11. Harris
11
HARRIS
“ Y ou seem agitated and distracted, Harris.”
I allowed my gaze to wander from the yellowing plant sitting on the radiator to survey the rest of the office. Mid-morning sun filtered weakly through the closed blinds, never reaching the plant on its gloomy perch. Between the lack of sun and obvious overwatering, no wonder it was dying.
Dull, cracked, dented, and worn furniture, compliments of government funding, filled the rest of the depressing space, and I couldn’t wait until my mandatory hour was done.
“Harris. I said you seem distracted.”
I focused on my therapist, sitting attentively in a freshly pressed uniform. At one point, he’d been a door-kicking, first-one-in tango-chaser, but First Lieutenant Greg Martinez, Ph.D. had chosen a new path. He’d traded his crappy tent for a crappy office stateside, and now here he was, shrinking my head.
“I’m fine,” I said, tone carefully even. Liar, liar . My frustration was eating me alive. I wanted to scream.
“Master Sergeant McCallister.” Martinez leaned back, adjusting his tall frame in his ugly pleather chair. “You see me three times a week. Have I ever allowed you to bullshit me?”
Goddamn it . I didn’t need this on top of everything else. “No, sir.” I gave the only response I could, knowing Martinez outranked me. Martinez, stretched out with his notepad on his knee, his pen poised above it to capture all of my private thoughts and fears.
The silence dragged on between us, awkward and dry. I could wait it out, I guessed, but I’d have to talk some time.
“Last night,” I said. My voice caught and I swallowed. “Could I get some water?”
Martinez got me a bottle from the fridge in the corner. I took a gulp, then twisted the cap closed. I’d left Rachel to come here. Left her at the B&B alone. The cops were damn useless— we’ll do what we can. But without prints, without evidence…
What would it take to get them to act? Rachel’s dead body laid out on the road? Her baby, our baby, dead in her belly?
We’ll question them, don’t worry. You got Darryl’s last name?
I’d been tempted to go question Darryl myself. But if I’d done that, my fists would have done the talking, I’d probably be in jail, facing dishonorable discharge and God knew what.
“Last night?” Martinez said.
I ground my teeth. Shit. “I had another flashback last night.”
“Were you awake or dreaming?”
“Dreaming.” I crossed my arms and pushed back in my chair. “It woke me up, but I remembered enough to know I was reliving the Colombian mission.”
The faint scratching of the pen grated on my nerves as Martinez took notes.
“Anything different in the dream from what you remember happening?”
“No,” I snapped. “I still gave the same orders, and Shawn still paid the price.” A pang ripped through my chest, and I sucked in air to keep it from tearing me in two. My damn intuition, my damn pigeon sense. Should’ve known it was a warning, not a green light.
“Shawn Ramirez was a veteran Marine with just as many missions under his belt as you,” Martinez said. “He broke protocol and charged in first when it was not his place to do so.”
Heat flushed my skin as fury whipped through me. “I don’t give a fuck. He trusted me to keep him safe, and I got him blown to hell and back.”
“You’re not a divine being, Harris,” Martinez responded calmly, seemingly unbothered by the fact that I felt about two seconds away from putting a hole in the drywall. “You may have a knack for reading terrain, but only God and the drug cartel knew that IED was planted there. Had you gone first like you were supposed to, it’s likely you’d be dead instead of Shawn.”
I opened my mouth to yell, as it should be , but Rachel’s voice stopped me, echoing in my head. If you had died, then our baby wouldn’t exist .
“You don’t get it,” I said instead, my grip on the armrests tightening. “Shawn’s life should never have been sacrificed for mine. I failed my best friend.”
“Or your best friend made a mistake and paid a terrible price,” Martinez retorted softly. “None of your teammates nor your CO blame you for Shawn’s death.” He paused as if letting that settle in, but I refused to accept his absolution. I didn’t deserve it. All my life, I’d striven to be the man who fixed things. The man people counted on—that had been me. Like Dad had been once, working two jobs, then coming home to more work. There’d always be some repair waiting around the house—a broken dishwasher, a sparking outlet. Dad had loved his family, but he’d never been good at saying that out loud. When he tried, he’d trip over his words, going awkward and embarrassed until his temper started to fray. To avoid that, he chose to express his feelings in actions instead, keeping the house up so it would be safe and comfortable for us.
I had looked after things too, with my talent for reading terrain. I’d kept my unit safe a hundred damn times, only to lose big on a hundred and one. I’d let my friend down. Just like I was letting Rachel down. She needed me to keep her safe, but she was still in danger. Darryl or Tammy hadn’t got what they wanted. That meant they’d strike again, and where was I?
“You can’t keep taking on the blame for Shawn’s death,” Martinez said, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts.
“I think you’ll find I can.”
Martinez flashed me a half-smile. “What’s my policy on sarcasm?”
“Check it at the door.”
“That’s right.” Martinez’s smile widened, and for a moment, I thought he might ease up. Instead, he continued to hammer at my guilt, then switched it up in the last fifteen minutes to talk about my father. By the time I climbed into my car, I felt like I’d gone ten rounds as the punching bag instead of the boxer. And I was still hung up on Rachel. Damn it, couldn’t she see? Couldn’t she see I was there for her, nailing up trim? Staining her porch? Cleaning her air ducts? Didn’t she see what that meant? I was falling for her—for the most amazing, courageous, stubborn, intelligent, savvy businesswoman I’d ever met. It scared me to death, but I wasn’t hiding. I was showing her every moment. Why couldn’t she see it?
I got in my car and cranked down both windows. The fresh air revived me as I hightailed it off the base. Inhaling deep, I cleared my sinuses of the claustrophobic stench of the psychology building.
I took the long way home, over the bridge, then through the backstreets, needing the monotonous drive to clear my head. God, that had been rough, that hour with Martinez. We’d talked about Shawn before, and about my dad. I’d told him about the admiral and all the research Chance was doing. We’d even touched on Rachel. But today had been different. Martinez had been relentless.
I stopped for the red light and fished my phone out. If I turned left at the next light, I’d head toward home, but if I kept going straight, I’d hit wide open road.
Tapping Rachel’s name in my contacts list, I put the call on speaker.
“Hey,” Rachel answered. “How’d it go with the shrink?”
“Same old, same old,” I said, lying through my teeth. “Just making sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
The light turned green, and I slowly crept forward.
“I’m still cleaning the rooms from the weekend guests,” she continued.
“Mind if I drive for a bit?” My hand hovered near the turn signal in case she needed me.
“Not at all.” She paused, as if distracted. “You mind picking up more string cheese? I seem to have eaten the whole box.”
“Consider it done.” I pressed the gas pedal. “See you soon.” I hung up and flicked on the radio to drown out the echo of Martinez’s words in my head.
The yellow lines were hypnotic, and I logged mile after mile, hardly noticing the time passing by. The pleasant green scenery soothed the hurt in my soul. Rank farm smells mingled with freshly mowed grass, making me smile for the first time since I’d left the house.
House. Shit . My eyes flew to the clock. Oh man . I hadn’t meant to drive for hours.
I pulled a U-turn and sped back to the grocery store, where I tossed as many things as I could remember from the refrigerator list into the cart. The sun was riding low by the time I was done, and I put the pedal to the metal, heading back home. I made it in record time. A sense of unease curled in my gut when I rolled into the driveway and noticed that in the parking space Rachel liked to use, someone had parked a navy Honda CR-V. I backed in beside it and hopped out for a look.
“Who the hell…?”
We weren’t expecting any guests, and Rachel would’ve told me if she’d gotten a last-minute booking. Warning bells rang louder, filling my head. Damn it, I should not have gone for that drive. I’d left her vulnerable when she needed me most.
I pounded up the porch steps and threw the front door open. “Rachel!”
Footsteps tripped overhead, then I spied Rachel’s cross trainers tromping down the steps. “Harris, what’s wrong?”
Heart thundering in my chest, I peered down the hall, searching as much of the interior as I could see. “Are you okay? Who’s here?”
“I’m fine.” She stopped moving. “No one’s here but me. Why?”
“Go up to the apartment and lock the door.” I lifted my T-shirt and pulled my Glock from its holster. Rachel let out a gasp.
“Is that a gun?”
“It’s my personal weapon.” I flipped off the safety. Rachel might not like it, but keeping the Glock on hand was non-negotiable, at least until she and our baby were safe. “Call the police.”
Her eyes bugged out and she stumbled backwards. “What’s wrong?”
“A strange car’s parked outside.” I turned toward the front door. “Someone’s lurking on the property, and I’m going to catch the bastard.”
“Stop.”
Scowling, I peered over my shoulder.
Rachel slumped down and clasped her hands to her face. “You scared the shit out of me.” She exhaled. “Is it a two-year-old Honda CR-V you’re talking about?”
Executing a pivot that would make my old drill sergeant proud, I jammed my gun away. “Why, yes, it would be.” Fear instantly converted to aggravation, and I just knew I wasn’t going to like the explanation.
“It’s mine,” Rachel said. She waltzed around me and was out the front door before I could respond.
“Yours?” I followed behind like a damn dog. “What do you mean?”
Her legs were short, but she could really hustle when she wanted to. In seconds, she was standing by the trunk of my car. “Is the string cheese inside?” She motioned with her thumb. “I don’t want it to spoil in this heat.”
I unlocked the trunk and she smiled at all the bags.
“Oh, you got everything! Is this the whole list? Harris, you’re the best .” She went to reach for the bags, but I gently batted her hands away and lifted them myself.
“It’s not good for the baby to strain yourself.”
“A few groceries are hardly a strain.” She rolled her eyes. “And anyway, we’ve got months before I need to start worrying about that.”
Eyeing the CR-V one last time, I led us back into the house. Once we reached the kitchen, I couldn’t wait any longer. “Explain. What do you mean, the CR-V’s yours? The Elantra’s brakes won’t take long to fix.”
But until then, she was without a car, and now I felt even worse for driving so long. I’d left her stranded. “Is it a loaner?” I asked, taking items out of the bag and handing them to her to put away.
“Nope.” She plopped cans into the cabinet. “I was up late last night, spending quality time with the toilet, and my mind started churning. There’s so much to think about with the baby on the way—and one of those things is a newer, safer vehicle.” She took the eggs from me and stuck them in the fridge. “Your car is fine for us to share now, but it’s a classic. Safety regulations concerning things like airbags and child locks weren’t around back in 1967.”
She darted around me, grabbing the groceries and tucking them away. I couldn’t argue with the facts, but I felt—I felt hurt .
“The Elantra’s been a good car,” she continued, her head in and out of the bags and refrigerator. “But I’ll need something that can haul all kinds of baby stuff. And I should have four-wheel drive in case of emergency. So, I had an Uber drop me off at the dealership. The salesman worked it out with the garage so I can trade in the Elantra. They knocked off the cost of the brake job, but my car was still worth enough that I got a good deal.”
I swallowed thickly. Something mean and ugly slithered in my gut. I couldn’t deny she’d made a smart, logical choice. She needed a sturdy, reliable vehicle of her own so she wasn’t dependent on me for transport. But once again, she’d cut me out of an important decision. It seemed like it hadn’t even occurred to her to discuss it with me. She could’ve brought it up last night, or before I left for therapy, but she hadn’t.
I didn’t need the reminder of what triggered our fight yesterday, but she’d slapped me with it anyway. She continued to act like she planned to raise our child on her own.
Pain and hurt warred for dominance in my chest. How did she see my role in her life once the baby was born? Did I rate a recurring role, or just a cameo? Was she only placating me until the therapist released me to active duty?
The knife twisted in my heart. And here I’d been daydreaming about making a home with Rachel, mooning like a smitten fool, while she wasn’t thinking much about me at all.
“I’m going to work out,” I said. “Yell if you need me.”
“Oh, uh, I—didn’t you want dinner?”
I shook my head and bolted. I needed to run off my anger before it came bursting out. The last thing I needed was a screaming match with Rachel.