Chapter 13
Thirteen
Walking away from Ivy the other night had taken all Harrison’s self control.
It had been harder than leaving her at the inn the first time, harder to go back to the echoing emptiness of the cabin, knowing he wasn’t likely to find what he’d originally come for.
But it had still been the right thing for both of them in the moment.
She needed to work. He needed to get his head on straight.
Because he was having all kinds of way-too-serious, way-too-fast thoughts, and if he’d stayed, he wouldn’t have been able to resist sharing them and scaring her the fuck away.
The obvious answer had been to remove himself from temptation. And he’d meant what he’d told her. He needed to think about what she’d said over dinner.
“Maybe the answer lies in not trying to rewrite the past but in writing a different future. Maybe in order for you to leave the war behind, your hero does, too.”
Cooper Royce believed in the mission. Even when the mission was hopeless.
He knew there was no end to the war, not in his lifetime.
But still he fought because he believed it was the right thing to do.
He had to have purpose because…Harrison had to have purpose.
The point of the books had been to explore those million-and-one what-if scenarios and to let his men live on in some small way.
He’d done that. So what purpose was left? For him? For Coop?
Harrison didn’t see himself just writing for the sake of writing.
He enjoyed it. But he needed a stronger raison d’être to keep exploring the hell he’d been through.
Then again, that was Ivy’s point. That maybe he—and Coop—needed to explore new frontiers.
What would those be? Coop had far too strong a moral compass to walk away without a good reason.
But he, like Harrison, had been feeling the strain of that endless, slogging fight, without making a difference.
You made a difference, at least for a few people.
He’d saved the dozen or so fan emails he’d received from struggling servicemen.
Guys who’d left the military and struggled to adapt to civilian life.
They’d all taken comfort in seeing their difficulties normalized, in reading his stories and recognizing themselves.
Harrison didn’t think he deserved their praise.
He’d written the books for himself. For his men.
He hadn’t expected to touch anyone else.
The first one had made him weep. A former Marine, who’d lost both legs to a roadside bomb in the Middle East, had been on the verge of suicide when he’d fallen into the world of the Aegis Quadrant.
He’d connected with Coop and seen something that made him willing to keep going, keep fighting to live another day.
That email had been the thing that kept Harrison from going down the same path.
There’d been others, each one a surprise, touching him at a soul-deep level.
They’d somehow found the strength to keep going because Coop had.
Because his indomitable spirit wouldn’t allow him to do anything else.
Because, at the end of the day, no matter how much he’d lost, somehow, he still managed to hold on to the rarest commodity in the galaxy—hope.
But Harrison didn’t know how to keep selling that.
Because, truth be told, he’d been losing it himself, fighting this battle with his demons.
If there was nothing to life but that, what was the point in staying the course?
How could he not feel like a fraud putting that message out there?
He hadn’t been doing more than surviving.
And he hadn’t even realized it until Ivy.
She’d woken him up, kickstarted the lump in his chest that had died three years ago. She made him want to write a different future for himself, one that was a real life, not the shadow he’d been living. One that included her.
The knock on the door had Harrison shooting to his feet, his heart leaping in his chest like a puppy with a brand new ball.
Ivy.
He’d made it halfway across the cabin before he forced himself to slow the fuck down.
She didn’t have a car, so it probably wasn’t her.
Unless she’d had somebody take her to get a new one so she could surprise him?
Fueled by that idea, he crossed the last few feet to the door, fighting the mile-wide smile that wanted to take over his face.
The sight of Porter on the porch drained away his excitement. The reaction wasn’t fair to his friend, but Harrison wasn’t feeling particularly rational just now. He stepped back automatically. “I really hope you brought beer.”
“No.”
The single, terse word had Harrison shaking off thoughts of a surprise booty call and zeroing in on Porter as he stepped inside, moving fast. His jaw was set, his eyes grave.
Harrison tensed, waiting for the blow. “What happened?”
“Ty went to see Garrett Reeves’ widow.”
“Shit.” Harrison scooped a hand through his hair thinking about his own personal missions of visiting the families of the men who’d died under his command. They’d been worse than anything he’d seen in combat. “How bad is he?”
“Bad. Sebastian tracked him down, scraped him off a bar stool, and took him back home, but he could use some backup. Some of us who’ve been where he is.”
And now he understood why Porter had come. “Are we talking intervention or suicide watch?”
“Both.”
In all likelihood, this would involve peeling back the scab he’d worked so hard to build and exposing everything he’d been trying to get past. Reliving the trauma in a way even writing about it hadn’t forced him to do.
Harrison didn’t relish any of it. But his brother-in-arms needed him. Nothing else mattered.
“I’ll pack my things.”
Somewhere during the last fifteen thousand words, Ivy’s eyelids got replaced by sandpaper.
She didn’t give a damn. The book was finished.
Or at least the first draft of it. There’d be revisions and line edits and galleys to proof before it ever made it to stores.
And that was only if her editor actually went for it.
But she had a finished book with a beginning, middle, and end.
One she was actually pretty freaking proud of.
She should really email it directly to Marianne so she’d call off the hit man she’d probably hired by now.
It was what Ivy had promised. And, really, she hadn’t slept properly in days and had consumed well past the legal limit of coffee.
She needed someone’s balanced opinion to tell her if this book was really as good as she thought or if she was just flat crazy.
But it wasn’t her agent’s opinion she craved.
All she could think about was showing it to Harrison.
This book had only been born because of him.
She was dying to know what he thought of it.
And, book aside, she just wanted to see him.
She wanted that weekend of one-on-one time he’d promised as her reward.
Loading the book on a flash drive, Ivy snatched up her coat and headed for the stairs.
“Hey, Ivy.”
She whipped around and saw Pru’s daughter coming out of one of the rooms, a load of towels in her arms. “Hey, Ari.”
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“To see Harrison.”
“Dressed like that?” The sincere shock in the girl’s voice had Ivy pausing to look down.
She wore flannel pajama pants, a Tennessee Titans t-shirt with a coffee stain down the front, and bedroom slippers. It occurred to her she didn’t remember the last time she’d showered. “What day is it?”
Ari shook her head. “Oh honey.” Wrapping an arm around Ivy’s shoulders, the girl steered her back toward her room. “It’s Friday.”
“Friday? Oh, then he’s coming here.” She checked her watch. “Ohmigod. He’s due in like twenty minutes.”
“C’mon. In the shower. I’m bringing you some of our creams from the spa. It’ll help with those bags under your eyes.”
Recognizing her own judgment was compromised, Ivy let herself be herded. Back in her room, Ari whistled. “Wow.”
Ivy hadn’t actually noticed the mess before now. The bed was a snarl of covers. Dirty clothes trailed over half the furniture. A couple of trays loaded with more than a dozen empty coffee cups were lined up in the floor along one wall. Only the space around her laptop was anything resembling tidy.
Embarrassment began to set in. “I’m really sorry about this. I’m not normally this much of a slob, but the book was going so well, and I just didn’t notice. I’m done now, so I can pick up—”
“You finished the book?”
“The first draft anyway.”
“That’s awesome!” Ari gave her a celebratory squeeze. “Now, go get in the shower. I’ll deal with things out here. And if he gets here before you’re ready, we’ll keep him busy.” Without waiting for an answer, she shoved Ivy into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.
Because it was easier than arguing, and because the euphoria associated with The End had faded enough for her to register that she looked more like she’d slept in a barn for a week than in a nice, cozy inn, Ivy stripped and climbed into the shower.
As soon as the hot spray hit her knotted muscles, she groaned, suddenly aware of every ache she’d blocked out during the long hours of sitting.
Bracing her hands against the shower wall, she dropped her head and let the water beat at her back.
Which just had her thinking about the shower at the cabin and all the deliciously wicked things they’d done in it.