Chapter 27
RANGER
I haven’t smoked a cigarette in a year, but I desperately need one now. Thank fuck there’s a gas station two blocks down that sells them. The cashier doesn’t even blink when I walk in with Benny, who’s wearing his service dog harness like always.
“Beautiful dog,” he comments when I’m at the counter. He’s a cute kid, not a day older than eighteen, if I had to guess.
“Thank you”—I peer at his name tag—“Tim. He is. One pack of Lucky’s, please.”
Tim grabs the cigarettes and rings them up. “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you have a service dog?”
I eye him for a second. He meets my gaze with a steady calmness, showing genuine interest. “I have PTSD, and he’s trained to help with that.”
This may be the first time I’ve ever spoken those words to anyone else, and they’re much easier than I expected.
Tim’s eyes light up. “Really? That’s so cool. Well, not that you have PTSD, but that your dog can help with that.” Then his face grows serious. “I should tell my brother about this.”
I frown as I hand him cash. “He’s a vet?”
“Yes. He came back from Afghanistan a few months ago. Lost his right leg due to an IED. He’s been…struggling. I’m worried about him.”
My face softens. “You should be. It’s a tough adjustment for him.” I’ve been lucky myself to walk away unharmed—physically at least—but I’ve seen plenty of men who lost limbs.
“Do you think he’d be able to get a dog?”
“Do you have a pen and paper for me?”
Tim hands me a pen and, after some rumbling in a drawer, a note block that was white once upon a time.
I write down the name and website of Pups for Patriots, then add Julian’s number.
“I can’t answer that, but this is the charity that helped me get a dog.
Contact them or have your parents do it and ask about his chances of getting approved for one.
Once he is, contact this guy. His name is Julian, and he trains these dogs.
He trained Benny as well.” I nod at Benny, who’s been patiently sitting right beside me, like the good boy he is.
“Thank you.” Tim carefully rips the paper off the note block, then folds it and puts it in his pocket. “I’ll give them a call. I want him to become better, you know?”
“He’ll never be the same,” I warn him. “You can’t go through something like that without it changing you.”
“I understand that. I just want him to be happy again, to feel like he has a reason to live.”
When I got Benny, that’s how I felt about him. Like he’d given me a reason to get out of bed, to keep the house at least somewhat tidy because he lived there too. I never expected myself to grow as attached to him as I have.
“You’re a good brother,” I tell Tim, then walk out.
“Thank you for your service!” Tim calls after me.
I never know what to say when people tell me that. “You’re welcome” sounds so stupid and cliché. “My pleasure” is woefully inadequate, and so are any variations on “anytime.” So I usually grunt, hoping that people will accept that as an acceptable response.
As soon as I’m away from the gas station, I light my cigarette, inhaling deeply.
Now, to prevent a lecture: I normally don’t smoke.
Not really, but in certain situations, smoking a cigarette has proven to be a stress relief.
Like after an operation we did. Never before.
But I’d share a pack with my guys afterward, and that would be that.
It became a ritual that we clung to in a life where so much was uncertain.
Always Lucky’s. It was our brand, mine and Lucky’s. We smoked our first one as teenagers, choking on it. Thank fuck neither of us is sensitive to addictions. But the preference for that brand stayed, and it was how my brother got his nickname.
All this to say is that I’m not gonna smoke the whole damn pack; I just need a goddamn cigarette because I don’t know what to do with myself after what Julian said.
I guess Lucky was right. Julian really does like me.
I have no fucking clue why because even though I can see I’ve made progress, I’m still a grumpy, depressed guy without a real job or decent prospects in life.
Luckily, I saved up enough money to buy my house in cash, and I live quite frugally, but at some point, I’ll need to get a job, and I have no idea what I could do without my PTSD fucking it up.
Not that Julian would need me to be the breadwinner.
He’s built an excellent life for himself, and even though he’s facing a big setback, he’ll get back up.
He’s too determined, too stubborn not to.
No, he doesn’t need me financially…and in fact, I don’t even think he cares about money. He’s never brought it up.
He likes you for you. The voice in my head sounds like the voice-over of a Hallmark movie, all warm and understanding. The voice of reason, except that to me, that cliché doesn’t sound reasonable at all. He likes me for me? What the fuck? My body, okay. I could understand that. But me as a person?
Ten years ago, sure. I was witty, strong, had a career. I’m not saying I was carefree because I don’t think I’ve ever been. That’s not how I’m wired. But I didn’t have this load on my shoulders that has been crushing me.
Although lately, the dark clouds over my head seem more gray than black, the edges more silver lined each day.
All because of Julian. He’s brought happiness and light into my life, driving away the painful memories and distressing thoughts.
If I let him, he’d change me into a happy little beam of sunshine just like him.
If I let him. If I let him into my life, into my heart.
If I dare to take this crazy step, this big jump into the unknown and start something real with him.
If I stop being afraid and have the courage to admit what we both know: what we have between us was never casual.
How could it be, with me being who I am and he so caring and invested?
The guy loves animals so much that we turned our motel room into a nativity scene with only a baby missing.
And the virgin Mary, but maybe my gay virginity counts?
I snort at my own joke, even though it was godawful. God, how pathetic. I’ve reached that stage now, where you laugh at your own jokes while everyone else thinks they suck. Whatever. I’ll take my joy where I can find it.
Like with Julian. He makes me happy. He makes me want to be a better man. He chases away the darkness. No matter what happens, no matter how our relationship ends, right now, that’s enough. And I not only deserve that; I want to embrace it.
I don’t know why he wants me, but maybe I don’t need to know. Maybe it’s enough to trust he’s telling the truth and let this take its course. Because even if we break up at some point, which I absolutely count on, I’ll still be a better person for having been allowed to spend this time with him.
My mind made up, I make my way back to the motel room.