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He raised his glass to her. “Yeah, figure that one out. A bunch of wounded vets with substance abuse issues meeting in a bar to talk about our feelings and shit.”
She laughed. “These are strange times we live in.”
“The strangest. Thanks, Rose.” He made his way toward the back room, the sound of hushed voices growing louder as he approached. The therapy group used to meet at Redwood Coast Rescue, but obviously, that wasn’t going to work for a while. The Mad Dog was the only other place in town with an available room that wasn’t a church—they preferred to keep the meetings secular.
This would be his first time back since the fire. He’d been coming to these meetings for a few years now, so why was he nervous? He took a deep breath and pushed open the door, stepping into a circle of men and women all seated on mismatched chairs and bar stools.
Dr. Amelia Firestone ran the therapy sessions. She was a smartly dressed woman with silver-streaked hair and had recently started wearing stylish, black-rimmed glasses. She was soft and kind like a grandmother and yet somehow managed to handle a room full of stubborn, hotheaded veterans with the skill of a matador.
She smiled warmly when she spotted him. “Donovan! Welcome back.”
All eyes turned on him.
Zak, seated next to Dr. Firestone, lifted his chin in greeting.
Next to him sat Sawyer Murphy, a fellow Marine who was semi-blinded when a sniper’s bullet got past his helmet and fucked up his brain. He could still see movement, but as soon as that movement stopped, he was sightless again. On the floor between them was Zelda, Seeing Eye Dog extraordinaire. She’d traded in her tutu from the fundraiser for her typical service dog vest with a handle on the back.
“Oh, great,” Sawyer said. His voice was laced with sarcasm, but he was grinning. “Grumpy’s back?”
“Hey, someone has to counteract your sunshine and rainbows optimism, Daredevil.”
Sawyer snorted a laugh. “Pretty sad that I’m considered the optimist in this group.”
Beside Sawyer was Pierce St. James.
“You okay?” he signed, his forehead creased with concern. He’d lost his ability to speak due to shrapnel severing his vocal cords, and the whole group had learned ASL so he could participate in their sessions without feeling isolated.
In their world, isolation was a killer.
“I’m good,” Donovan assured and grabbed a bar stool from the stack in the corner.
Pierce’s eyes narrowed.
“For real, man. Stop looking at me like I’m gonna break. It’ll take more than a fire and a bump on the head to get rid of me.” To prove it, he grinned at the group and held out his arms. “Miss me?”
“Like a case of the clap,” Zak deadpanned.
“Ew,” Veronica Martens said. She was seated at Dr. Firestone’s other side and didn’t usually talk much during their sessions. She looked at the doctor with disgust. “Why are men so gross?”
“Okay, enough joking around,” Dr. Firestone said, taking charge of the conversation. “Let’s start with check-ins. Who wants to go first?”
They went around the circle, each person sharing their struggles and successes from the previous week and Donovan let himself relax into the familiar routine. He’d missed this, missed these people who understood what he’d been through and didn’t judge him for it.
But as the session wore on, his thoughts kept drifting to Sasha. He wanted to see her, touch her, feel her. He needed to know if they still had a chance. Maybe he’d ask her out for dinner during Spirit’s appointment, or maybe he’d just kiss her and see what happened.
He was a man of action, after all.
“Donovan?”
He blinked. Shit. How long had his mind been wandering? By Dr. Firestone’s tone, it wasn’t the first time she’d said his name.
“Sorry.” He shook his head and remembered too late, it wasn’t a good idea. He’d told Rose the truth—he was mostly healed, the burns on his arms and chest now fresh pink scars, marring his tattoos. But his head was still all kinds of fucked up.
Or more fucked up than usual.
At least he hadn’t seen Darcy’s ghost again since the hospital.
Annd he still hadn’t spoken, which had everyone in the room looking at him with varying degrees of concern.
