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When I return, he’s just coming back to the bedroom holding another juice box. “Just in case you need it,” he says.
He crawls back into bed and snuggles with me beneath the covers. “It’s only nine-thirty. Do you want to watch a movie?”
There’s a large flatscreen TV hanging on the bedroom wall across from the bed.
I grin. “How aboutPride and Prejudice and Zombies?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding. Jane Austen and zombies?”
“Absolutely. It’s a fun movie. And the ending is swoonworthy.”
I lay in Jason’s arms and watch a movie with one of the most romantic endings I’ve ever seen.
But Mr. Darcy has nothing on my real-life hero.
* * *
When I wake in the middle of the night to find the bed empty, I call his name, but there’s no answer. So I get out of bed and pull Jason’s discarded T-shirt over my head and go looking for him. He’s not in the bathroom, or in the living room or the kitchen. My heart starts pounding because he should be here. He couldn’t have gone anywhere this time of night, at least not without telling me. He wouldn’t just leave me here alone.
A chilly breeze wafts in through the open balcony door. “Jason?”
“I’m out here,” he says.
Chapter 40
Jason Miller
I knew I’d have to face this eventually. Now that we’re sleeping in the same bed, she’s going to find out about my insomnia real quick. Layla steps out onto the balcony wearing nothing but my T-shirt, her long legs bare. “Honey, you’re going to freeze. Come here.”
I hold out my hand to her, and she lets me pull her onto my lap. I’m wearing a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, so I’m perfectly comfortable. I tuck her bare feet onto my lap and wrap her up in the fleece blanket that’s draped over the lounge chair.
She nestles close to me. “Why are you out here so late? It’s three-thirty.”
I sigh and face the inevitable. I don’t like talking about my PTSD. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Is it because of me?”
“Goodness no, honey. It has nothing to do with you, I promise.” I wrap my arms around her, and she lays her head back against my shoulder. “I’m sure you know what PTSD is.”
“Of course. Is that why you can’t sleep?”
“Yeah. And insomnia. I hate going to sleep because I dream about people I lost in the line of my work—soldiers in war, civilian casualties from when I was a paramedic. I have nightmares, and they keep me up at night. I didn’t want to wake you, so I came out here to try to clear my head.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He chuckles. “Definitely not.”
“But maybe if you did—”
“Trust me, you don’t want these memories in your head. You have enough to deal with without adding my issues to the mix.”
“Have you tried counseling? Or medication?”
“Yes to both. It helps some, but the memories are still there. I saw things that I can’t unsee. I saw tragedies that haunt me to this day—broken lives, broken families, and a lot of broken hearts.”
She turns toward me and kisses the side of my neck, the touch of her lips gentle and soothing. “Tell me a happy story. Tell me about someone you saved.”
“I saved my commanding officer’s life in Afghanistan. We were travelling with a convoy, taking supplies to a forward unit. My CO brought me with him because there were some soldiers with minor injuries that needed treatment. On the way, the truck driving in front of us hit an IED—an Improvised Explosive Device. It detonated and practically destroyed the truck. Shrapnel from the explosion hit our vehicle, and my CO ended up with a piece of shrapnel in his neck that just barely missed his carotid. If it had struck him another couple inches over, he would have died instantly. I was able to patch him up, stop the bleeding, and keep him stable until we could medevac him to a field hospital.”
