Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
cage
The whiskey tastes like shit, but that's not why I'm drinking it.
I sit at the far end of the bar, the same seat I always take when I come down from the ridge. Away from the door, away from the windows, with my back to the wall where I can see everything and no one can come up behind me.
Old habits die hard.
Grizz pours without asking, he knows what I drink, knows I don't want conversation, knows to leave the bottle. It's why I come here instead of drinking alone in my cabin. Some nights the silence up there gets too loud.
Tonight is one of those nights.
I wrap my hand around the glass and take a slow drink. The burn is familiar, grounding. It doesn't fix anything, but it takes the edge off. Dulls the noise in my head just enough that I can sit still without feeling like I need to move.
The bar is busy. Not crowded, but full. Loggers sit near the fireplace while the locals are scattered throughout the bar. It’s a normal Friday night, loud and chaotic, but completely normal.
But my brain doesn't work like that anymore, it catalogs everything: exits, threats, and positions.
Two exits: front door and kitchen door in the back.
No threats, just people drinking and talking and living their lives.
Caleb Riker is at the bar, three seats down, he’s harmless. Elsie Monroe next to him, talking his ear off. Also harmless, just annoying.
Loggers in the corner, loud but stable. A couple playing pool. The group in the booth by the stove.
Three women. Rosie Vega, June Holloway, and her.
India Hartley.
I take another drink and try not to look.
I fail.
She's laughing at something Rosie said, her head tilted back, dark hair falling over her shoulder. She's wearing a green sweater that makes her eyes look brighter even from across the room. Her hands move when she talks, gesturing, animated.
She looks warm. Alive. Like someone who hasn't had the humanity beaten out of her by sand and blood and watching good people die for no goddamn reason.
I look away.
This is a mistake. Coming here was a mistake. I should have stayed on the ridge, should have dealt with the silence instead of coming down here where there are people and noise and her.
I've seen India around town since she moved back six months ago.
Hard not to in a place this small. She runs the community garden program, works part-time at the library, lives in one of the old cabins off Creek Road.
She's friendly. Everyone likes her. She smiles at people when she walks past them on Main Street.
She smiled at me once. I didn't smile back.
Grizz refills my glass without asking.
"You good?" he asks.
It's more words than he usually wastes on me.
"Fine."
He grunts and moves down the bar. Conversation over.
I should be grateful for it, but part of me wants him to keep talking. I want the distraction of someone else's voice so I don't have to listen to my own thoughts.
The jukebox switches to something slow and country. Someone groans. Someone else laughs.
Normal.
This is what normal looks like. People in a bar on a Friday night, drinking and talking and existing without checking for IEDs or counting rounds or wondering if the person next to them is going to be alive in five minutes.
I drain my glass and pour another.
The memories are worse tonight. I don't know why. Some nights they stay buried where they belong. Other nights they crawl up out of the dark and sit on my chest until I can't breathe.
Marcus's laugh. The way he could defuse any situation with a joke.
Ahmed's focus. How he could spot threats before anyone else.
TJ's optimism. His stupid, unshakeable belief that they'd all make it home.
They didn't make it home.
I did.
I'm the one who gets to sit in a bar in Colorado drinking shitty whiskey while they're in the ground.
Survivor's guilt, the VA therapist called it. Like giving it a name makes it easier to carry.
It doesn't.
I should have seen it coming. Should have called it off. Should have done something, anything, other than what I did.
But I didn't.
And now they're dead and I'm here and nothing I do will ever change that.
I reach for the bottle.
"You planning to drink all of that tonight?"
I look up. Grizz is watching me, his massive arms crossed over his chest.
"Maybe."
"That'd be stupid."
"Probably."
He studies me for a moment, then shakes his head and walks away. Not his problem. Not anyone's problem but mine.
I pour another drink.
There’s laughter from the booth by the stove. I don't want to look, but I do anyway.
India is leaning forward, her elbows on the table, saying something that makes June smile and Rosie roll her eyes. There's an ease to her, a lightness. Like the world hasn't gotten its claws into her yet.
I wonder what that's like to move through the world without hypervigilance. Without checking corners and exits and scanning for threats that aren't there. To sit with friends and laugh and not think about the people who aren't sitting there anymore.
She tucks her hair behind her ear, and I notice the small scar on her jaw. It’s barely visible. I wouldn't have seen it if I wasn't looking.
I shouldn't be looking.
I pick up my glass and focus on the amber liquid inside.
This is why I don't come to town. This is why I built a cabin five miles up the ridge and told everyone to leave me the hell alone.
Because when I'm around people, I notice things.
I pay attention. And paying attention means caring, and caring means risk.
I don't do risk anymore.
Not with people.
Not with anything.
The door opens and cold air rushes in. I glance over automatically.
Wyatt Flynn, he’s mountain rescue, and he’s a good guy. He scans the room, spots someone at the pool table, and heads over.
He’s not a threat, so I turn back to my drink.
"You gonna eat anything tonight, or just drink?"
Grizz again. He’s a persistent bastard.
"Not hungry."
"You're always not hungry."
"Then stop asking."
He leans against the bar. "Ma's got pot roast. I can have her send some over."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
I meet his eyes. "Since when do you care?"
"I don't, but Ma does, and she'll give me hell if I let you starve at my bar."
"Tell Ma I'm fine."
"Tell her yourself."
He walks away before I can respond. I almost smile. Almost, but not quite.
The whiskey is working now. The edges are softer. The noise in my head is quieter. It’s not gone, it’s never gone, but it’s manageable.
This is all I need. Just enough to take the edge off so I can sleep without dreaming.
I chance another look at the booth.
India is talking to Rosie now, her expression serious. Whatever she's saying, Rosie doesn't like it. She's shaking her head, gesturing with her beer bottle.
India says something else. Rosie responds. They go back and forth, some kind of argument that neither of them seems upset about.
June is watching them both with amusement, sipping her wine.
It looks easy. Comfortable. Like they've been doing this for years.
Friendship.
I forgot what that looks like.
I had it once. In the desert. Brothers in arms, all that bullshit. But that was different. That was survival bonding. Life and death. You don't have a choice but to trust the person next to you when they're all that stands between you and a bullet.
This is different. This is a choice.
These women chose to be here, chose each other, they chose to show up on a Friday night and drink and talk and laugh.
I don't know how to do that anymore. I don't know if I ever did. I pour another drink.
The jukebox switches songs. Someone cheers at the pool table. The fire crackles in the stove.
And then India looks up. Right at me.
I should look away. Should break eye contact and go back to my drink and pretend I wasn't watching her.
But I don't.
Her eyes are green. I knew that, but I didn't know how green. They are the color of new leaves in spring, bright and alive.
She doesn't look away either.
There's something in her expression I can't read. Curiosity, maybe, or recognition, but there’s no fear. That's what gets me, she's not afraid. She should be.
I'm the guy who lives alone in the woods and barely speaks to anyone. I'm the guy people whisper about when I come to town. I'm the guy mothers probably warn their daughters to stay away from.
But India doesn't look warned. She looks interested.
My chest tightens.
This is a mistake. This whole thing is a mistake.
I break eye contact and stare at my glass.
When I look up again, she's talking to her friends. Like nothing happened.
Maybe nothing did happen.
Maybe I'm reading into things because I've been alone too long and my brain is making connections that aren't there.
I drain my glass and stand.
Grizz looks over. "Leaving already?"
"Yeah."
"You didn't eat."
"I'll eat at home."
"Ma's not gonna like that."
"Ma can take it up with me next time I see her."
I leave cash on the bar, more than enough to cover the bottle. Grizz will give me grief about overpaying, but I don't care. I need to leave, I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. Like talk to her.
I pull on my jacket and head for the door without looking back.
The cold hits me hard, sharp and clean. My breath fogs in front of me, and I can feel ice crunching under my boots.
I should feel better out here. Calmer. But I don't.
My truck is parked at the far end of the lot, away from the other vehicles. I unlock it and climb in, turning the engine over. It catches on the second try.
I sit there for a minute, letting it warm up, staring at the bar through the windshield.
The lights inside look warm. Inviting. Through the window I can see people moving, talking, living.
I could go back in. I could sit down and order food and try to be normal. Could maybe even talk to India. Ask her how the chickens are doing or some other small talk bullshit.
But I won't.
Because I know how this goes. I let someone in, let my guard down, and eventually they'll want more. More conversation. More time. More of me.
And I don't have more to give.
I gave everything I had in the desert. Left it there with Marcus and Ahmed and TJ and the rest of the team.
What's left isn't enough for anyone. Especially not someone like India, who deserves better than a broken bastard who can't sleep without whiskey and can't go five minutes without checking exits.
I put the truck in gear and pull out of the lot.
The road up to the ridge is dark and winding. I've driven it enough times that I could do it blind. My headlights cut through the trees, illuminating snow and shadow.
The radio is off. I prefer the quiet.
But tonight the quiet feels different. Heavy.
I can't stop thinking about the way India looked at me. Not with pity not with fear, but with curiosity. It was like she saw something worth paying attention to.
She's wrong.
There's nothing here worth paying attention to. Just a guy who drinks too much and lives alone because it's easier than explaining why he can't be around people anymore.
By the time I reach the cabin, my jaw is tight and my hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles ache.
I park and kill the engine. The cabin is dark and cold, I'll need to restart the fire when I get inside.
I sit in the truck for a moment, staring at the structure I built with my own hands. There are four rooms. It’s solid, and functional. It’s everything I need and nothing I don't.
This is my life now. This is what I chose, to live alone on a ridge five miles from town where no one bothers me and I don't have to pretend I'm okay.
It's better this way.
Safer.
For me and for everyone else.
I get out of the truck and head inside.
The cabin smells like wood and cold. I restart the fire, watching the flames catch and spread. It'll take an hour for the place to warm up, but I don't mind. I'm used to it.
I pour myself another drink from the bottle I keep on the shelf.
Then I Sit in the chair by the fire, and try not to think about green eyes and the way India looked at me like maybe I wasn't as far gone as I think I am.
She's wrong. I am that far gone, and the sooner I forget about tonight, the better.
I drain the glass and close my eyes.
But all I see is her face. Her eyes. The way she didn't look away.
This was a mistake.
Noticing her was a mistake.
Going to the bar was a mistake.
I won't make it again.