Page 70 of Point of Contact

Jesse pushed to his feet, trying not to make any noise as his back protested the lumpy chair it’d been subjected to for—he caught sight of the clock on the stove—four hours? Ugh. He felt groggy, out of sorts, and definitely not in the mood to work this afternoon. Besides, he didn’t want to summarily kick Trevor out if he needed him.

He found his phone on the kitchen island and sent Karen a quick text, asking if she could let him off the hook that night.

No problem, she fired back, and Jesse sighed in relief, giving thanks once again for having such a great boss. Karen lost her only brother, a Marine, in the Battle of Ramadi a few years ago, so she more than anyone understood Jesse’s need to manage his own grief and guilt by being there for Trevor.

Jesse tiptoed over to where Trevor slept on the couch, his cheek pillowed on his hands, and knelt down next to him. In sleep his face was smoothed out, relaxed, without the pinched, haggard look Jesse was used to seeing. It made him seem younger, and Jesse tried to remember how old Riley said he was.

My dad was eighteen when he had me.

So that would make Trevor, what, thirty-nine? Not that old after all.

You’re alone in the world, too, aren’t you?

A wave of sadness swept over him, and he wondered why the universe had been so cruel as to take Riley from Trevor when he’d already lost so much.

It should’ve been me...

The insidious thought crept in again, and Jesse ruthlessly shoved it away, determined not to go down that dead-end road. His phone buzzed in his hand, startling him, and he jumped to his feet, hurrying out to his minuscule balcony to answer it so he wouldn’t wake Trevor.

“Hello?”

“Byrney?”

“Yeah, Watty.” Jesse pinched the bridge of his nose. This was all he needed right now. “How you doin’ this morning, man?”

Watkins groaned. “Not so good. I been pukin’ my guts out, and Sami is fuckin’ pissed at me. Again.”

“Don’t blame her,” Jesse said bluntly. “You were a mess last night, dude. Do you even remember me coming over?”

“Yeah.” Watkins took a shuddering breath. “I din’t mean to get so wasted, all’s I wanted to do was have a cold one for Estes. Then I started thinking of him, of what happened, and I couldn’t stop.”

“I know.” Jesse kept his voice gentle. “Yesterday was rough.” He hesitated. “Watty, I think you should call the VA, start going to counseling again. You need help.”

Watkins gave a snort. “Talkin’ to you helps me way more than anyone at that fuckin’ place. I don’t need them.”

“But I’m not trained to talk to you about this,” Jesse said helplessly. “You need professional help.”

“You understand me,” Watkins insisted. “You were fuckin’ there. You saw me—” He gave a sob. “You saw what I did, and you don’t blame me, do you, Byrney? Do you think I killed him?”

A deep weariness settled over him. “Evan, listen to me. You didn’t kill him. The fuckin’ bullet killed him, the insurgent who fired the fuckin’ gun at him killed him. It wasn’t your fault, man. No one saw it coming. No one suspected—”

He said the words he’d already said to him a million times, and he’d keep on saying them until Evan either believed them, or he agreed to go get some professional help. The drinking worried Jesse, but short of manhandling him over to the VA and the counselors there, he didn’t know what else he could do.

Through the sliding glass doors he could see Trevor sit up on the couch, arching his back in a stretch and scrubbing his hands over his face.

“Hey, brother, is Sami there? Can I talk to her?” He waited while Watkins handed the phone to his wife, heard her subdued hello. “If you can get him to agree to go to the VA, I’ll pick him up and go with him.”

“I’ll try, Jesse.” She heaved a sigh. “I’m not sure how much more I can take. The kids—”

Jesse’s heart ached. “I’m so sorry. I wish there was more I could do.”

“You’ve done so much,” she reassured him. “But Evan’s not your responsibility, and if he won’t get help, that’s on him. He’ll have to live with the consequences.” Her voice was firm, that of someone at the end of their rope.

He encouraged her to call him if she needed him, and she promised she would before saying goodbye and hanging up.

Jesse headed inside, amused at the sight of Trevor making himself at home by brewing some coffee. His brown hair was flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, and he had a red crease in his cheek from where it’d been pressing against his hand.

Trevor was wearing an old pair of jeans that hung loosely on his thin frame, and a T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hands were long-fingered and graceful, and Jesse noticed with a jolt that he was wearing Riley’s watch, the oversize face almost swallowing his slender wrist.