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“You were dreaming about Derek, weren’t you?”
His hands tightened around her waist. “How do you know that?”
“You said his name in your sleep,” she said. “Will you tell me what the dream was about?”
He didn’t want to tell her, not when the nightmare of his death was so fresh, but when she pressed a kiss against his mouth and said, “Please tell me, honey,” he couldn’t resist her soft request.
“We were out on patrol…”
CHAPTER 18
Eleanor rubbed Wes’s chest and pressed a kiss against his mouth. “I’m so sorry that happened, Wes.”
She still sat on his lap. Halfway through his sharing about Derek, she’d tried to slide off his lap, worried that she was getting too heavy. He’d immediately pulled her closer and held her with an almost panicky tightness.
He brushed a kiss across her collarbone. “I worry about Boone a lot. He and Derek were the closest, and… he uses humour to hide his pain. I don’t think he’s completely processed Derek’s death even now.”
“Neither have you,” she said, then winced at her bluntness. Shit, just once, she wished she had a filter.
He shrugged. “I’ve tried, okay? But nothing works.”
“A trauma like the one you all went through needs therapy and -”
“I did therapy,” he said. “We all did. It helped Gray and Coop.”
“That’s good.” She stroked his thick, dark hair. “Are you still doing therapy?”
“There’s no point. It didn’t work. I’m managing it on my own.”
“Are you? I saw the way you looked when you spoke about Derek at your birthday party, honey.”
“Because we share the same birthday, and it’s difficult to celebrate without him,” Wes said.
“I think it’s more than that,” she said. “Daisy mentioned to me at the party that Cooper told her it’s the first time you’d let them celebrate your birthday since Derek died.”
“So what?” Wes said. “Can you blame me? What kind of asshole wants to celebrate his birthday when it’s also the birthday of the guy he got killed?”
“Wes, it wasn’t your fault.” She hated that he thought it was his fault. Obviously, Wes felt guilty about what happened, but she assumed he felt survivor guilt, not… this.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “I was driving. I turned down that fucking road.”
“Is this why you don’t drive anymore?” she said.
He tried to look away, and she cupped his face, turning him back to her. “Is it?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve tried a million times to get behind the wheel since that day, and I can’t. I have a panic attack every fucking time.”
“Okay, that’s understandable,” she said. She hesitated, trying to be tactful but also kind with her words. “But you weren’t the one who wanted to go left, right? Derek told you to go left.”
“Exactly,” he said as his face flushed. “I’d read the fucking map before we started the patrol, I knew Derek was shit at reading maps, but I still went left anyway because I let myself get distracted by something else. That distraction killed Derek.”
“No, a sniper killed Derek. And, from the sounds of it, nearly killed you too. The bullet was in your seat.”
His body was stiff beneath hers, and she could hear the agitation in his voice. “If I hadn’t turned left, I would never have driven past that sniper, and Derek would have lived.”
“Honey, I know it feels that way, but I promise you that isn’t true. It was an accident.”
He growled and lifted her off his lap, dumping her on the bed before climbing out and pacing back and forth. “Don’t call it a fucking accident. It wasn’t an accident.”
