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“I’m so sorry,” he said because he didn’t know what else to say.
“My coping strategy was to control the one thing I could.” She looked straight into his eyes then. “My body. I got down to ninety pounds.”
Mike wrapped his arm around her waist, this time not for physical evidence but for reassurance that his Samantha was perfectly well. She had a strong, healthy body. He couldn’t imagine her any other way. He didn’t want to.
“Ironically, it’s what made my parents realize what they were doing wasn’t right. They were both really supportive of me and found an in-patient treatment facility in Cincinnati. That’s where I picked up sewing. It was a good way to relate to what my body looked like in reality when I had to make clothes for myself.”
“I can’t believe that happened.” Mike shook his head, at an absolute loss for words. “And you had to go through all of that by yourself in another city.”
This time when she smiled, it was genuine. “I wasn’t by myself. I was with other people dealing with the same issues. And the counselors were amazing. They changed my life. It’s what I want to do. Help other people in the same way.”
He kissed her forehead, dragging his thumb down the side of her face from temple to jaw. He couldn’t help what happened to her, but he could certainly understand her battle and what it took to come back to the person she was. In the moonlight, he could see how she blinked back unshed tears. And if he could, he’d take on the entire world, to make sure she never cried again.
13
Sam sat back, blotting her fingertip under her eyes. She’d stopped crying over her situation a long time ago, but hearing the sincere emotion in Mike’s voice was a little too much to keep inside.
She pressed her head into his neck, breathing in his scent, allowing his arms to completely encompass her, passing on his strength to her. His fingers skimmed down her neck before returning to the back of her head, stroking her in the same path over and over. Every once in a while, he’d kiss her temple, offering her comfort she didn’t know she needed.
With one last breath, she pushed away from him. “Your turn,” she said and glanced pointedly down to his leg. “I told my secret. You tell yours.”
“Mine isn’t a secret.”
“I don’t know what happened.” She understood why he wouldn’t want to talk about it, but at this point, there seemed to be no line they weren’t crossing. “Tell me?”
“We were outside of Mosul, supporting Kurdish troops. We were doing a routine patrol when a car bomb went off, and a skirmish broke out. I got blown back a couple yards and knocked unconscious. I took some shrapnel in my side and got a good chunk of my leg taken out. I was in a coma for a couple of days, I’m told it was touch and go for a while because of the infection in my kidney.”
Mike told his story clinically with a calm voice, as if he had told it so many times before.
“How long were you in the hospital for?” she asked, remembering when Jimmy had called her to tell her his brother had been hurt. Jimmy had tried to play it off like he wasn’t worried, but his jokes hadn’t hidden the quaver in his voice, and she’d held it together for him until they hung up. Then she’d cried for the boy she knew and loved growing up, and actually prayed to whatever god would listen to bring him back.
He did eventually come back. Now, here they were, sitting together.
Mike pulled a few blades of grass from between his legs and raised them up, letting them fall to the ground, tiny wisps whirling in the breeze. “A couple weeks, then I flew back out to California with Bianca.”
Samantha held back her physical reaction and stayed quiet.
“It was okay for a while, with me and her, I mean. But I’d had a lot of trouble with my leg. I had a lot of therapy appointments, counseling, but I think I’m lucky. I’m better off than a lot of others, which is sick, right? I got off easy. I even went to the White House to receive my medals. And then there are guys who go home physically fine, but mentally—”
He broke off, shaking his head. He didn’t have to finish that statement; Sam had studied post-traumatic stress disorder and knew the statistics. Twenty-two veterans died by suicide every day. It was horrifying that those young men and women couldn’t get the help they deserved, but she was beyond thankful Mike did get help and was doing so well.
“Are you okay, though?” she asked, insinuating the question about his mental health.
A long time passed, and he plucked more clumps of grass, releasing them like rain.
“For the most part.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t remember anything from that day or much after. The problem was my leg. I was in so much pain.” He leaned back on his hands. “It was debilitating. I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t enjoy anything, and, I admit, I took it out on Bianca. She did try to help.”
This time, Sam didn’t stay quiet. “Until she didn’t. If she really loved you, there should have been no expiration date.”
After a few moments, during which she thought maybe she stepped over some imaginary line, he nodded. “When I decided to get the amputation, my parents offered for me to come back home. I knew I would need a lot of support, so I took them up on it.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Sam said, sipping from her wine, “but my offer still stands. I will make her kitchen life hell. Is she one of those girls who likes to bake bread? I bet she is. You seem like the type to be into that.”
Mike huffed a laugh but didn’t deny it. Sam had no interest in baking, bread or otherwise. Although that was of no consequence. They were on a time limit.
“I’ll switch out her baking soda and flour.”
“No, that’s okay.” He dragged one hand over the side of his face, scraping his fingers along his beard. “I’m good.”
