Chapter 1 #2
Entering college, I had everything planned out.
Science track at UMaine, MCAT prep, summer internships, admission to medical school, and hopefully, a residency in the Northeast so I could stay close to my family.
I’d specialize in family medicine and eventually open a practice of my own.
By forty, I’d be living in a nice house with a wife and two point five kids and a couple of dogs for good measure.
Then I started paying attention to what was going on in the world.
Really paying attention. The more I thought about the shitty things I was seeing and reading about, the more determined I got to do something about them.
Then an Army recruiter came to campus, and he suggested I take the ASVAB, just to see what I might be qualified for.
“If you’re so determined to join the Army,” my mother suggested when I first brought up the idea, “why not be an Army doctor? You could work at a VA hospital. That wouldn’t be much different from working in family practice.”
But once I started thinking about my other options—Special Forces, in particular—it was hard to move past it.
“Special Forces can always use medics,” Nils, the recruiter, told me.
“Think about it. You could get the best of both worlds—saving the lives of your fellow soldiers and protecting our country.”
It wasn’t that simple, of course. There was Basic, Advanced Individual Training, and several years at my first station before I began the arduous process of becoming a Green Beret. I spent six years as a GB before being recruited to Delta, where I stayed until my contract ran out three years later.
Did I love what I did? Fuck, yeah.
Have I ever regretted giving up on my dream of medical school? Not really.
Am I happy where I am now? Most of the time.
Do I still look back and wish I could have done some things differently? Absolutely.
But that makes me think of something my fellow GMG teammate, Alec, told me once, after he’d gotten together with Hazel and was well on his way to letting some of his own personal ghosts go.
“I used to spend a lot of time on what-ifs,” he admitted.
“A lot of time blaming myself for things I really didn’t have any control over.
Honestly, it took meeting Hazel to show me that I can’t take on the responsibility for other people’s actions.
It’s easy to look back and say, oh, I should have done this, or I shouldn’t have done that.
But we’re not omniscient. We can’t know everything, as much as we’d like to. ”
I know he’s right. But when I let myself think back to that time and all the red flags I ignored… Shit. It’s awfully hard not to blame myself for not stopping things sooner. And it’s really fucking hard not to be bitter about it.
I’m not even aware I’m scowling until a dull throb sets up behind my eyes and my jaw starts to ache.
Flicking a worried look around me, I’m reassured that there aren’t any other cars nearby to see me frowning at the road like it personally offended me.
Another thing about living in a small town—well, technically, I live about five miles outside of town, but I consider Bliss my home—is that you can’t go anywhere without someone recognizing you.
And I’d rather not have locals speculating why I’m driving around looking like I want to punch someone.
Puffing out a long breath, I work my jaw to relax it. I roll my shoulders and flex my fingers as I release the steering wheel with one hand, then the other. Slamming the metaphorical door shut on memories best left alone, I start rearranging my schedule for the rest of the evening.
An hour at Angel’s, maybe an hour and a half, and back home around six or so.
Take Murphy out back for ten, fifteen minutes with the magic red dot, as Rory called it when she first suggested it.
Then back in for a shower, heat up one of the soups along with some buttered bread, and a couple episodes of Alone before Murphy needs to go back out before bed.
Is it an exciting night? No. But I’m okay with that. I get enough excitement at work. Home is for stability and quiet and being alone to do whatever I want.
As I turn onto Angel’s street, a little voice in the back of my head whispers, Are you sure that’s all you want?
Quiet and solitude? What about a woman to come home to, like your friends have?
What about debating over what to watch while cuddling on the couch?
What about having someone to curl up next to in bed?
Can you really say you wouldn’t like those things?
No, I reply silently. Stubbornly. I would not. I like my life as it is. That’s why, when I get to Angel’s place, I’m going to be polite but be absolutely sure not to give her any ideas of the possibility of more.
Who knows, after all. Angel may have said something to Hazel about me. Maybe that’s where these renewed matchmaking efforts are coming from.
Except Angel’s never shown any sign of interest in me. She’s always pleasant when she sees me, whether it’s at Blissful Brews or around town. But she’s never flirted. Never asked if I wanted to get a drink. Never even given me her number.
It can’t be easy for her, I consider, as the faded green shingles of her house come into view. Raising a kid on her own. And how many guys in town would take dating a woman with a kid seriously? How many would disregard Angel because, in their mind, her daughter is a complication they don’t want?
Maybe Angel is as much a target of Hazel’s matchmaking scheme as I am.
Does she even know I’m coming over? I wonder belatedly. Will she even want my help?
“If she doesn’t,” I say to myself. “That’s fine. More time for me to relax at home.”
Except now that I’m only a couple of houses down from Angel’s, I’m not happy with what I’m seeing. At all.
Wearing a bright pink jacket, she’s easy to find at the top of the ladder as she tacks up a string of lights. But even with the height of the extension ladder—looks like a ten-footer, at my best guess, she still has to stretch to reach the second-story eaves.
Looking at the scene, I immediately catalog several things that could go wrong.
The ladder might not be set evenly on the ground, especially with the soil in full-freeze. And if she leans too far to one way or the other, it wouldn’t take much to send the ladder toppling over.
The string of lights loosely wound over her shoulder could catch on something, tugging Angel off-balance.
And what about the lights themselves? She has them plugged in, ostensibly to get a better idea of how they’ll look at night, but are they in good condition? Or are they old and stripped, and one wrong touch could give her a shock?
Yes, I’m well aware I’m imagining disaster when there’s no reason to. Angel probably has this all well in hand. She’s responsible for a child’s life, after all, which brings huge responsibility. Honestly, I should give her more credit instead of thinking the worst.
But shit.
As I pull to a stop in front of her house, I spot a few more unsettling details. Like Angel’s shoes, which don’t look like the kind that give much traction. Shoes that could slip easily on the slick metal rungs of the ladder. Then there’s—
Stop it, I tell myself. You’re being ridiculous. Just because Angel is small and pretty and looks like the kind of woman any man would want to protect doesn’t mean she actually needs help.
She keeps up this house, after all, and for a woman on her own, that’s no small thing.
Except I’m not terribly thrilled by the condition of the house, either.
Now that I’m parked in front of it, I’m noticing the broken railing on the porch and the loose shutter beside one of the second-story windows.
And the maple tree beside the house has a dead branch overhanging the roof that could cause serious damage if it falls.
Not that I’m planning on fixing all those things. It’s just habit, grown from years of being a homeowner, and more recently, buying a fixer-upper myself.
Still. It wouldn’t be hard to cut that branch down. Get one of those extension saws, and ten minutes max, it would be done.
Nope. I slam yet another metaphorical door shut.
I’m not getting involved any more than I have to.
I’ll just tell Alec about it—since Angel and Hazel are friends, I’m sure he’d be happy to take care of it.
Or shit, what about Knox, one of my other GMG teammates?
He owns a construction business, for Pete’s sake.
It would be nothing for Knox to swing by and take care of it.
Decision made—no extra repairs, that’s it—I shut off the engine and grab my phone from the console. I watch Angel through the side window for a second, debating the best way to let her know I’m here without scaring the shit out of her.
She stretches a few inches higher as she tacks another length of lights up. It looks like the staple gun she’s using is giving her trouble, because she’s stapled the same spot several times, and now she’s shaking her head in frustration.
My hand is on the handle of the car door, my intent to get out as quietly as I can, then head over to the base of the ladder before saying anything.
She leans slightly to the left as she tries to staple the length of lights again.
The ladder shifts.
My breath catches. Worry urges me to open the door.
Angel braces one hand on the side of the house to stabilize herself.
My held breath rushes out.
Then the top half of the ladder drops, collapsing all the way down.
With my door half open, I hear Angel’s frightened shriek.
Startled by the ladder’s unexpected movement, Angel tips backward and loses her grip on the ladder. She pitches back into the snow, and a moment later, the ladder falls on top of her.
“Shit!” I curse as I leap from the car. “Shit!”
Fear beats at me as I race across the lawn towards her. Horrible possibilities come at me from all sides.
Broken bones.
Head injuries.
Internal bleeding.
She didn’t fall far, but I’ve seen enough skiing accidents to know how even the most harmless-looking accident can be devastating.
With all the snow and the ladder on top of her, all I can see of Angel are bits of pink and flashes of blonde.
She isn’t moving.
“Angel,” I call, channeling my decades of experience as a medic in an attempt to sound calm. “Don’t move. It’s Ronan. I’m coming to help.”
When I reach her side, her eyes are closed. She looks so damn small and helpless beneath the metal ladder.
Something deep inside my chest wrenches.
First, I lift the ladder off her and fling it aside. Then I crash to my knees beside her. Yanking my glove off, I carefully touch her cheek. “Angel,” I repeat. “It’s Ronan. Don’t move. Just tell me if you can hear me.”
For several terrible seconds, she doesn’t respond. Then her eyes pop open; wide and startled. She gasps for air, like the wind was knocked out of her. Which it probably was.
“Ronan?” Her forehead pinches in confusion. “What happened? And why are you here?”