4. CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FOUR
An entire bottle of red wine plus seven shots of rum plus minimal sleep interrupted by graphic night terrors equals an exceptionally shitty morning.
My head throbs like there’s a bass drum pounding inside my head. The room spins when I change position too quickly, and I’m nauseous. At least I’m not vomiting. I start with a cold shower to clear my head and eliminate any remaining buzz. Then I switch to hot water, letting it buffet my neck and shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to loosen the knots.
After dressing, I go downstairs, where I nibble on a toasted cinnamon bagel as my queasiness fades. I follow that with two large glasses of ice water and aspirin.
I pace aimlessly, too restless to sit and too jangled to focus, until inspiration hits. I need to go to the woods. They soothe my soul. I swap my yoga pants for jeans and lace up my boots, loading a backpack with water and my journal before texting Lila where I’m headed. Regardless of how crappy things have been lately, I’m safety conscious. Lila, Tucker, and I have been on too many search-and-rescue teams for lost and injured hikers in these mountains.
It’s a little over a mile to my favorite spot. The trail cuts up the mountain, unmarked but well-used. It winds through wooded areas so thick, the trees obscure the sky. I haven’t been here since last fall, when the leaves were glorious reds and oranges and golds, and the ground was thick with pine cones and acorns. I’d watched a family of porcupines, three deer, and two bears that day. They were busy eating berries and snuffling for acorns and paid me no attention.
I reach a break in the climb, a flattened shelf-like area on one side of the slope. I follow the path deeper into the woods. Bushes and trees form thick clusters on either side. The leaves are dozens of different shades of green – pale chartreuse, soft jade, bright emerald, cool sea glass, and deep evergreen. Sunshine filters through the thick canopy above. I can’t see the sun, but its dappled light splashes the ground. Moss and pine needles carpet the trail, silencing my steps.
I hear trickling water before I reach the opening. It grows louder when I step off the trail into my spot. Water flows down the mountain in a stream less than ten feet wide. In summer, like now, it tumbles gently over algae-slicked rocks. In spring, it’s a rushing torrent, engorged by melting snow from the Sangre de Cristo mountains.
It’s cool here. Empty. Quiet.
This is my happy place. The silence of the woods soothes my ragged soul like nothing else can. I’m an introvert, and dealing with people all day every day leaves me drained. I need a little time alone each day just to function. Coming here allows the solitude of this space to recharge my spirit as it peels away the layers of emotional noise.
But nothing quiets my emotional noise today, not the breeze sifting through the leaves, not the brook babbling merrily, not the chattering of the squirrels or the singing of a lark on a branch above me. All I can hear is the cacophony of my pain.
I reach for the journal in my backpack. My psychiatrist, Dr. Linda Martin – Linda – encourages me to “brain dump” my feelings when things are hard. Essentially, I write down anything and everything, letting my mind release some of the clutter inside so I can more easily identify the emotions buried beneath the chaos.
But the words won’t come. I sit in my favorite place, completely miserable, unable to work through my pain. It’s a good thing I have tissues, because the only thing I manage to do is cry. Again.
In the end, I pull out my phone and play one sad song on a loop – “Something In the Way” by Nirvana. Its words resonate with me, a song of loss and isolation and being cast aside by those who should care. I spend hours letting my soul bleed while listening to lyrics that remind me how unwanted I am by the person I care for most.
The roll of thunder in the distance breaks through my despair, and I immediately pack up my things. Being surrounded by trees in a lightning storm is something I’d like to avoid, no matter how bad the last week and a half has been. I jog down the mountain, but I’m not fast enough. I beat the thunderstorm, but not the downpour. I’m soaked to the skin when I reach my house.
Unfortunately, I’m still full of pent-up emotional energy. My dash down the mountain wasn’t enough to relieve it. If it weren’t storming, I’d go for a long run. Running usually clears my head and drains excess energy.
Guess it’s the treadmill for me.
I swap my drenched clothes for shorts and a tee shirt, push earbuds in, and dock my phone, putting the same depressing song on a loop again. The music combined with the steady thump of my feet on the treadmill provides enough background noise to drown out the clamor in my mind, but it doesn’t help my mood.
It’s my own fault I’ve lost Mark. I allowed my desperate desire to feel normal, to be normal, to affect my behavior, and I made a stupid decision.
Newsflash: I’m not normal.
After the horrors those bastards inflicted on me, normal isn’t possible.
And if I’d never admitted my longing to feel normal, Mark wouldn’t have felt compelled to “fix” me. Nothing would have happened between us. We’d be fine.
Instead, my train wreck of a life derailed the only relationship that gave my life meaning. Now I’m alone.
No.
I’m worse than alone.
I’m living in a house with someone who can’t stand to be around me.
Being alone wouldn’t hurt nearly as much as being blatantly rejected by the most important person in my life.
I don’t even try to stop my tears. I just keep running, hoping to either outrun my pain or exhaust myself enough to no longer feel it.
I don’t sleep at all, tossing and turning all day before moving to the chaise. The sound of Charlie’s sobs rings in my head, and my guilt over not interceding during her night terrors is suffocating.
My shame over why we’re in this predicament is even worse.
Why did I stalk away last night? Why did I refuse her when we obviously need to talk?
My questions are rhetorical, of course. I avoided her because I hate myself every time I see the pain in her face and the sorrow in her eyes, knowing I’m the cause.
I have to make things right. I’m already the reason for most of her pain. I can’t add this to the list.
Charlie runs up the steps in the pouring rain, soaked to the bone. She left hours ago on foot, following a path that snakes off the edge of her backyard and down before rising sharply up the mountain. She spent all day in the woods, probably trying to find some peace. She finds the lush greenery and tranquility soothing. She goes upstairs, then returns a short time later. When I hear pounding on the treadmill, I know she didn’t find solace in the woods. She’s running to escape her pain.
Tucker’s advice drifts through my mind. Just sex.
But there’s no such thing as just sex in our situation. Adding sex to our relationship isn’t something to be done lightly.
Charlie isn’t like any other woman I’ve ever had a relationship with, friend or otherwise. Even ignoring her past, mixing sex into our deep friendship would alter things in a way that could never be undone.
But there’s no way to ignore her traumatic past, and adding sex to our relationship would require an even deeper emotional commitment on both our parts to help her heal enough to take that step – if she would even want to.
And what if we did, and things didn’t work out?
I shake my head. One amazing kiss has made things so awkward we can’t even carry on a conversation. A failed sexual relationship could destroy everything.
Yet despite my misgivings, I’m plagued by the possibilities.
What if we tried and it didn’t fail?
What if this is the path we’re meant to take, a path my mind wandered down nearly twenty years ago?
I amble to the weight room and open the door, drawn to her as always. She’s facing away from me, her sneakers drumming a rhythmic beat as she runs. I sidle in and take a seat on the weight bench on the far side of the room to watch her.
God, she’s beautiful. Her light brown hair is pulled up in a ponytail that bounces with each step. She’s slim and petite, a full head shorter than me, with long legs and lush curves. Though she runs with her eyes closed, I can easily picture their emerald depths. High cheekbones, full lips – she’s gorgeous. But it isn’t just her beauty that draws me in – it’s her strength. Few people could survive the hell she did and still function, let alone emerge fighting.
I’m both surprised and saddened by the tears rolling down her cheeks as she runs, lost in her own thoughts, unaware of my presence.
That’s when it hits me, as solid as a body blow. Charlie won’t want to risk taking things to the next level. She thinks we’ve already done too much damage.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I have.
Another wave of guilt washes over me, followed by an urgent need to repair things between us. I pull out my phone and place an order for Italian delivery. Pasta and wine and an apology. That’s what Charlie needs from me.
For almost two weeks, I’ve been strictly focused on what I want. The kiss was my idea, and she went along with it. I promised Charlie nothing would change between us, but I changed. I’ve acted like a complete ass because she tried to keep our friendship the same as it had always been. I’m the one who wanted more, because what we shared that night was incredible.
But our relationship isn’t about me and what I want. It’s about both of us.
I’ve just returned my phone to my pocket when her cadence abruptly stutters. She reaches down and grabs her right calf, stumbling as she hits the emergency stop button. She winces and groans as it shudders to a stop. I grab my crutches and hurry toward her. Her eyes widen when she sees me, and she snatches her earbuds free.
“What’s wrong?”
“Cramp,” she gasps. She steps off the treadmill, clutching her leg, limping a few steps before collapsing to the floor, trying to flex her foot and rub her calf.
I ease to the ground and reach for her leg. “Let me,” I murmur, my large hands finding the knotted muscle easily. She leans back on her elbows, wincing again.
“It’s my own fault,” she says, panting from exertion. “I stopped for a few minutes and didn’t warm up again.” Sweat trickles down and mingles with her tears, and her damp shirt clings to her heaving chest.
I don’t look at her, instead focusing on untangling the bunched muscle. “I ordered Italian food. I thought maybe some pasta and wine would be nice tonight.” I feel her eyes on me, confused by my abrupt shift in behavior, but I concentrate on her spasming calf.
“Flex your foot up,” I instruct. She does, groaning as it seizes up again. I massage more deeply, my fingers probing further. I work in silence for a couple of minutes, feeling her muscle gradually soften under my touch. “Flex up again.” She complies without pain. “Now down.” The muscles try to tighten against my hands, so I continue to knead until they relax again.
“Flex up.” She does, then flexes down automatically. The muscle remains pliable. “How does that feel?”
“Much better,” she says, her eyes cautious. “Thank you.”
I nod, pulling myself upright with one hand on the treadmill before helping her to her feet and collecting my crutches. “You have time to shower before dinner gets here.”
She smiles. “Is that your way of telling me I’m sweaty and gross?”
I chuckle. “No, it’s my way of suggesting warm water to keep that muscle loose.”
She returns as the delivery guy is dropping off a large paper bag. She’s dressed in form-fitting black yoga pants that hug her legs and a loose Army tee shirt, her damp hair twisted up in a clip. She takes the bag when she sees me struggling to carry it while maneuvering my crutches.
“What did you order? These are the big containers.” She peeks into the bag.
“Chicken parmesan, Alfredo chicken pasta, spaghetti with meatballs, big salads, and lots of garlic bread. And I opened red wine, but there’s also white if you prefer.”
“There’s so much food in here,” she says happily. “How hungry did I look?”
I laugh. “We can eat this for the rest of the weekend. Neither of us has to cook.”
She smiles, the first real one I’ve seen in twelve days. “It’s adorable that you assume there will be leftovers.”
We sit down at the table, both of us taking some of everything and digging in. I wait till she’s finished eating and pouring her third glass of wine, her cheeks pleasantly flushed, before I look across the table at her.
“I owe you an apology.”
She looks up in surprise. “For what?”
“For everything. I suggested the kiss. I promised it wouldn’t change anything. I talked you into it. I enjoyed it more than I should have, and I’ve been a jerk ever since. I’m sorry.”
Her eyes fly to mine. “You enjoyed it?”
How can she ask that? I know she felt my erection – I clearly remember her grinding against me.
Then it dawns on me. Charlie’s still convinced she’s broken – not that she can’t feel aroused, but that she’s too damaged for anyone to desire her. “I enjoyed it very much. Too much.”
She wrinkles her forehead in confusion, considering my words, then carefully puts down her wineglass. “You didn’t talk me into anything. I chose to kiss you, and I obviously enjoyed it, too. But I should have known better than to risk screwing up what we have. That’s on me.”
I shake my head. “No. You and I have literally been through hell together. We were there for each other when we both kept losing family members until we were the only two left. We’ve had each others’ backs for almost twenty-five years. I pulled you out of that hellhole in Afghanistan, and you’ve dragged me out of mine. You’re my best friend, Charlie. What we have means everything to me. I should never have let a kiss come between us.” I hesitate for a moment. “I can pretend it never happened if you can.”
“Maybe what we should discuss is why kissing each other created issues,” she says slowly.
I raise my half-full wineglass to my lips and drain it, avoiding her gaze.
“Do you want to talk about that?” Wide eyes await my response.
I know damn well what issues that scorching kiss created for me, but volunteering that information probably isn’t a great idea, at least not yet. “What are your thoughts?” I ask instead, reaching for the wine bottle and watching her closely.
She toys with her wineglass as she takes a deep breath. “I think maybe it exposed something neither of us was aware of, and we didn’t know how to handle it.” Her voice is quiet, and she keeps her gaze focused on her glass.
My heart leaps. She felt it, too. It wasn’t just me. Even though she reaches for me in her sleep, hearing her admit it aloud makes my breath catch.
“An attraction,” I murmur.
She nods, still looking down.
I refill my glass and lean back. “Then I guess we should figure out what to do about it.”
She glances up. “What do you mean?”
I choose my words carefully. “Pretending neither of us felt anything hasn’t gone well. I think it’s safe to say neither of us wants to end our friendship over this. That leaves two options. We can acknowledge the attraction and consciously decide not to act on it, or we can explore what it would mean if we did.”
She reaches for her wine again and takes another large sip, her cheeks turning pink. “Define acting on it.”
Here we go.
I hold my breath, not taking my eyes off her. “Adding a physical aspect to our relationship.”
She pales noticeably. “Sex?” she whispers, her fear palpable.
Shit. I don’t want Charlie to be scared of me. I’m the only one she’s completely comfortable with.
I keep my voice calm. “I’m not suggesting sex. I know physical relationships scare you. I’m simply saying one option would be to add a physical aspect to our relationship in whatever capacity you choose. Or you can decide you’re not interested in that, and we'll move on.”
She chews her lip. “I don’t know, Mark. Look how things have been these last two weeks from just a kiss. A really good kiss,” she amends, “but look how badly it screwed things up.”
I measure my words, speaking deliberately. “I never expected things to be so intense between us. It made me want more of that with you, and it created this – this sexual frustration. Maybe you felt it, too. But because we’ve never had a physical aspect to our relationship, it made things awkward. I responded by being an ass, and I’m sorry. Neither of us knew what to do with our attraction, so we avoided each other in the daytime. But at night, we’re close, and it built up this tension, this longing. At least, it did on my part.” I study her, watching her reaction.
“Mine, too,” she admits.
“But it hasn’t ruined things between us. It’s taken time for each of us to figure out how we feel individually so we can decide how we want to handle it together. It hasn’t changed who we are. You and I have been through too much to let one kiss mess up what we have.”
We sit without speaking for long moments.
“So what now?” she finally asks.
“Now we talk about what you want.”
“Why not what you want?”
I smile. “Because I’ll do whatever you want, Charlie. If you decide you aren’t interested in a physical relationship, we’ll keep things exactly as they were before. And if you do want to explore a deeper relationship, I’ll gladly take that chance with you.”
And just like that, Charlie clams up, leaving me with my soul exposed and my emotions laid bare.
Lila was right. Mark and I needed to talk, and I’m glad we’re finally talking, but these are deep, scary waters.
Mark wants to know what I want, and he says whatever I want, he’s with me.
I’m silent for a long time. A really long time.
Part of me is thrilled at the idea of a physical relationship with him… and part of me is terrified. There’s so many what if’s. What if we tried, and it made things even worse than they’ve been these past two weeks? What if we became a couple and then broke up? Based on what happened after our kiss, I’m not sure we could work through a break-up without lingering hard feelings.
I’m honest enough to admit I want him. After what those bastards did to me, I thought I’d never have those feelings for anyone, let alone the gorgeous man across the table.
I’m also honest enough to know I can’t risk losing him. He’s too important to me.
I go for so long without speaking that Mark finally reaches across the table and links our fingers, his eyes tight. I realize he’s essentially said he wants more, and I’ve not responded at all.
I look up at him, my eyes damp with unshed tears. “I’m scared,” I confess.
An exquisitely sad expression crosses his face as his shoulders sag. “Please don’t be afraid of me, Charlie,” he says quietly.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I correct him. “I’m afraid of losing you.”
He wraps both my hands in his large ones, his gaze intense. “If you don’t want anything to change, it won’t. We'll keep things exactly as they were. But please don’t let the fear of losing me be the only thing keeping you from considering something more. You won’t lose me, Charlie, not ever. You’ve been the best part of my life for as long as I can remember, and nothing could make me walk away from you. Nothing,” he promises, holding my gaze.
I believe him.
“I don’t know what to do,” I confess, fighting back tears.
“So let’s not do anything,” Mark says gently. “Let’s keep everything exactly the way it was. And if the time ever comes where you want to try something more, we’ll talk about it.”
I want to bury my face in a pillow and cry. All the pressure of what to do rests on me, even though I know by suggesting we leave things as they are, he’s trying to remove that pressure.
Why does this have to be so complicated? After all this time, we’ve finally admitted that there’s something more between us than just friendship. Why does that have to be this insurmountable problem?
I know the answer even as I pose the question.
Because with my trauma-related issues, any physical relationship is problematic.
I hate my scars, so I hide my body. Physical contact sometimes makes me panic, though never with Mark. Still, we’ve never touched in a sexual context before. What if that changes? What if things progress between us and I freak out? I pulled my gun on a guy for kissing me without warning. Panicking during sex is a distinct possibility. I close my eyes, fighting the urge to cry.
“Talk to me, Charlie. Tell me what you’re thinking.” His voice is calm, but his face is tight with anxiety.
The fears I’m wrestling spill forth like water from a burst dam. “I’m scared, Mark. Part of me wants to try more, but the rest of me is terrified. My issues aren’t something to take lightly. I hate my body because of my scars. I panic sometimes at male touch. I never have with you, but that's when we were just friends. What if I panic with you? What if you and I are touching and I shut down or have a meltdown?” A soft sob escapes me. “Why do I have to be so screwed up? I’d give anything to be like every other person on this planet.” My eyes brim with tears I’m barely holding back.
Mark still holds my hands, and he gives them a light squeeze, his tone gentle. “Charlie, it’s okay. Nothing has to change.”
“It already has,” I reply sadly. He shakes his head, but I keep talking. “I can’t go back to how things were, and I’m afraid to move forward.”
I tug my hands back, and he releases them immediately. The look in his eyes is something akin to panic, but Mark doesn’t panic, not ever.
I meet his gaze wearily. “I’m so tired of being controlled by fear. Fear of letting someone get close. Fear of being intimate. Fear of losing you if things go wrong. Fear of missing something incredible because of my fear of losing you.”
His words are soft as his eyes search mine. “If you weren’t afraid, Charlie – if fear wasn’t a factor at all, what would you want?”
I study his light blue eyes. My eyes roam over his sandy hair, his rugged jaw, his full lips, the dark shadows beneath his eyes. These last twelve days have been awful for him, too. I try to forget my fear and just focus on him.
I think about the boy from nearly twenty-five years ago, a boy who snatched a bully off a girl he barely knew, then held him for me to punch squarely in the mouth. A bully he’d then warned against ever bothering me again.
I recall the teenager who took me to my prom when my sleazy ex dumped me for another girl two days before the prom. I remember a night of slow dancing, giant cheeseburgers, and lying in the bed of his truck, staring at the stars until the sun came up. Once again, he cemented his place in my life as my hero.
I vaguely remember worried blue eyes gazing into mine and lips close to my ear, whispering to me and holding me while someone cut me free from my barbed wire shackles in a filthy cell in the basement of a bombed-out mosque. Those same worried eyes showed up at Walter Reed weeks later, determined to help me stand on my own two feet again.
I remember a few nights ago, standing in the kitchen. His lips. His hands. The heat. The passion.
Mark’s been there every time I’ve needed him. The closeness we have, the trust we share, is so rare, so beautiful.
But what if it could be even more?
And in a flash, I know.
Icy fear grasps at me like thick tentacles, pulling me back and reminding me of the potential pitfalls, but I twist free and plunge headlong into the unknown. I take a deep breath, meeting his gaze without wavering. “More. I would want more.”
He smiles a slow, sexy smile. “Me, too, Baby Girl. So let’s try more.”