snarled, pushing at Trevor’s hands fretfully when he tried to soothe her.

“Anesthesiologist is backed up, and he’ll be here as soon as possible,” the second nurse said firmly. “You’ve got to breathe, and stop panicking. Dad, show her what to do. You took childbirth classes together, yes?”

Trevor nodded, and the woman waved her hand toward the bed. “Then coach her.”

Trevor leaned down toward Larissa, running the backs of his fingers down her tear-streaked cheek. “C’mon, Liss,” he said encouragingly. “Look at me.” He waited until her bright, feverish-looking green eyes lifted to stare into his, and he mimed the panting breaths they’d been taught in their mandatory labor and delivery class. “Breathe with me.”

Larissa gasped through a set of breaths with him, and Trevor felt her belly tighten and ripple as another contraction gripped her. She screamed in pain, losing the rhythm of the breathing, her face turning bright red. Monitors beeped and flashed, and the sound of the baby’s thumping heartbeat sped up and filled the room.

Trevor looked anxiously at the fetal monitor strip, watching the nurse scan it and glance at him reassuringly. “He’s fine, Dad,” she said. “Mom needs to try and calm down, though, because she’s only making it worse for herself. Try to help her breathe through the pain, find a focus point and breathe.”