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Ryker fixed his face. Forced his lips to curve on the ends, his best real-boy smile.
“Yep. Everything’s great.”
Zander snorted. “I’m not an idiot. Neither is Mom or Drake. We know something’s up, and for your information, you’d make a crap spy. I saw your text to Tarun over your shoulder when I handed you the drink—the one you didn’t touch tonight. A fact I also noticed.”
“Do you notice what I’m doing now?” Ryker gave his brother the bird, dodging when Zander shot a playful punch in his direction. “What I do isn’t any of your—”
“Business? Is that what you’re going to say? Because I beg to differ. What you do is my business.” Zander shook his head, his tone lowering. “I was with you all those weeks after your surgery, was the one helping put your ass on the throne every day as you recovered, and I know more than anyone how tough you are. And how that toughness makes you stupid.”
Ryker snorted. “Stupid?”
“You let that hero cape flapping at your shoulders blind you to the fact that you aren’t a superhero, and you aren’t alone. Me, Drake, Mom—we’re all your support network, just like you are part of ours. And it pisses me off when you shut us out of your life in some misguided attempt at, what? Saving us from worry?”
Was he that transparent? Probably. Ryker felt heat prickle the back of his neck and ears and was thankful his brother’s gaze was on the dark streets.
“Why is that so bad?” Ryker finally asked, his tone sounding peevish even to his own ears.
“Because, you lunkhead, we love you.” Zander pulled to a stop outside State Street Garage, his hand shooting out to grip Ryker’s shoulder. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Ryker looked at Zander. The light hit his brother’s face, highlighting the laugh lines as well as the worry grooves in his forehead. Although he could still see the little brother—the one who was gullible and goofy as a kid—lurking under the surface, what he saw now was the capable, caring man he’d become.
Suddenly, Ryker felt the heaviness of all that he’d been bottling up. It was like getting stuck under the bar with twenty more pounds than he could handle. He wouldn’t hesitate to ask Zander for a spot, a hand in lifting that workout weight off his chest. How was this any different?
So he began to talk, rewinding time to five months ago when his leg had started to hurt and the increasing night terrors related to his PTSD. He told him about Tarun convincing him to finally apply for the Paws of War program, and about this week’s unexpected opening in their training program.
“That’s excellent news, bro.” Zander clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Why are you stressing out, then?”
Ryker shook his head, gazing out the windshield of Zander’s Prius at the moths frantically flapping around the streetlight. His chest felt tight, like the emotions inside him were as confused and aimless as the moths.
“It feels so high stakes. I…I want Bryce. I want how I feel when I’m with her and her nieces. I want to be someone’s everything without the constant fear. I want to function in a grocery store, in a busy café, without my hands sweating, and my mouth tasting like sand and regret.” Ryker met Zander’s gaze, surprising himself with how good it felt to empty his bucket of worries. “Matching with this dog might be the miracle I need to function again as a civilian.”
Zander’s mouth lifted in a smile. “And even if it isn’t, spending this week in therapy with a dog is a massive step for you, man. You’re taking time away to focus on you. Finally, you’ve discovered what we’ve known all along.”
“What?” Ryker asked, half expecting a joke.
“That you’re worth it.”
Ryker swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. After a moment, he forced himself to tell Zander the rest.
“I’ve been struggling to find the right words to tell Bryce about everything all night—no, since we slept together this past weekend,” he said, putting up a hand to forestall Zander’s surprised exclamation, “a relationship fact which you will not be repeating. To anyone.”
“It’s not my news to share,” Zander said. “But for the record, I think you should call Bryce. Tell her what’s rattling around in that jarhead of yours. Explain why you’re motivated to work on your PTSD and the side effects of your HO prevention. Tell her how you feel. All of it.”
The thought of calling her—saying all of that again—made his palms sweat. Suddenly, his cell phone buzzed. Pulling it out of his pocket, he read Bryce’s last message, then showed Zander the string of recent texts.
Bryce: Is there anything I can do to help?
Ryker: Negative.
Bryce: Travel safe.
Ryker grimaced, taking in the time on his cell phone. The girls would be in bed, and knowing how early Bryce had to get up, she’d likely be asleep.
“She seems okay with everything. Besides, it’s too late to get into the rest of it tonight. I’ll call tomorrow after I get to the training center,” Ryker said, but the thought made his chest constrict. “Or maybe I’ll wait until I get back home. Just tell her it’s Marine stuff and leave the rest for later.”
Zander shook his head. “Whatever you think, dude, but in my experience, bad things happen when you don’t communicate. Speaking of which, what are you telling Mom and Drake?”
“Nothing. Seriously, man,” Ryker pleaded. “The story is: I’m with Tarun on Marine business. It’s not entirely a lie, and it’s all the truth they currently need. No reason to tie everyone in knots, especially if I don’t match with a service dog. The disappointment will be easier if nobody knows. Okay?”
