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“Thought you loved being a SEAL?” He turned onto one arm.
“I do. I did.” I flopped back against the other pillow. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’ve seen some nasty stuff. You can love the job and still be haunted by it.”
“Fuck. That’s it. Ghosts of every damn mistake I ever made haunting me. Every questionable decision and guess at an answer and prayer that I wasn’t about to fuck up coming back in my sleep, turning up as everything from creepy dolls to monsters to burning mountains.”
“My imagination’s not quite that vivid, but you think I don’t carry my mistakes with me every day?” I nudged him with my right side. I was usually careful not to brush or touch someone with my partial arm, but I trusted Malik not to get weirded out and to get my meaning.
“You messed up?”
“I disobeyed an order. Rollover accident on a mission. I was hell-bent on saving a buddy who was trapped. Defied a direct command.” I kept it concise and factual, but every last word seared my throat. My left arm fell over my eyes. Even in the dark, some things hurt to show. “Still not sure why they didn’t court-martial my ass, other than that the powers that be thought losing the arm and taking a medical discharge was punishment enough. Oh, and the mission LT was an old football fan of my dad’s. Saved by the last name again. But yeah, I fucked up.”
“It wasn’t…” Malik rolled and moved my arm, so he could meet my gaze. “You were trying to save someone. Your heart was in the right place.”
“Didn’t matter.” I’d heard similar words hundreds of times, and it didn’t make a lick of difference. “My buddy was already gone. And I’m sure whatever things you beat yourself up about, you meant well too.”
He snorted at that, and I got it because God knew I got damn tired of hearing about where my heart was when I fucked up.
“Good intentions don’t matter as much when you screw up an important translation because you didn’t have all the relevant facts.”
“You’re right.” I nodded sharply. “Not gonna tell you to forgive yourself or any shit like that. You know the drill. You’ve got enough voices telling you that you need to let go of any mistakes. But I know full well it’s not that easy. I fucked up and lost an arm, and all the people in the world trying to pretty it up and talk about how heroic I was only made it worse.”
“Yeah,” he said faintly.
“Sometimes you fuck up, and the only thing you can do is say ‘Yep. That was shitty. I messed up big time.’ Because it happened. You can’t pretend it didn’t or like it’s some small little thing.”
“Because it’s not. It’s not okay, and nothing will make it okay.” His voice took on a tone I knew all too well, resignation and pain and trying to do the impossible and move past something horrible.
“I lost my fucking right arm.” Now I was the one whose voice cracked.
“I know.” And he was the one to gather me close, and our damp cheeks rubbed together as we held on to each other. “It fucking sucks.”
“It does. Shitty thing is it was already the worst fucking day. Total clusterfuck.”
“Sounds familiar. Want to tell me about it?” He kissed my temple.
I didn’t, not really, but I knew we both needed it, needed to lay bare our worst days, our biggest mistakes and what-ifs, the regrets that became those ghosts haunting us, and the facts no one but a fellow service person might get. Psychs were wonderful, but the rush to get us talking about our feelings sometimes overlooked the simple need to tell the story. Lay it out there. Let someone else nod and sympathize and agree in the places where you were a dumbass and tell you when it wasn’t on you.
So I told him my worst day, and he told me his, and we lay there in the dark, light from the bathroom a dim sliver as we talked and talked until the sun came up and we finally dozed off. Malik might think he was a burden and stealing my sleep, but he actually relieved me of some of the weight I’d been carrying since the injury, those pounds of unsaid words and unexamined facts.
There was nothing like talking with someone who understood and didn’t judge. He was the gift I hadn’t known I needed, and I’d happily listen to him every night. The truly scary thing wasn’t Malik’s nightmares but rather my growing feelings for the guy.
Chapter Eighteen
Malik
“Malik. Please. More.” There was nothing quite like the warmth of a sexy memory on a frigid morning. And replaying our latest encounter sure beat thinking of other less palatable things, like potential weather delays or letting my brain skip ahead to the end of filming and what would come next.
