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Esme
“Areyou sure your feet are okay?” Creed asks as we stroll through Central Park, the combination of snow-covered grass, illuminated trees, and festive decorations exuding holiday spirit.
For the first time in years, I feel in a holiday mood, too.
Feel all the things the Christmas season is supposed to be about — joy, togetherness, hope.
When I walked into that gallery earlier tonight, the last thing I expected was to leave with Creed. But I couldn’t ask for a better person to explore this city with. I’ve been here numerous times, but I’ve never seen New York like I have tonight with Creed at my side.
After he ran back into the gallery to grab his coat and informed Archie he’d make sure I made it safely to the hotel, he took me to one of his favorite pizza places. Then we roamed around Times Square, everything about it cheesy and over-the-top. After that, we decided to walk back to our hotel at the south end of Central Park, stopping by Rockefeller Center on the way. Now, we’re wandering through the park, in no rush to actually get to the hotel, despite it being after midnight.
“I’m not sure those are the most conducive in which to walk around New York.”
“I walk in much worse on a regular basis,” I remind him.
“We can grab a cab.”
“I told you. There’s no need.” I look to the sky and inhale a deep breath, a few snowflakes landing on my face. “I like the fresh air. Reminds me I’m still alive.”
Creed nods as he shoves his hands into his pockets, a brief silence settling between us. It doesn’t feel awkward or stilted, not like it once did. It’s comfortable.
“So how have youreallybeen?” he asks as we pass by life-size gingerbread houses, people stopping to take photos in front of them.
I open my mouth, about to brush off his question, much like I did earlier tonight. Before I can, he holds up a gloved hand.
“And don’t give me the response you think I need so I’ll stop pestering you. I won’t. I’ll never stop making sure you’re okay. So…” He arches a single brow, his voice dipping low. “How are you?”
I pull my coat tighter against me as I look forward.
How much should I tell him? That I’ve never felt so alone? That I wonder if I made a mistake in choosing this life over Tristan? That every time I close my eyes, I still see that damn gun? That I heard a door slam the other day and nearly had a heart attack as I ducked for cover?
That I worry I’ll never be normal again?
“I’m struggling,” I admit without going into too much detail. “Especially at night.”
“Are you still having the same nightmare?”
I nod. “It hasn’t changed.”
“Why didn’t you reach out? I get things between us are complicated, but if you’re having trouble, you can always call me, Esme. I told you that. Told you not to go through this alone. Told you—”
“I know,” I exhale.
I had considered calling him on several occasions, especially once Tristan left. There have been countless times I had his contact pulled up on my phone, but I resisted the urge. I can’t let him become a crutch. Can’t let him burrow even deeper into my soul than he already is.
“All my life, I’ve been brought up to just handle things. Not show any weakness. And part of me thinks I should just be able to handle this too. There are thousands of vets who’ve endured far worse than me. I should be able to put it all behind me. Not still be having these stupid nightmares and waking up in a cold sweat weeks later.”
Creed halts in his tracks, causing me to stop as well. His gentle grip on my arms forces my eyes to meet his concerned stare.
“That doesn’t matter. Like I said before the medal ceremony. You endured something that could very well have an impact on the rest of your life. You may never get over it completely. Will things eventually get easier? Absolutely. As I’m sure you learned after the car crash.” When he raises a single brow in question, I respond with a slight nod.
Those first few months after Adam’s death, I went through the same thing. Had nightmares I was still in that car, struggling to get out.
But this time feels different, like my subconscious is trying to tell me something, especially when every time I have this dream, Charles Thacker ends up being the same man who lights the SUV on fire.
All reason tells me he wasn’t. Creed repeatedly assured me as much. Even reached out to one of his friends at a private security firm and asked them to see if he could verify where Charles Thacker was on the night of Adam’s death. He wasn’t even in the country. He has the passport stamps to prove it.
My subconscious hasn’t gotten the message, though, still determined to torture me every night.
