Page 3 of Rowan: His Exception

I chicken out, setting an alarm for six hours from now.

That gives me six hours to come up with an excuse as to why I’m going to Montana, figuring out how I’m going to explain the reasons and emotions I don’t even understand myself.

I pull myself up off the floor, placing my palms flat against the counter top, bracing myself. My thumb finds the ring once again. The diamond catching the laptop light, reflecting it against the wall like a signal I never learned to send.

It’s time, Claire.

I stand up straight, shoulders squared, and pull it off. The band drags against my knuckle, and catches before it releases its hold. The thing is heavier than I remember. Or maybe I'm lighter.

Part of me wants to chunk it across the room. But I don't. I'm not there yet.

Instead, I set it on the counter. Finally, letting go of two carats of someone else's empty promise.

And if I’m being completely honest with myself…for the first time in years, I’m not dreading what comes next.

Chapter Two

ROWAN

The sand tastes like copper. Not metaphorically speaking, but actual copper. It’s bright and chemical on my tongue, mixing with the grit that works its way between my teeth no matter how tight I keep my jaw or my lips pressed together.

I'm already moving when the sound hits.

That's how it works, right?

The blast wave travels faster than noise, so my body knows before my ears do. My helmet flies off, going in one direction, while I go another. And somewhere in between there's a moment of absolute silence. Not peace. Only silence. As if someone hit the mute button on the world.

Then the ringing starts, and I try to get myself up.

Big mistake.

It’s impossible to stand in a body that isn't receiving commands properly. Technically, my legs still work, but now they’re someone else's legs doing someone else's walking. I make it to my knees before the second wave hits me. It’s not another blast, but the realization that the weight on my chest isn't my vest.

It's Martinez's arm. His hand is still attached.

That's something I won't be able to shake later. Not in the hospital, in the psych evals, in the dark hours when I can't remember if I took my meds or just thought about taking them. The fingers are curled like he's reaching for something. Reaching for me, maybe. Or just reaching.

The blood feels warm, in a way that doesn't make sense, because Martinez was alive five minutes ago, bitching about the heat, the MREs, and the lieutenant's sister, who he apparently fucked in Kandahar. It's warm the way living things are supposed to be.

“FUCK!”

I don't remember screaming. Even though the corpsman says I do. Saying they heard me from fifty meters out, no words, just sound. I believe him. My throat feels raw.

Blinking rapidly…the blue sky.

That's what I try to focus on while trying to push the hand off my chest, even when I'm failing because my arms aren't working right either.

Someone rolls me over, and I hear my name being called too many times. I can't answer because I'm still trying to understand why Martinez's eyes are open. He isn't looking at me, but up, at that insanely blue sky. Probably bitching about the heat, still alive in some part of my brain that hasn't caught up yet.

They labeled it as honorable. Medical retirement. Thank you for your service.

What it really means: Fuck you. You’re useless to us now.

Whatever.

It's only ink on paper, written by the same pen that wrote the orders that sent us into hell, the reports that turned men I knew…men I ate with, slept beside…into three-letter codes.

KIA.