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“Is this because Dale is out on parole?”
Redmond stiffened at the name of the man who killed his fiancée. He’d been aware that Dale Hartfield had been accepted for parole and released two weeks ago, but it had nothing to do with his inability to do his job as well as usual.
“Dale has nothing to do with work.”
“Well, you’re clearly not doing well mentally, and I assume it’s because he’s on the streets again. On top of that, you just went through another traumatic event a month ago. You know how your PTSD works, Red. The more things that happen—even if they’re unrelated to the military—will bring back hard times for you. We need to fix it before it takes over your life again.”
Again.
Courtney undoubtedly remembered the worst time of his life as well as he did. She’d experienced it right alongside him. But now was different. He wasn’t going to fall victim to his PTSD again, not after the long road of recovery he’d endured. Even if that road had grown bumpier over time…
“I’m fine,” he reiterated.
“Yeah?” The firm set of Courtney’s jaw told him all he needed to know about her emotional state. “You said the same thing before crashing our car while I was pregnant with Kaitlyn. All because of a cup in the middle of the road.”
Redmond didn’t respond as he looked down at the remaining cheese stick on his plate. He swirled it in the marinara, attempting to push the memory from his mind—Courtney screaming and curling into a fetal position around her stomach as the car slammed into a power pole. Redmond certainly had a past, but he’d grown out of it.
“Red, you need to go and talk to a therapist.”
“No.”
“A lot has happened in the past month, and it’s too much for you. I’ve seen you collapse back into that state before, and it’s not something I want Kaitlyn to see.”
He shook his head again. “I’m not fragile. Kaitlyn won’t see a difference.”
“You clearly don’t know our daughter as well as you think, Red. If there’s the slightest change in your mood, she’ll pick up on it. She doesn’t need to be burdened with our issues, and I think we’ve done a great job at keeping them off her shoulders. But if she sees what I’m looking at right now, she’s going to try to fix it, and she’ll feel personally responsible if she can’t.”
Redmond considered the beautiful little girl who was half his. She’d always been so carefree and spontaneous. She was the easiest baby, and the sweetest toddler. Now, at seven years old, she’d started expressing herself as the kindhearted person she’d grow to be. Redmond knew he was an exceptional father, and he would never hand his problems down to his daughter.
“She won’t see anything. I’m just as good as I was a month ago.”
Courtney’s concern exuded from her so potently that Redmond had to lean back in his seat for some distance. “A month ago, you were coping. You were surviving. You weren’t happy or healed. You haven’t been happy or healed for years, Red.”
He couldn’t deny it. He hadn’t been happy for so long that he forgot what happiness felt like. Sometimes he felt flickers of joy when around Kaitlyn, but they faded back into the depths of his grief and pain the moment she left the room.
“And she hasn’t noticed anything,” he affirmed.
Courtney took a deep breath and leaned forward. “Redmond, you need to listen to me. See a therapist. Start taking steps to better yourself. Because I swear to God, if our daughter witnesses anything and is negatively affected by it, you won’t see her again. We’re not going to be the parents who ruin our daughter’s life because of our own issues. I won’tletyou do that to her. Understood?”
The threat hit home, resonating through his heart as he nodded. He had nothing to worry about. He’d been coping well for years, and nothing was innately different. He’d likely never see Dale again, his arm would heal, and he’d get over his irrational mistrust of fires.
Everything was fine.
3
She’d spent days trying to sift through the hundreds of documents and submissions, and she knew she needed to read three manuscripts from her long-standing clients. Her most successful client, Emily Young, had completed her newest novel months in advance after a burst of motivation, and her other two clients had hit their exact deadlines. Now Chelsea had the privilege of reading and editing all manuscripts.
She’d never regretted putting out a call for new clients as much as she did at that moment. How was she to know that she’d be trapped at home for a month without her desktop computer that contained all the queries?
For that reason, her most trusted assistant sat in front of her, scanning query letters and the first ten pages of the manuscripts. Jessie was a senior English and marketing major in Boston, and when the company hired her as an intern and assigned her to Chelsea, she was initially hesitant. But Jessie proved to be a lifesaver on more than one occasion. She kept Chelsea’s planner full and organized the queries into three piles: worth following up, mediocre/unsure, and trash. Most importantly, and the task that took the most from Chelsea’s plate, was that Jessie fielded all phone calls and non-email correspondences.
“This one is going to the bottom of the pile for a reason,” Jessie commented, shaking a manilla file and placing it at the bottom of the “trash” pile. “They used the wrong ‘there’ in their letter. Four times.”
Chelsea cringed, looking up from Emily’s newest manuscript. “That’s unfortunate.”
Emily’s novel had the usual typos and grammar errors consistent with all her other novels, but the pacing, plot, and characters were incredible. Chelsea chuckled during a few scenes and had to reread others—too consumed by the story to remember her task of editing. Chelsea still had another two hundred pages to go, but she sat it down and leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.
Reading romance novels proved difficult after the rejection she’d experienced and the utter lack of male companionship she’d endured over the long month of recovery. Why couldn’t her life be akin to the lives of book characters? Had she come onto Redmond too strong, or was it just the look of her that didn’t attract him? She imagined that her crouched and crutch-wielding posture hadn’t earned her lustful points, but he knew what had happened better than anyone.
