Chapter 6 - Eli
She's looking at me like I'm something worth understanding, and I don't know what to do with that.
I've spent six years making sure people don't look at me that way. Six years of short answers and closed doors and a life built specifically to avoid this exact situation, someone sitting in my living room, asking questions, trying to see past the walls I've put up.
And the worst part is that I'm letting her.
I don't know when it happened. When I went from wanting her gone to wanting her to stay. But somewhere between the hardware store and the lasagna and standing in the rain telling her she couldn't drive home, something shifted.
And now she's here, curled up on my couch in my clothes, asking me about my dog like she actually cares about the answer.
Why does she ask so many questions?
That's what I can't figure out. Most people, when they hit a wall with me, they back off. They get the message. They understand that I'm not interested in small talk or connection or whatever the hell it is that normal people do.
But not her.
She just keeps pushing. Keeps asking. Keeps looking at me with those warm blue eyes like she's trying to solve something.
Like I'm a puzzle worth solving.
*Everyone's a puzzle,* she said.
*Then I'm one of those ones with all the edge pieces missing,* I told her.
And I meant it. Because that's what it feels like, like all the parts of me that used to make sense are gone now, scattered somewhere in the desert along with the men I couldn't save. What's left is just fragments. Pieces that don't quite fit together anymore.
But she doesn't seem to care about that. She's sitting there like the missing edges don't matter, like she's willing to work with what's here.
Why?
Why does she care?
Ridge shifts at my feet, and I realize I've been sitting here in silence for too long. Jade doesn't seem bothered by it. She's just watching the fire, perfectly comfortable in the quiet.
That's another thing I can't figure out. She said she likes people, likes noise, but she's not trying to fill every second with conversation. She's just... here. Present. Like she doesn't need me to be anything other than what I am.
When's the last time someone made me feel like that?
I think about my ex—Sarah. The way she used to look at me after I came back, like she was waiting for the person she remembered to show up. Like if she just waited long enough, tried hard enough, I'd go back to being the man who left.
But that man didn't come back. He died over there, same as the others. What came back was something different. Something broken.
She tried. God, she tried. But eventually, the trying turned into frustration, and the frustration turned into resignation, and one day she told me she couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't keep loving someone who wouldn't let her in.
I didn't blame her then. Don't blame her now.
It's better this way. Safer. For everyone.
Except—
Except here's Jade, asking questions I don't want to answer, and instead of shutting her down like I should, I'm sitting here wanting to tell her. Wanting to explain why I am the way I am. Wanting her to understand.
That's dangerous.
That's how people get hurt.
"Can I ask you something?" she says, breaking the silence.
I tense. "You're going to anyway."
She smiles a little. "Probably. But I'll try to make it a good one."
"Go ahead."
She's quiet for a second, like she's choosing her words. Then she asks, "Do you ever talk to anyone? About whatever it is you're carrying?"
My jaw tightens. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because talking doesn't fix anything."
"Maybe not. But it might make it easier to carry."
I look at her, really look at her. She's not pushing. Not demanding. Just asking. Like she genuinely wants to know.
"You lose people," I say, the words coming out rougher than I intend, "and you've got two choices. You can talk about it until everyone around you is as miserable as you are, or you can carry it yourself and let other people live their lives."
"Those aren't the only two choices."
"They're the only ones that make sense."
"To you, maybe." She shifts, pulling her knees up to her chest. "But what if talking about it doesn't make other people miserable? What if they want to help carry it?"
"No one wants that."
"I do."
I stare at her, trying to figure out if she means it or if this is just something people say. The kind of empty offer that sounds good but disappears the second you actually take them up on it.
But she's looking at me with this expression that's so open, so genuine, that I almost believe her.
Almost.
"You don't know what you're asking for," I say.
"So, tell me."
And God, I want to. I want to tell her about the sand and the heat and the sound of the explosion that I still hear sometimes when it's too quiet.
I want to tell her about Marcus and DeShawn and Cooper and all the others whose names I carry like stones in my chest. I want to tell her that I dream about them almost every night, that I wake up reaching for a rifle that isn't there, that some days the guilt is so heavy I don't know how I'm still standing.
I want to tell her all of it.
But what if I do and she can't handle it? What if I open up and she realizes that I'm too broken, too damaged, too much? What if she looks at me the way Sarah did toward the end, like she's trying to love something that's already gone?
That would break me.
I've survived a lot of things. War. Loss. Six years of isolation. But I don't think I'd survive that. Not again.
So, I do what I always do. I shut it down.
"There's nothing to tell," I say.
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her eyes. But she doesn't push.
"Okay," she says.
We sit in silence again, but it feels different now. Heavier. Like there's something between us that wasn't there before, something I put there by almost opening up and then slamming the door shut.
Fuck.
I run a hand over my face, feeling the exhaustion settle into my bones. This is exactly why I don't do this. Why I don't let people in. Because it's messy and complicated and it always ends with someone getting hurt.
But then I look at her again, and she's not hurt. She's not angry or frustrated or any of the things people usually are. She's just there. Still present. Still comfortable in my space like she belongs here.
Like maybe she's the missing piece.
The thought hits me out of nowhere, and I hate it immediately.
Because what if she is? What if she's the one person who could actually understand, who could actually help me carry all this weight I've been dragging around for years?
And what if I open up and she's not?
What if I let her in and she leaves?
That would break me for good. I can't risk it. Can't risk her. Can't risk this fragile thing that's starting to form between us, whatever the hell it is.
Better to keep the walls up. Better to stay alone.
But I don't want to be alone right now. I want her to stay. Want her to keep asking questions. Want to pretend that I don't want to answer them while secretly hoping she never stops asking.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Ridge gets up and moves to Jade, putting his head on her lap. She scratches behind his ears, and he makes that sound, the one that's half-groan, half-sigh, pure contentment.
"Traitor," I mutter.
"He's not a traitor," Jade says, smiling. "He's just a good judge of character."
"He likes everyone."
"Does he?"
I think about it. "No. Actually, he doesn't."
"See? Told you. Good judge of character." She looks at me, and there's something playful in her expression now. "He likes me, and he loves you. That says something."
"Says he's got low standards."
"You're really hard on yourself," she says.
"I'm realistic."
"There's a difference between realistic and punishing yourself for things that aren't your fault."
My whole body goes rigid. "You don't know what is or isn't my fault."
"You're right. I don't." She's still looking at me, still calm, still open. "But I know what grief looks like. And I know what it looks like when someone's carrying more than they should."
"Your mother," I say, remembering what she told me earlier.
"Yeah." Her expression softens. "I watched her die slowly.
Cancer. There was nothing I could do except be there and watch it happen.
And for a long time after, I kept thinking about all the things I should've done differently.
All the ways I should've been better, should've helped more, should've… I don't know. Something."
"That's not the same."
"Isn't it? You lost people. I lost people. The circumstances are different, but the grief—" She shakes her head. "Grief is grief. And blame is blame. And neither one of them cares whether you deserve it or not."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to respond to someone who seems to understand something I've never been able to explain.
"I'm not trying to fix you," she says quietly. "I know you don't want that. I'm just saying that you don't have to carry everything alone. Not if you don't want to."
"And if I do want to?"
"Then I'll respect that." She meets my eyes. "But the offer stands. Whenever you're ready. If you're ever ready."
There's no pressure in her voice. No expectation. Just an open door that she's leaving unlocked.
I should tell her to leave. Should make up some excuse about the road being clear enough, about needing to get back to work, about anything that gets her out of here before this goes any further.
But I don't.
Instead, I hear myself say, "I had eight men under my command. Last tour."
She goes very still. Doesn't say anything. Just listens.
"We were on a routine patrol. Routine." I let out a breath that feels like it's been trapped in my chest for years. "Except it wasn't. There was an IED. Buried in the road. Our lead vehicle hit it."
The fire crackles. Ridge shifts position. Jade doesn't move.