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“Three!” Shouting, I shoot to the stars, he follows, and several satisfied grunts later, he falls flat on the mattress.
Sometime in the night, I wake covered in blankets, naked, and sticky. “Babe?”
He snores. Poor dear. He’s so strong I forget he’s not superman. He needs to heal and sleep. In the morning, I will tell him about my missed period and how I may be pregnant. He’ll be well rested and after the initial shock, I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed. I recall how I told him the first time, and smile. I’ve never seen him so happy.
He’s such a great dad.
I fall deep asleep and wake from a nightmare where I’m drowning and can’t breathe. Eyes wide now, I realize I’m about to die but can’t scream because Suds has his fingers wrapped around my throat. Thinking of his remorse should he kill me, I strengthen my resolve and stretch for the lamp on the bedstand.
When I locate the base, I crash it across his wounded shoulder.
“What the…?” His lids lift, his mouth opens in terror, and after releasing my neck, he curls up in a corner.
“Honey, no, don’t.” I wrap myself around him as he sobs into his knees. “It was only for a second.”
“Jesus. Don’t touch me.” He pushes me away, but we’ve been here before and I know what he needs.
Undaunted, I kiss the top of his head, his nose, and as I find his lips, my palms cup his rough cheeks. “It’s okay, tough guy. Nothing happened.”
Finding his cell phone, he turns on the flashlight app, and shines it below my chin. “Fuck, Sam. I am so, so, sorry I hurt you.”
“We’ll get your sleep machine in the morning. No big deal. Getting shot probably triggered your PTSD.”
“Damn. Back to square one. This shit never ends.” Sounding defeated, he shakes his head and wipes his eyes.
The only way to slay those dragons, is one at a time and as his wife, it’s my job to help. “Do you remember the nightmare?”
“No, not a bit.”His tone tells me he’s telling the truth, so there’s no point in questioning him further.
“Mommy?” Mikey tries the handle of our locked door and as he raps his knuckles on the wood, I crack open the entrance.
“Go back to bed. Daddy had a bad dream.”
He forces his way inside, sits in his father’s lap and puts a palm to his wet cheek. “Dreams is not weal. O-tay?”
“Copy that, pal.” After my husband tousles his son’s hair, my sweet kid takes his dad’s hand and walks him to the kitchen.
Standing on tip toes, the boy opens the refrigerator door. “Time for warm milk.”
When my eyes stop watering, I take a deep breath and put a pan on the stove. Not long after, our little man settles down and falls asleep on the couch, but his dad and I are wide awake.
“What really happened in DC, honey?” Sitting at the kitchen table, I rest my hand on his knee.
He glances up, holds my gaze, then grimaces. “It’s pretty much what you heard on the news. A militia group carrying automatic rifles showed up to the anti-gun protest. One crazy mother-fucker wanted to take down my client, along with as many protesters as he could. Most of them were teens or collegiates. Hell, Sam, it could’ve been a blood bath.”
“But you stopped them.” My hand runs up and down his arm as he shudders.
“At what cost?” Standing, he stares out the back window. “I haven’t had an episode like that in years… or have I?”
I step behind him, slip my arms around his waist, and rest my chin on his back. “I would’ve said so, sweetheart.”
Face sad, he turns. “Before you ask, Slate scheduled me a shrink appointment. I really didn’t want to rehash the shooting. I even joked about it. God, I’m such an idiot.”
“Don’t beat up on yourself. Besides, I hated that lamp. It’s given me the heebie-jeebies for years.”
“Which part? The blue monkey or the pink tasseled parasol?” At his lopsided grin, I pull a broom and dustpan from under the sink, then lead him back to the bedroom.
While we’re sweeping up pieces of glass, my cousins’ muffled voices sound from the apartment below. Soon, my phone pings, and a message appears on my screen.
