Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Whit
“ L ieutenant Holder! Lieutenant Holder! What’s it like dating a Country music star?”
“Whit, what’s it like dating a hero?”
“How’d you two get together?”
“Is this the soldier you wrote your songs for?”
“Is this who you cheated on Jamie Morris with?”
“How’d you win your Purple Heart, Ben?”
At that, Ben whipped around to look at the gaggle of press crowding the walkway, held back only by a small rope that suggested they not get closer.
“Keep moving,” a voice called out.
I held Ben’s hand tighter, practically dragging him behind me. The press at the event was unusually aggressive and strangely well-informed about Ben. We’d been seen together last weekend, but I knew what this was, and my jaw tightened at the realization—Nikki must have sent out a press release, or at least a few well-placed tips.
“How long have you been dating?”
“Did you kill anybody in Afghanistan?”
“Did you bring him to this event to look good, Whit?”
I could feel Ben’s stress, the rigidity in his arm pulsing with energy—frustration, rage, overwhelm, all of it. I’d have questions to answer, that was for sure.
“Just keep going,” I said again, even though we were practically already in the car. Ru shut the door behind me, and I took a breath.
My gaze slid over to Ben. His eyes were closed, and he was holding his breath, then he let out a slow, controlled exhale.
“I’m so sorry.” My voice came out shakier than I’d expected.
“How do they already know who I am? How do they have any idea that I was deployed or that I have a Purple Heart?” His voice stayed completely controlled, but everything in his body language said he wasn’t feeling that way.
“I’m guessing Nikki leaked your name, and maybe even your service record. I had no idea she’d do that, and I am so, so sorry.”
He faced the front again, staring at the road, or nothing, and not responding to me. I hadn’t thought about this part, and now that it had happened, I felt like an idiot for failing to. Of course I’d considered that they’d find out he was a soldier—that was one thing that made him so attractive—but I hadn’t thought about how vicious the press could be, how they’d ask things he didn’t want to be asked, and that maybe, after having the experience he’d had, that even being asked could create a new kind of trauma .
His hands rested loosely at his sides. I reached out and put a hand on his arm. He startled slightly at my touch.
“Ben, I am truly sorry about this.” My gaze searched his face for some kind of clue about how to console him, or make him better.
His brow furrowed, and he looked at me for a minute before he swallowed and spoke. “I knew they’d find out I was in the Army. I hadn’t thought about the other stuff. I should have, I just didn’t…”
“That’s not your fault. I should have thought about it, too.” We were quiet then, for a moment that stretched out as the buildings whizzed past our tinted windows. “What can I do?”
He shook his head.
“I think it’s maybe what I should do. You need to understand something.” He shifted so he now faced me. “I’m not a hero. I don’t want to be called a hero—I didn’t earn the title, and I won’t wear it. If that’s what you think, if that’s why you asked me… then we’re done.”
The naked hurt and anger in his tone, on his face, made something clench in my chest. Again, he gave honesty and demanded it, and I wouldn’t fail to return it.
“That’s not it at all. I don’t—I don’t know what to say other than I’m not expecting you to act that way, or claim to be a hero, and I’m not putting that on you. You’re Ben Holder, soldier, friend of my cousin, adorable guy, and we’re friends. That’s why you’re here.” I squeezed his wrist, then pulled my hand away.
Ru pulled into the driveway.
“Please come inside with me, Ben,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t leave while he felt so upset.
His chest rose and fell, then he nodded once and got out of the car. Ru opened my door and helped me out before Ben could get to me, and I moved to the house and opened it for us.
“Thanks, Ru. Have a good night.”
He gave me his usual smile and nod and disappeared back into the driveway while Ben followed me inside.
“Can I get you a drink?” I asked while settling my coat in the closet.
“No, thank you,” he said, hands in his pockets.
I needed him to talk to me—to help me understand what I could do to make this better for him.
“Would you come into the kitchen with me?”
We both turned down the hall that led there.
I flipped on a few more lights and set my clutch down on the bar, then took a seat. He sat in the same place he had when he’d come to talk through our arrangement.
“Tell me what I can do to fix this.” My hands stretched out to him on the countertop.
He shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anything. I’m sorry I reacted this way—I’ve had a crap week, and this caught me off guard.”
He ran a hand over his head, and the hair just a touch longer on top now looked wild. Looking at him caused an ache in my chest—I didn’t want him to be hurting—not because of me or anyone else. I didn’t want him to feel anything but good.
“I’ll talk to Nikki. I’ll make it clear that as far as we’re concerned, there will not be any questions asked about… your service.”
He was inspecting the marble, smoothing a hand back and forth across a dark vein under his palm.
“Sure. But ultimately, I agreed to this, and I need to figure out a way to handle this kind of thing. I’ll bring it up with my therapist next week,” he said, so casually, no shame.
“You go to a therapist?” I tried not to sound disbelieving or even surprised, but it must’ve been there.
He gave me a strange smile. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. In any sense of the word. I told you, I’ve been broken, and the process of putting myself back together has been a long one. It’s ongoing, and it’s not something I can just grit through.”
“I know. I mean, I don’t know, but I get it. I see someone on and off, too, and I get it. I’m glad you have someone who can help you sort through this.” I hesitated, wanting to understand. “Can I ask you a question? If today’s not the day, just say so.”
“It’s fine. What do you want to know?” he asked, only partly wary based on the look on his face.
“Which question bothered you most? Or was it all of them?”
“You might think it’s the ‘how many people have you killed,’ and that would bother me, except I’ve been asked it so many times by people who don’t seem to realize how incredibly inappropriate it is, I just ignore it now.” He folded his hands together and looked down at his fingers, but said quietly, “It’s the one about the Purple Heart.”
That surprised me. “Really? Why?”
He made a placid smile, like it was all the same to him if he told me, though I could see from the tension in his shoulders he hated talking about this.
“People seem to associate that award with heroism, but that’s a mistake. I did nothing to earn that—I got injured, and I was given an award. I got injured. My friend died, and I got a Purple Heart.”
He kept his eyes from me, but I could see his lips pressed together in pain, in anger, in frustration and so many unspoken thoughts. My heart rattled inside me, aching for him, breaking for him, and longing to somehow assure him that his survival wasn’t a bad thing.
Before I thought of what to say, he spoke again.
“I used to have a hard time waking up every day and remembering that. So questions about the award, especially from people who don’t understand… that’s tough. I’m not a hero, and I never will be. I’m just a guy whose best option was the Army.”
I stood up. I wanted to go to him. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and tell him he was amazing, and I was so glad he was here, and I was so glad he’d fought to stay here.
I moved to him slowly and stopped next to him at the bar. He swiveled to face me.
I stepped closer and asked in a voice with the barest volume, “Can I?”
He nodded once, his eyes not leaving mine, and I stepped between his legs and wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders.
My body pressed into his warmth, hoping to offer him something. My arms held him tight, my hands flat against his back. I leaned my head just to the left, my neck grazing the collars of his jacket and shirt. My throat felt clogged, so I held him a moment longer, then pulled back before he got too uncomfortable.
I wanted to tell him everything then—that I knew some of what he’d seen because he had told me about it. And all I’d wanted, in those moments when his eyes had burned with pain and fury at the loss he’d experienced, on behalf of his friend and his family, had been to make it better for him. I wanted to tell him that his vulnerability was astounding, and how much I admired him for it .
But my throat never did clear up, the words never able to get out. Instead, we were just there quietly for a few minutes, me standing near him where he sat on the chair at my kitchen counter, until he let out a slow breath and smiled sweetly before telling me goodnight.