Page 37 of Fighting for Valor
At the beginning…when Faruk first started in on me, I used to dream of escape. Of what I’d do when I got home. I never thought I’d feel like this. Constantly afraid. Constantly ashamed. This isn’t a life. It’s one nightmare after another.
But then the dog scoots forward and rests his head in my lap, and my tears turn into sobs. Charlie doesn’t move until I get myself under control, then he gives my hand a lick. Just one. And his eyes…the emotion in them is impossible to ignore. I can’t make him sleep on the streets. If I’m going to do this…I have to be able to give him a real home.
“You want to give this a chance?” He makes a low sound in his throat and sits up so we’re eye-to-eye. “I need a few days, buddy. Gotta take the first step on my own. Okay?”
With a yip, Charlie wriggles his whole massive body until he’s in my lap, and I wrap my arms around the dog, bury my face in his fur, and promise him, without words, that I’ll be better. For him.
Cara
A little after 10:00 p.m., I head down 15th, trying to stay focused on my surroundings. My mind is racing, as it always does when my meds wear off, and if I’m not careful, I’ll walk right into an oncoming car.
I can’t keep bleeding money and expect to stay safe. I tried to convince Joel to let me work more hours at For Fork’s Sake, but Nance has seniority. Tomorrow, I have to start looking for a better job. If I could pick up a few hours in the early mornings baking for a coffee shop, that might be enough. Otherwise, I’ll end up on the streets.
Like Ripper.
He’s been hovering at the back of my mind all day, and I don’t know why. But I tucked a double serving of lasagna in my satchel for him, along with a bottle of sparkling water. Unlike the enchiladas, which were leftovers, tonight’s meal, I had to pay for.
I don’t know why I did it. I can’t afford my life as it is. But for some reason, I feel the need to try to help this guy. As I approach the church, I search for his prone form wrapped in a sleeping bag. But instead, I find him sitting on the steps with nothing around him. No backpack. No sleeping bag. He’s resting his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
“Ripper?”
His whole body jerks, and he looks around, his eyes wild. As he focuses on me, the storm in those dark blue orbs quiets a little. “Cara. Hey.”
“What’s wrong? Where’s your stuff?” I approach slowly, ease myself down next to him, and pull the box and bottle of water out of my bag. “I…um…it was lasagna night at the truck.”
“You brought me dinner again? Why?” He accepts the offering, pulling back the flap of the box and staring at it like it’s one of life’s greatest mysteries.
“I-I don’t know.”
“I’m not homeless, Cara.” After one last, longing look at the cheesy lasagna, he passes it back to me. “You should keep this. Have it for lunch tomorrow.”
His words take a minute to sink in. “But…you sleep out here. Every night.”
“Yep.” The huffing sound he makes might almost be a laugh, but then he sighs and stares off into nowhere. “Can’t handle being inside when it’s dark.”
“Why not?” Setting the box down in front of me, I turn towards him. The sleeves of his sweatshirt are pushed halfway up, and peeking out from one of them is an image I recognize. “You’re Special Forces.”
“Was.” The surprise in his tone is tinged with bitterness as he gestures to the tattoo. “Not many people would recognize the insignia.”
“I used to know a few. From my old life.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Any mention of my time at JSOC is risky. But there’s something about Ripper that exudes safety. I think I can trust him with this little bit of my past.
“Old life.” Ripper runs his hand through his hair, his expression changing subtly as he reaches the back of his neck. “Yeah. I had one of those too.”
“And that’s why you can’t handle being inside?” I shouldn’t pry. Not when I can’t reveal any secrets of my own. But the deep, soul-crushing sadness emanating from this man makes me want to wrap my arms around him and tell him everything will be okay. Even if I know it won’t.
He shakes his head. “Not exactly. But also not a good story.”
“Point taken.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the traffic go by until he speaks again, his voice so low and quiet, I have to lean closer to hear him. “I made myself a deal tonight. I could come out here and sit until 1:00 a.m. Not a minute longer. Then…I’d go home. Figured if I could manage until sunrise without freaking the fuck out, tomorrow night I’d go home ten minutes earlier.”
“How long has it been? Since you’ve slept inside all night?” Ripper flinches, and I reach for his arm, but he jerks away. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to…to pry. Or—”
“Fuck.” Scrubbing his hands over his face, he lets out a mournful groan. “You shouldn’t hang out with me, Cara. I can’t even carry on a normal conversation. Let alone…open up about anything.”
“I don’t need normal.” I turn slightly so I can see his profile. “There’s nothing normal about this situation. I’m sitting on the steps of a church, in the dark, talking to a man I don’t know, yet this feels easier than every other personal interaction I’ve had today. Normal’s overrated.”
Ripper stares at me, and a fraction of the loneliness in the depths of his azure eyes fades away. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”
