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“Ohh,” I finally say softly. “So no one calls you that because you’re not active duty anymore.”
When he looks up at me, with his lips pressed together and that veil of sadness over his features, my chest aches.
“Were you with them for a long time? The people in your unit…or team or whatever? Or hey,” I slap the table lightly, “you know, maybe it’s time to get some ice cream and watch Finding Nemo.”
“Finding Nemo?” He does this funny little thing where his face frowns, but his mouth smiles.
I lift my brows. “Could be a really nice distraction.”
I’m rewarded for my bumbling awkwardness by the first real laugh I’ve seen from him tonight.
He grins, shaking his head. “You’re funny.”
“I try.”
I have the urge to tell him more of my story, just to take away some of the isolation I’m sure he must feel. But it only takes me half a second to realize my story is about a wreck that happened on a trip with a friend. His probably involves dead friends, extreme scenarios beyond the imagination of a civilian like me.
“Anyway.” I take a deep breath. Let it out. “You should keep in mind that you can use me for advice or referrals and stuff. For PTSD stuff. If you even need it. And you can talk to me, if you ever want some Squirrel help.” I give him what I hope and hope is a low-key smile. “When my thing happened, my people didn’t really get it. I was too overwhelmed to explain it to them. I got really depressed and things were bad for a while. You might have more friends. Other vets and all that. But you know, if you need another one.”
I salute him, then double over and hold my head, laughing like the lunatic I am. I peek up at him. “Is that offensive? Army equivalent of the Atlanta Braves tomahawk chop? Tell me no. Please.”
I find him looking down at me with a surprised look that softens as my heart pounds. “Gwenna.” He blinks at me. My stomach flips because he’s so serious. I start to sweat because I’m worried I hurt or offended him or made him mad.
Instead, he asks softly, “Are you really this way with everyone?”
I lean away from him, snariling apologetically. “I told you! Yes: insane.”
“No.”
“Crazy?”
“Kind.” The word is low and so soft, for a moment I wonder if I imagined it.
My cheeks burn. I go to roll my eyes but end up leaning my head back, looking up at the ceiling and giving an awkward little laugh. “I try to be.” I wink. “Just so you know, BTW, you’ve won me over as a friend. I don’t feel nervous when I smile around you.”
“That’s good. You have a lovely smile.”
I swallow. “Thank you.”
He stares at me for a long moment, so long my heart pounds. Finally, he nods and says, “You’re welcome.”
I choose that moment to take our dishes to the sink. As I tidy up the kitchen and he tries to help, we touch on the subject of my dad, and how he died of a heart defect no one even knew he had.
Barrett listens, drinking up my words, or seeming to. His eyes never leave my face, not even when we walk into the den. As I curl up with the remotes on one side of the couch, he’s leaning into the corner of the other side.
I turn one of the iron lamps on—a sun-shaped one with little holes all in it, creating dozens of tiny dots of light. “Does this bother you?”
His eyelids look a little heavy, but he gives a small smile. “Not at all.”
I reach into the basket beside my end of the couch and grab two blankets, a big, fuzzy bear blanket for me and a bigger brown fleece for him.
“You’re going to like this movie. I really think so.”
I’m right—for a little while. He watches Nemo with apparent interest. Then, around eight thirty, his eyelids start to sag. I start to shake his shoulder but remember what he said. About his trouble sleeping. I remember how I used to hate to sleep alone. Here at my house, maybe he would sleep more soundly.
Maybe I just want to look at him.
FOURTEEN
