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His gruff, begrudging admission was salt in her open wounds, and she whirled around. “Fucking me?”
“Don’t say that.”
She curled her lip at his indignation. “What? Didn’t I use the word right?”
“Look, I know I pissed you off at the beach, but … What was I supposed to say? If I were a different person …”
“Stop right there.” She thrust up her chin. “I already dumped you. This isn’t necessary.”
“You were in a vulnerable place this summer, and I took advantage of that.”
“Is that what you think?” She wouldn’t let him shatter her pride, and she charged toward him. “Believe me, Patrick, my eyes were wide open through our tawdry little affair.”
But he wouldn’t le
t it go. “I’m a Detroit roughneck, Lucy. You’re American royalty. I’ve been through too much. I’m not good for you.”
“Got it,” she sneered. “You were put through hell as a kid, hell as a cop, so you’re taking a pass on life’s messy stuff.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s true, all right.” She needed to shut up, but she hurt too much to stop. “Life is too hard for you, isn’t it, Panda? So you live it at a coward’s distance.”
“It’s more than that, damn it!” He clenched his teeth, ground out the words. “I’m not exactly … emotionally stable.”
“Tell me about it!”
He’d had enough of her, and he headed for the stairs. She should have let him go, but she was drained, furious, and out of control. “Run away!” she called after him, too out of control to see the irony in accusing him of what she’d done herself. “Run away! You’re a champ at that.”
“Damn it, Lucy …” He spun around, his eyes dark with a misery that should have stirred her pity but merely fired her anger because all that pain spelled the death of something that should have pulsed with life.
“I wish I’d never met you!” she shouted.
His shoulders dropped. He braced one hand on the banister, then let his arm fall. “Don’t wish that. Meeting you was … There are things that happened.”
“What things? Either spill your precious secrets or go to hell!”
“I’ve already been there.” His fingers were white where they gripped the banister. “Afghanistan … Iraq … Two wars. Double the fun.”
“You told me you served in Germany.”
He came down off the bottom step, walked around her, moving just to move, ending up in the living room. “That was easier than telling the truth. Nobody wants to hear about the heat and sand. Mortar attacks, rocket grenades, IEDs exploding without any warning tearing off legs, arms, leaving holes where a heart should be. I have images seared on my brain that’ll never go away.” He shuddered. “Mutilated bodies. Dead kids. Always dead kids …” His words trailed off.
She curled her fingernails into her palms. She should have guessed.
He stopped by the living room fireplace. “When I got out, I joined the police force, thinking nothing could be as bad as what I’d already seen. But there was more blood, dozens of Curtises—all dead before their time. The migraines got worse, the nightmares. I stopped sleeping, started drinking too much, got into fights, hurt people, hurt myself. One night I was so drunk I begged a guy to blow my head off.”
The pieces fell into place, and she leaned against the door molding. “Post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“A textbook case.”
This was what he’d been hiding—the fate of so many who’d come back from those wars. She struggled for some kind of detachment. “Did you see a therapist?”
“Sure. Ask me how much it helped.”
She had to seal off her own feelings. If she didn’t, she’d fall apart. “Maybe you need to try someone else,” she said.
He uttered a bitter laugh. “Find me a therapist who’s seen what I’ve seen—done what I’ve done—and I’m there.”
