He left, and I was alone for all of two seconds before my mom came in. “Did the men abandon you?” Mom asked, her phone still in her hand. She sat beside me, grabbing the remote and switching on the television. “Did I hear you went shopping without me?”
I forced a smile. “Just to CVS. Nothing too exciting.”
“Oh. Well, Downton Abbey is on. You know how much I love that show.” And it was on the only pre-approved channel in this house: PBS. Educational and political all at once. “Want to watch with me?”
I sighed and settled into the corner of the couch, pulling a throw blanket over my lap. “Sure. Put it on.”
As Mom started the show, I glanced over my shoulder. I wanted nothing more than to chase after Finn, take away the whiskey, and hold him until he was better. But something told me Dad was right this time. I probably couldn’t fix him with a hug. And maybe it was time to accept one thing about this whole mess.
He needed more help than I could give him.
Chapter Three - Finn
Bombs exploded all around me, punctuated only by the screams of the dying men. I could smell the blood. Taste the fear. Feel the pain. I was sent back there again, living through the attack while everyone else died. But at the same time, I also knew I wasn’t there anymore. I was in bed, alive and safe—unlike the rest of my squad. It was almost like an alternate universe where I wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t.
Which haunted me now: Nightmare or reality?
I sat upright, my eyes scanning my surroundings. Lightly painted walls and expensive furniture surrounded me instead of blood and bombs. Another nightmare. I’d been stuck in the same hell I was in every night, and no matter how much I drank, nothing made it go away. Nothing saved me. I was starting to think nothing could.
I must have been tossing and turning in my sleep, because my broken arm throbbed like a bitch. My sheets had tangled themselves around my bare feet like a noose, but even so I was still covered with sweat. My door opened and closed. I turned toward it, breathing heavily. It would be Carrie. It was always Carrie. She always calmed me down. Always took care of me.
I loved her for it, but I hated the need for it at the same time.
“Are you all right?” Carrie sank on the bed beside me, her hands reaching for my one good one. “You were having the dream again, weren’t you?”
I flopped back down, hating that she was seeing me like this. Scarred. Weak. Broken. Scared. Maybe I should start gagging myself when I went to bed. Or just give up sleeping altogether. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice a lot harder than I’d wanted it to be. “Just f**king relax.”
She stiffened. If this had been before I’d been f**ked up, she would have snapped back at me. Given me as good as I gave her. But she was walking on eggshells around me. Pampering me. I just wanted her to fight with me and be my stubborn Carrie. I wanted that easy camaraderie back so bad that it hurt more than my arm and my head combined.
She nodded, nibbling on her lower lip. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t.” I rolled out of the bed. “Don’t apologize to me again.”
“Excuse me?”
“You keep apologizing when I’m the one being a prick. Stop it.”
She shook her head. “You’re not being a ‘prick.’”
“Yeah. I am.”
She stood up, too, and curled her hands at her sides. “I know you’re stressed and not sleeping well. It’s okay to be a little cranky after what you experienced.”
“A little bit cranky?” I locked the door. “That’s the understatement of the damn century.”
She ignored me. Just lifted that stubborn chin of hers higher. “I know this is hard for you to deal with, so I’m not going to fight with you, no matter how hard you try to piss me off.”
“You never do anymore, Carrie.” I crossed the room slowly, never taking my eyes off her. “You’re too scared to.”
She bit down on her lip. I watched her, studying the curve of that lip. I loved that little pink mouth of hers. And suddenly, I wanted to taste it. No, needed to taste it. Wanted to feel normal for one f**king minute of today, before I lost myself in the agony that wouldn’t leave me alone. Wanted to go back to how I’d been, instead of what I’d become. “I’m not scared of you, Finn. But tell me, what do you want from me? You want me to fight with you?”
“Sometimes, yes. But not right now—not anymore.” I stepped closer. “Right now? I want you. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“Finn.” She held her hands out. “You already have me.”
“No. I had you.” I shook my head. “But I haven’t had you since I’ve come back.”
Comprehension lit her eyes, and she flushed. “Then you can have me.” She closed the distance between us, reaching up to close her palms around the back of my neck. “What are you dreaming about every night? Tell me about it. Talk to me.”
Talk? I didn’t want to f**king talk. I wanted to feel. Forget. Move on. “I c-can’t, Carrie.” I shook my head, dissipating the bloody images she’d brought to life with her words. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know about anything else, but I can’t talk about that night. Not to anyone.”
“Okay. Okay.” She made a soothing sound, as if I were a baby or some shit like that. That needed to end right f**king now. I was a man. A broken man, but a man nonetheless. “You’re not ready.”
“I never will be ready,” I managed to say through my suffocating anger. “It’s not something I’m willing to relive through conversation. I already see it every night, and that’s enough for me.”
She shook her head. “But if you talk to someone, it helps.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not a therapist.”
A flash in her eyes answered me before she even opened her mouth. A hint of the real Carrie shined through. About damn time. “No, but I am going to school for it.”
“Occupational.”
She pressed her lips together. “Still—”
“Nope. Not happening.”
She narrowed her eyes on me. “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to, but you need to talk to someone. It will help you recover.”
Recover, my ass. Therapists made you talk because it made them money. End of story. It wouldn’t help me. Wouldn’t fix me. They’d just tell me to pop some pills and call me healed. Bullshit. I would do it my way, in my own time. “I’m already recovering.”