Page 21 of PSYCHOlogical

I lowered my head. Despite it being a necessary step in the program’s progress, Shephard’s reassignment wasn’t an easy thing for me to digest. We’d been together since his inception in the Marine Corps.

“I know you care about him,” she said. “It’s caring that makes this so hard to accept.”

I gazed out the window. The sight of Wallace’s car reminded me of what an absent-minded idiot he was. As I felt my blood pressure begin to rise, I faced Doc Rhoades. “I appreciate it, Doc.”

“When is your next assignment?” she asked.

“Headed out Friday morning. It’s in Arizona. Should be back Sunday, if all goes well.”

“Will you do something for me?” she asked.

“Possibly.”

“Will you call me when it’s over?”

“Will you be here?”

“No, but you can reach me on my cell phone,” she said. “I’d appreciate it if you called me when the mission is complete. I’d like to know you’re safe.”

Emotion washed over me. It was Doc Rhoades’ responsibility to keep my mind cleared of all combat-related clutter.

My safety wasn’t her worry.

I grew up the son of a prostitute. I came and went as I pleased without ever being questioned about my whereabouts. My mother cared very little—if at all—about my welfare. Earning enough money to support her drug addictions was her only concern.

My childhood was spent longing for her affection. Filled with the belief that the only thing she would ever love was drugs, I grew up frustrated and angry that she couldn’t find a morsel of value in having a child. Her addictions eventually took her life—and my chance of salvaging a relationship with her.

Doc Rhoades’ simple gesture of concern gave me hope for what the future might hold. Before any progress could be made between us, there were many changes that would have to take place. They were changes, however, that I believed I was now willing to make.

I smiled. “Okay.”