Chapter 2 — Natalie #2
He looks at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he says, "You're not by yourself now."
"I know."
"And I'm not asking you to disappear."
"I know that too," I say quietly. "That's why I'm still here."
Our eyes meet and hold.
His eyes are dark. Not just brown. Dark in a way that makes it hard to see where the pupil ends and the iris begins. He's looking at me like I'm a problem with variables he hasn't solved yet.
I should look away, but I don't.
I just stand there between his knees, my hands still on his skin, looking at him looking at me.
Heat floods my body so fast I feel dizzy. Low in my belly. Between my legs.
I'm wet, which has never happened from just looking at someone before.
No one's ever looked at me like that.
My thighs press together involuntarily.
He notices. I see his eyes flick down for half a second, then back to my face.
I should be scared. Should be uncertain. I'm in a stranger's house wearing a wedding dress, standing between his knees in a bathroom that's too small, looking at a man I've known for less than two hours who's looking at me like he's hungry.
I'm not scared.
I break eye contact first. Have to. If I don't, I'm going to do something I haven't thought through.
I step back. Put space between us. Turn to wash my hands again even though they're already clean.
The water is cold. I let it run over my hands longer than necessary.
"That should hold," I manage.
My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"You'll need to check it tomorrow. Change the dressing. Watch for infection."
"I will."
Of course he will. He's the one who put the field dressing on in the first place while bleeding. He doesn't need me to tell him basic wound care.
I dry my hands. Take my time with it.
When I turn back around, he's still sitting there. Still shirtless. Still looking at me with that same steady attention that makes me feel like I'm the only thing in the room that matters.
"Thank you," he says.
Two words. But the way he says them makes them feel like more than courtesy. Like he's actually grateful rather than just being polite.
I nod, not trusting my voice for anything more complicated.
The bathroom is too small. The air is too warm. I need space. Need to not be this close to him while he's half-naked and looking at me like that.
"I should get out of your way," I say.
He doesn't respond immediately, just looks at me for another two seconds that feel longer.
Then he stands.
The movement brings him closer to me in the small space. We're maybe a foot apart.
I can see the fresh dressing I just applied. Can see the rise and fall of his chest when he breathes. Can smell him even more strongly now.
He reaches past me for his shirt on the counter.
His arm brushes mine.
The contact is brief. Accidental. But I feel it like an electric shock.
He pulls his shirt on. The wound disappears beneath dark fabric.
"Come on," he says.
He leaves the bathroom. I follow because staying alone in here feels more dangerous than whatever happens next.
I sit on the couch before my legs decide sitting is optional. The wedding dress makes this complicated. All that fabric bunching and catching.
I give up trying to arrange it gracefully and just let it settle however it wants.
He's still standing. Looking at me sitting on his couch in a wedding dress like he's trying to figure out how this became his afternoon.
"You hungry?" he asks.
The question is so practical, so utterly normal, that I almost laugh.
"I don't know," I say honestly.
I haven't thought about food since breakfast. Breakfast was a protein bar eaten standing up in a hotel bathroom while someone else curled my hair in the mirror behind me.
He nods like "I don't know" is a reasonable answer to "are you hungry."
"When did you eat last?"
"This morning."
He looks at the clock on the wall. It's past seven now.
"You should eat something," he says.
He turns and walks into the kitchen.
I sit there processing the fact that he just told me what to do and I'm not irritated about it.
I stand up, the dress makes it harder than it should be, and I walk to the kitchen doorway.
He's pulling bread from a cabinet. Lunchmeat from the fridge. Cheese. Mustard. Making sandwiches with the same economical movements he uses for everything else.
"I left my wedding," I say.
He stops, setting the bread down and turning to face me.
I don't know why I said it. He didn't ask.
But standing here in his kitchen in this dress, the words just came out.
"About four hours ago," I continue. "I was standing at the end of the aisle and I just... walked away."
He looks at me for a long moment.
"Okay," he says.
Just that. Okay.
Then he goes back to making sandwiches.
I watch him work. He builds them efficiently.
"Why'd you do it?" he asks without looking up.
"I realized I'd never chosen any of it," I say.
He puts both plates on the table, then looks at me.
"Any of what?"
"Any of it. The wedding. The relationship. The job. The apartment. My whole life. I'd just been... executing. Like it was a project someone assigned me and I was trying to get a good grade."
I pause. He doesn't fill the silence. Just waits.
"And I was standing there holding flowers someone else picked, wearing a dress someone else chose, about to marry someone I said yes to because that was the next step in the sequence. And I just thought... I don't know if I want any of this."
"Do you?" he asks.
"Do I what?"
"Want any of it."
The question hits different than I expected.
"I don't know," I admit.
The words feel like failure, like I should have an answer.
"Okay," he says again.
"That's not an answer," I say.
"It is."
"How is 'I don't know' an answer?"
He pulls out a chair. Sits. Looks up at me still standing in the doorway.
"Someone I knew died doing what he was told," he says.
I could ask for more, but something in his tone tells me to wait.
"Sit down," he says. "Eat."
I sit. He pushes a plate toward me. We eat in silence for a while. The sandwich is plain but I'm hungrier than I realized. He finishes before I do, then just sits there, watching me eat.
After a few bites, I ask, "What do you mean, someone you knew died doing what he was told?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Danny Reeves.
Private First Class. Nineteen years old.
He was in my unit, second deployment. Three months into our tour we were running convoy escort on a supply route we'd cleared a dozen times before.
Command wanted it done fast, said the intel was good, said the route was secure. "
He stops. I can tell he hasn't talked about this in a long time.
"It wasn't secure," I say quietly.
"No. IED took out the lead vehicle. Big one, professionally placed. Danny was in that vehicle. I got to him within two minutes, maybe less. Started working on him immediately."
He's looking at his hands on the table.
"I did everything right," he continues. "Everything by the book, everything I'd been trained to do. Stopped the arterial bleeding, managed his airway, kept him conscious, kept him stable. Medevac was coming. We just had to wait. Forty-seven minutes."
"He died anyway," I say. Not a question.