Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
COLE
A fter days of hanging on to my patience by a thread, I have a plan. Today is the day.
Without the buffer of Zach, I’m going to talk to Hannah Grace about what happened. He left yesterday for Ohio for his family Thanksgiving, and there’s nothing else for Hannah Grace to use as a distraction.
Like a kid on Christmas Eve, I’ve been awake most of the night, formulating a plan. And a backup plan if the first one doesn’t work.
My goal? To take a drive with Hannah Grace.
The one spot she can’t refuse to hear me.
Our spot.
Three hours away .
Details.
The plan is simple. Let her wake up on her own timing and convince her that we should go buy groceries for tomorrow. I’ll tell her that I’ll cook—it’s not exactly a lie; I have cooked a turkey before—but I want her to come along and help pick out the side dishes.
Hannah Grace’s early natural alarm clock wakes her while I’m finishing my first cup of coffee, and I sit in the chair reviewing security camera footage from the night before on my laptop. Or attempting to. It’s hard to concentrate on the lack of activity when I want to just pick her up and toss her in the car, plan be damned.
Cup of coffee in hand, she sits on the couch and picks up the remote for her TV.
“I was thinking about making dinner tomorrow night.”
She pauses, her hand in midair before she lowers it.
“You’re going to make dinner?” She stumbles over the words, like she can’t believe them.
“I’ve made a turkey before.”
Once.
Well, a turkey breast.
But I’m not going to go into the details.
“Why?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool.
“Why not? It’s been a while since I’ve had a home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve worked the last few so was looking forward to a home-cooked meal this year.”
“Were you going to cook if you were in LA?”
The thought of making a meal all by myself for myself was too sad to dwell on and I shake my head.
“I’d have ended up at Sawyer’s maybe. He hosts the orphans.”
“Orphans?”
“Those of us with no family in LA. His sister hosted the last time I was in LA for the holiday though. I tagged along. Lots of people and noise. Reminded me a lot of Mistletoe Creek holidays. Like the open house at The Glass Slipper.”
The long-standing bed and breakfast hosted an open house all day on Thanksgiving, and even those with families and their own dinners stopped by at some point to visit with each other.
“I went a few years ago. It’s not the same without Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. Elle tries, but…it’s just not the same.”
“What happened to Mr. Thompson?”
The last time I had seen the owner of The Glass Slipper had been on a rare trip home after I enlisted before I deployed.
“You don’t know?”
“What?”
A pit settles in my stomach and her guarded expression turns to one of pity.
“He…passed away. A car accident.”
“Fuck.” Memories of my teenage years and childhood filter through. And Mr. Thompson is in most of them, even if it’s just peripheral. He should still be there.
“I’m sorry. I thought you had heard,” she says.
I shake my head.
“I don’t ask too many questions about home when I talk to my family.”
If I do, I risk news about Hannah Grace. Like she’s dating. Engaged. Married to someone who isn’t me. It was safer for my heart not to ask questions.
We fall into an awkward silence, and she takes a drink of her coffee and lifts the remote again.
“Would you go?” I ask.
“Go?” She lowers the remote again, dropping it to the couch next to her.
“With me. To the grocery store.”
Form coherent words . They shouldn’t be hard since you’ve been thinking about this all night.
“For what?”
“Maybe you could help me pick out the side dishes.”
“You know what I like.”
I deserve credit for the Herculean effort it takes not to fire back with a response more suitable to a twelve-year-old.
“Please?”
I’m not above begging.
“So you’re going to cook the turkey, but I need to go to the grocery store with you?”
“Yes?”
Fuck, that sounds believable. Not.
“Is that a question or a statement?”
Busted.
“Would you please go with me? I’d appreciate the help in picking things out. I’ll even spring for breakfast.” At a gas station on the way to our destination.
Her eyes narrow, brow furrowing as she studies me for so long I’m sure she’s going to say no. Plan B is nowhere as good as Plan A, and details for why else I would need her in the car try to take shape.
“Can I finish my coffee first?” she asks.
The relief that floods me is instantaneous.
“Absolutely. No rush.”
Well, a small one given that it’s a three-hour drive there and back, but it’s still early enough that it doesn’t bring us back too much past sundown.
She lifts her cup to her lips but stops and holds up a finger.
“One stipulation.”
“And what’s that?”
“We don’t talk about the other night.” She freezes as she waits for my answer.
My poker face may be decent enough, but fuck my life.
“Deal.” Reaching across the table, I hold my palm out, relishing the sensation of hers sliding into mine and that zing that travels along my body from the brief contact. “But if you bring it up first, it’s fair game.”
She snorts into her cup.
“I’m already pretending it didn’t happen.”
Keep pretending, Honey Girl . I’m here to remind you .
“Same.”
How I’m not struck by lightning as the lie crosses my lips I have no idea. Maybe it’s a holiday miracle. I refuse to pretend it didn’t happen. I wanted to kiss her again. And as for the conversation, she could have the other night. Because it’s time to talk about four years ago.
It doesn’t take long for either of us to get ready, and we’re in the rental pulling away from her driveway in less than ninety minutes.
“The grocery store?—”
“I called to see who had turkeys left while you were in the shower. I figured a lot of places would be sold out since Thanksgiving is tomorrow. But one said they had a few left on the other side of the school,” I tell her.
“Oh.”
“Worried we’ll run into the guy from before? Michael?”
“Yeah.”
I nearly slam my foot on the brake at the stop sign.
“Yeah? As in that’s the one you met him at?” If so, I may have to rethink my plans and hit the grocery store before we head to the destination I have in mind.
“No. That was his name. I’ve only gone to the store you’re talking about once.”
“You don’t sound happy about us heading there,” I say and fight the smile that wants to curl my lips.
“It’s fine.” Her words are more of a sigh than a response.
“You don’t mind being in the car with me, do you?”
She turns her head to look out the window, her hands tucked under her thighs.
“It’s only a few extra minutes.”
I grunt and make several turns before she speaks up again.
“Where are we going? The school is that direction.” She points to the left.
“Car accident. I’m avoiding traffic.” The radio has been on since we got in the car, even if she is too distracted to actually hear it.
“I didn’t hear about any car accident.”
“Really? They just did the traffic report a few minutes ago.”
A pretty pink steals into her cheeks. One I want to trace the heat of with my fingers.
“Oh.”
“Just relax. If I can drive in LA, I can navigate Nashville traffic.” After that nightmare, I can probably handle traffic anywhere.
Although I’m looking forward to the lack of anyone as we get closer to Mistletoe Creek.
She settles back into her seat and pulls up an app on her phone, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I glance over and can make out the words of the reading app she has open. One thing about Hannah Grace is that she could always lose herself in a book. And I’m counting on that now as I stop the pretense of staying in town and head for the highway.
The universe is on my side because it takes almost an hour before she glances up.
“Where are we?” Her phone clicks off as she sits up to take in the lack of city around us.
“Don’t get mad.” Probably not the best way to start this conversation, but the words are out. No turning back.
“Cole, where the fuck are you taking me?”
“Somewhere you wouldn’t go if I asked you.”
“This is not okay! You said we were going to the grocery store. This is…this is kidnapping. I can call the police.” She shakes her phone in my peripheral vision.
“You could.”
“Take me home.” Her tone reminds me of a toddler minus the foot stomping, but I keep that comment to myself.
“I will.”
“Right now.”
This time the foot stomp hits the floor of the car, and I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling.
“This is not funny. Take me home right now, Cole Matthew Strickland.”
“Triple naming me doesn’t scare me, Hannah Grace Whittaker. I heard it too often as a kid for it to mean much.”
Unless it was coming from Mom with a specific tone. Then all bets were off.
“Why are you doing this?” she groans and leans her head back against her seat with a thud.
The answer to her question isn’t easy, so I settle for the simplest answer I can think of.
“It’s important. I want to have a conversation with you—not about the other night unless you bring it up—but I need to explain why. Why I did what I did. This was the only thing I could think of.”
“We couldn’t have this conversation at my house? Or anywhere close to my house? Why Mistletoe Creek?”
I shoot her a look of surprise before focusing back on the road again.
“Yes, I figured out where we’re going. I’ve done this trip enough to recognize where we are. We’re either going there or Devil Falls so it was a fifty-fifty shot.”
“You’re right,” I confirm.
“And we have to be there for this?”
“You have to admit you’ve made it difficult for me to talk to you the last few days. I thought you and Zach were going to become attached at the hip.”
She’s silent and I glance over at her again, noting her deep blush, and bark out a laugh.
“I figured,” I say.
“It wasn’t the only reason,” she defends.
“But it certainly didn’t hurt, did it?”
“No.” The word is more grumble than anything and a smile stretches my cheeks.
“You can wipe that smile off your face, Cole. I’m still pissed at you for lying to me.”
“If I would have asked you to come with me, would you have said yes?”
“Maybe.”
I snort. “Try again, Hannah Grace. You don’t lie that well.”
“Probably not.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Several miles go by without either of us saying anything.
“Didn’t you promise me breakfast?” she asks.
“I did.”
“So how did you think you were going to meet that promise?”
“How does a package of Pop-Tarts sound?”
“Like breakfast for one of my students. And like you should probably think of something else.”
“Ouch.” I lift a hand to my chest. “Okay, got it. Your tastes are not as discerning as they once were. I’ll think of something else.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she mutters.
???
Breakfast is more of a brunch in the form of sandwiches we grab from a general store just past the halfway mark. Between the sandwiches, bag of chips, and a couple of sodas, it’s like we’re traveling for a picnic in the colorful foliage, instead of a conversation four years overdue.
Hannah Grace doesn’t have much to say during our drive, but it’s not like I do much to keep the conversation going—nerves starting to tie my tongue as I sort through everything I want to tell her and what her reaction will be.
I haven’t been this nervous around her since our first date. And even then it hadn’t been because of how she was going to react, but how I should act .
Mistletoe Creek, 10 miles .
I slow down, looking for the turnoff that I’ve taken hundreds of times before. It’s more overgrown than it was, barely noticeable. The broken tree branch that used to be my clue is nothing more than a memory since the entire tree it belonged to is long gone.
Hannah Grace squeaks as I make the turn, the rental car bumping way worse than my old pickup ever did. Maybe I should have gotten the rental insurance.
But eventually the deep divots that rock us back and forth shallow until they disappear and we coast to a stop. Putting the car in park, I can’t help but stare. The vista in front of me is the same, the area around us more overgrown—like Hannah Grace and I were the only two to ever discover it—but it’s the view that tells me I’m home. That and the woman beside me.
The high school still rests at the edge of town, and wisps of smoke drift in the bright blue sky from the homes scattered through the small town. The large house built by the town founder that now houses the town government and other miscellaneous meeting rooms sits on the opposite end of the high school and gleams a bright white in the wintry sunlight.
“It hasn’t changed, has it?” I whisper the question.
“No idea.”
I turn in her direction, hating that sunglasses cover most of her expression. It’s impossible to tell what’s behind her statement.
“I thought you still came home for Christmas at least?”
“I do. But that’s home.” She points toward the town in front of the windshield. “The last time I was here was with you.”
Nine words have the power to cripple me.
“Fuck, don’t tell me that, Hannah Grace,” I groan and lean my head back against the headrest.
“Why?”
Tilting my head, I open my eyes. I could lose myself in the way she studies me. In the mix of wariness and genuine curiosity that turn her bright eyes to a turbulent blue. Or maybe it’s not about losing myself, but about finding myself again.
“Because it makes me want to hope. It makes me want something I shouldn’t.”
“What?”
“You,” I whisper the word.
She sucks in a breath, her lips parting, and it takes everything I have not to close the distance. But I want more than the physical release that kissing her would bring.
“Why shouldn’t you want me?” Her voice is small, quiet, like she’s afraid of the answer.
When I’m the one who should be scared.
“You ask a lot of why questions.”
A corner of her lips lifts in a small smile.
“Habit of who I hang out with Monday through Friday.”
A laugh rumbles from my chest. That question had come up more times than I could count when I was at school with her.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she reminds me.
“I already told you. I want more. And based on what you said, you aren’t interested in anything more than physical. Because part of me hopes that what I have to tell you will help you understand why I broke up with you. But the bigger part of me is afraid that it will only make you hate me more.”
“I don’t hate you, Cole. I used to; I’m not going to lie. Or maybe I was lying to myself when I said I hated you.”
She reaches out, her hand resting against my thigh, and I cover it with mine and lace our fingers together.
“I’m sorry.” The words warble and I clear my throat, but I don’t break eye contact, needing her to recognize how sorry I am.
“I know.”
“I…I didn’t think I was good enough for you anymore.”
“Wasn’t that my choice to make?”
Fuck. This woman has never hesitated to call me on my bullshit. I don’t know why now would be any different.
“Not then. Because I’m pretty sure you would have tried to love me through it all. And I wasn’t safe to love. Not even to be around. I’m surprised Sawyer stuck.”
It probably helped that he had gone through similar events. Losing friends—brothers—who should have had the chance to grow old. Losing the woman he loved. Losing the innocent outlook on the world.
For the kid from Mistletoe Creek, Tennessee, that had been the rudest awakening. That the world wasn’t always goodness and light. But that belief still wrapped around Hannah Grace in a bright aura that drew me to her.
“I don’t understand. You never said anything. Your letters didn’t change. Not until…”
“Not until the last one,” I finish for her.
It’s obvious by the hurt etched between the furrow in her eyebrows.
“I…thought I had done something wrong. Even though the letter said it was you. How cliché is that? It’s not you, it’s me. Why would you want to come home after you had seen the world?—”
“It’s because of what I had seen of the world, Honey Girl. Men who would befriend you only to lead you into a trap. Men too focused on power and the things they do to grab it. Kids who should have been in school instead strapped to a gun they had no idea how to shoot.” The memories burst through the gate I’ve locked them behind, hammering me with the strength of a physical blow.
“Do you remember that kid I told you about?” Already a bitter tang coats my tongue and I struggle to swallow.
She’s silent for a heartbeat.
“The one I sent you the candy for?”
“Hakeem. Yeah. He was ten when we got there. And came up to us speaking clear English, fascinated with all things associated with America and the soldiers who he saw every day. We’d get candy bars on the base and take them out with us when we would go into town. And no matter where we went, Hakeem would find us. It got to a point where I was saving multiple bars just for him. And then I would load my pockets down with the other candy you sent me.”
“The way you talked about him, it made me think of him as a little brother.”
“I think we all felt that way about him. His dad had been killed a few years earlier so he, his mom, and his little sister lived with his grandparents. He always promised he would take some of the candy home for her to try and would come back with stories about what she thought.”
I don’t have to try too hard before an image of Hakeem swims to the surface, his bright eyes and smile as he chatted almost nonstop anytime he found us. My stomach cramps and I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to dispel the image.
“We’d already had some missions. People were getting hurt. Dying. I…I shot people, Hannah Grace. Men who would have killed me or my friends if I didn’t. And it was getting harder to live with the constant echoes of fighting that filtered to the base, constant awareness that we weren’t safe. Not truly. But we were surviving.”
“And those times I would get to talk to you, I could picture you on the other side of the world. You were enjoying college. Pledging your sorority. Meeting friends. Planning your future. When I wasn’t even sure I’d have one.”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“Honey Girl, you did nothing wrong.” I lift a hand to her cheek, running my thumb along her jawline and appreciating the warmth of her smooth skin.
“I needed that normalcy in a way I didn’t understand. It was a drug to cope with the fucked-up world I was living in. You and Hakeem kept me sane.”
“What happened?” There’s a hesitation in her question.
A natural reaction of anyone to protect themselves from answers they don’t want. I don’t blame her.
“We went into town on patrol one afternoon. It had been a quiet week and maybe that had something to do with it. I don’t know. But not many people were out on the streets we were assigned to. It was eerie looking back at it. Like everyone knew to avoid it. Everyone except us. Geoff was twenty-four. Just got married before being deployed and he was in the front of the group. When he turned the corner, it took a minute for all of us to realize the echo we heard before he fell was a gunshot. Two other guys were hit as we all scrambled to find some protection. We were familiar with the streets, and I knew there was a different way to the street where the gunfire was coming from so I managed to double back and came from the opposite direction. I…I didn’t want to believe what I saw when I got there. It wasn’t a man holding the gun. It was fucking bigger than he was. Hakeem was always a skinny little shit despite all the candy.”
That black strap around his shoulders had looked out of place. Evil wrapped around a good kid.
“I must have said his name. I don’t fucking remember, but he spun around and pointed the gun in my direction. His eyes were filled with so much hatred, I wondered how we hadn’t seen it. Were we all really that blind? Or had something happened? His second hand gripped the front of the rifle, and I didn’t think. I just reacted. I… he died because of me, Hannah Grace. Because I killed him. He was fucking ten years old and I ended his life.”
The confession rips from my lips, bile rising in my throat. Her fingers squeeze mine and I try to release her hand but she grips me tighter. I’d rather remember Hakeem with the bright eyes and quick smile.
Not the one lying on the ground with evil wrapped around his body.
“Cole—”
“We didn’t have another mission before coming home. Geoff was gone. Max and Colin were recovering from gunshot wounds, and I was a fucking mess. We got closer to coming home and I knew I couldn’t be around you. I couldn’t be around anyone.”
“So you sent me the letter.”
I nod, the burn of tears in my throat making speaking impossible.
“Then what happened?”
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“You didn’t come home.”
I shake my head.
“No. I didn’t think I needed to be around anyone who knew me. I needed to disappear. I didn’t have a plan, and Sawyer told me he was heading to LA. He had a friend who worked in security who was going to give him a job. He understood the need to disappear.”
“So you did.”
“Yeah. I’m not going to lie. Those first few months back stateside were rough. I drank—a lot—until Sawyer gave me the choice to find someone to talk to or he was going to cut ties. I found a support group of other men who had served and had the same demons I did.”
“Is that why you didn’t drink the other night?” she asks.
“No. I don’t have the issues with alcohol now. I don’t drink on duty.”
“Was that what the other night was? A job?”
“Honey Girl, nothing about protecting you feels like a job. If I had to pay someone to be here, I would. Being here with you? It’s like the universe finally realized what was wrong and fixed it. For the first time in four years, I don’t feel like a stranger in my own life. You’re my home. You always have been, even though I don’t deserve you. Even if the only thing I can do is keep you safe and let you walk away to the life you deserve.”
Saying those words out loud makes it hard to breathe, my chest constricting to the point of pain. I don’t give her the chance to respond, unbuckling my seat belt and opening the car door. I move to the front of the car, leaning against the hood as I drag several deep breaths of fresh air in through my nose.
For the first time in four years, the guilt that has plagued me—over Hakeem, over Hannah Grace—releases its clench on my heart. The relief is like a limb that’s been asleep is suddenly waking up, tingling through my blood, and the tension ebbs from my body.
Just one more breath. One more moment of this peace.
Besides Hannah Grace, it’s the only thing I need.