Free

Chapter 25

TWENTY-FIVE

Nick

I drive home from Micah’s house, feeling conflicted. There’s a knot of unease twisting in my gut, just beneath the warm fuzzies from Nell’s enthusiasm about me coaching. Her excitement is adorable, honestly.

But what the hell am I gonna say to a bunch of little girls? Sure, I know soccer—kind of. It’s rusty knowledge at best. And barking orders at Marines doesn’t translate to coaxing nervous kids into teamwork.

Oh God… what if I make them cry?

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, pressing into the worn leather as if the grip will ground me. My leg starts bouncing, jittering against the seat, restless energy spilling over. Streetlights blur past, the contrast of the world cranked up too high. The glow of headlights feels like knives in my eyes, sharp and relentless.

The air in the truck seems thinner. My chest tightens.

It’s Nell’s questions, I think. They’re still hanging on, tugging at loose threads I thought I’d stitched up. Questions about the Marines. About what I miss. About the yawning emptiness that’s been my shadow ever since. She didn’t mean to, but she hit raw nerves, and now the memories are pressing on me, close and suffocating.

I mutter the words my therapist drilled into me, hoping they’ll work this time. Let it flow. Don’t hold onto it. Feel it. Let it pass. It’s supposed to be some kind of mantra—a magical release valve for the pressure in my chest.

But my heart doesn’t get the memo.

By the time I pull into my driveway, my knuckles are white, my jaw aching from clenching too hard. The crunch of the gravel under my tires barely registers as I park, muttering to myself. “Cancel, cancel anxiety. Cancel the fear. Cancel the flashes that make me feel like I’m spinning out.”

I step out of the truck, my boots heavy against the wooden porch steps. That’s when I hear it: the thumping of a tail, the happy shuffle of paws. Sunshine. She rounds the corner, all wiggling joy, her whole body moving like a spring coiled too tight. She skids to a stop in front of me, her tail wagging so hard her butt practically vibrates.

I crouch down, burying my hand in her soft fur, her warmth immediately grounding me. “Hey, girl,” I whisper. “Had a good day?”

Her answer is a happy yip and a face full of fur shoved against my chest. I chuckle despite myself.

“You heard anything crazier than me coaching elementary soccer?” I ask, pressing my forehead to hers. “Think I’d survive a bunch of pint-sized athletes?”

She tilts her head like she’s actually considering it, ears perked, and I can’t help but smile.

“Yeah, me neither,” I murmur. “But hey, maybe it’ll be good for me. Or maybe I’ll just scare them into becoming track stars instead.”

Inside, the house feels still. Too quiet. Like the air’s holding its breath, waiting for something. I kick off my boots, Sunshine padding behind me, her nails clicking softly on the hardwood. I should eat something, maybe take a shower, but the weight of the day presses down. Talking to Nell took more out of me than I thought.

I drop onto the couch, pulling the blanket from the back and flicking on the TV. The faint hum of the screen fills the silence, but it’s not enough to drown out the buzz in my head. Sunshine curls up beside me, and the steady rhythm of her breathing pulls at my exhaustion. Slowly, the tension begins to unwind. I close my eyes, sinking into the worn cushions.

The dream hits fast, like it always does.

I’m back in the desert. The heat is oppressive, clinging to my skin, suffocating. Dust and gasoline taint the air, the sun an unrelenting blaze overhead. The Humvee’s tires churn over a road that stretches endlessly, the silence between us heavy and taut.

Then it happens.

The explosion isn’t just a sound. It’s a force, ripping through the vehicle, tearing apart the world in an instant. Metal twists, sand sprays, the ground disappears beneath us. I’m weightless, thrown into the air, ears ringing—not ringing—screaming. Fire roars around me. Agony. My body burns. My skin burns.

I hear the screams.

I look to my side. Mark. Blood on his face. Too much blood. It soaks into the sand, vivid and obscene against the dull brown of the desert. My hands are red, slick with it. His blood. My blood.

I try to move, but my legs won’t work. I’m pinned. My chest heaves for air, but smoke and dust choke me. The world blurs, dimming at the edges. A voice echoes somewhere, but it’s distant, too far away to reach.

I’m dying. Alone. Broken. Forgotten.

“Charlie…”

Her name is a whisper. A prayer.

I wake with a gasp, my chest heaving like I’ve run a marathon. My heart slams against my ribs, my skin damp with cold sweat. The blanket is twisted around me, trapping me, and it takes too long to remember where I am. My house. My couch. I’m not there.

I’m not there.

My throat is dry. My hands are trembling. I sit up, running a shaky hand through my hair, gripping the back of my neck to ground myself. I focus on the room—the faint hum of the TV, the muted glow of the screen. The familiar creak of the couch beneath me.

“I’m okay,” I whisper to the empty room. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

The words feel hollow, a weak echo against the pounding in my chest. Sunshine stirs beside me, lifting her head, her eyes filled with quiet concern. She nudges me gently, then rests her head on my lap, her weight grounding me in the here and now.

My fingers shake as I run them through her fur. Her warmth cuts through the chill that lingers on my skin. I focus on her, the steady rise and fall of her breath, until the edges of the dream begin to blur and fade.

For the briefest moment, I think about calling Charlie.

Her voice could steady me. Her gentle laugh would fill the empty spaces, her presence pushing back the darkness. She’s always been my anchor, even when I tried to cut the line.

But it’s late.

And she has her own demons to fight.

I lean back against the couch, my hand resting on Sunshine’s head. The dream may be over, but the weight of it lingers, pressing down like a storm that hasn’t passed yet.

“I’m okay,” I whisper again. But the words are for Sunshine, not for me.

Because I’m not okay. Not yet.