Page 45 of Fighting for Valor
As I go through my short routine, making sure I have everything I need for the day, the phone beeps again.
I ordered a weighted blanket.
My laugh chases the last of the panic away, and as I head for the bus, I send him an “I told you so” GIF, followed by “I’ll see you tonight.”
I’ve been safe for a year. Maybe it’s time I started to let people in.
Ripper
When Cara’s message comes in, I’m standing on the shore of Green Lake, looking out over the water. Halfway between her place and mine, it’s become one of my favorite spots to try to ground myself.
Runners, walkers, cyclists, women pushing baby strollers fill the path around the lake. It teems with activity most of the day. Kids splash in the water, chase the ducks, and laugh with abandon like only little kids can.
I hope Mateen’s okay. Ry would know. Or Ford. Scrolling through the phone’s contacts, I wonder if I’ll ever feel comfortable just texting or calling someone out of the blue. And then Cara’s second message comes through.
The corners of my lips twitch, and before I know it, I’m smiling. Actually smiling. It doesn’t feel forced. Foreign, maybe. But not forced.
Snapping a photo of the calm lake, sunshine just breaking over the tops of the tall trees to the east, I start another message to her, but stop when I can’t figure out what to say.
Who is she to me? A friend? I slept with her, for fuck’s sake. Actually slept. In her bed. With my arms around her. And though I woke up with the world’s worst hard-on, what we did…it wasn’t sexual. Comforting. Calming. Reassuring.
I can’t open myself up to more than a friendship. Not after what Faruk’s men did to me. Hell, I haven’t even rubbed one out since before Hell. I tried. A month ago. Ended up on the shower floor shaking, remembering the agony, the helplessness, and how I’d curled into a ball in the bottom of that fucking well, the God-awful stench clinging to me, knowing I’d never feel anything but broken again.
Shoving the phone back into my pocket, I stalk across the path and head up the hill to the street. Walk her home tonight. Walk her home every night if you want. But don’t get close. It won’t end well for either of you.
I’ve almost convinced myself I can do this when my phone buzzes. The photo looks out over Puget Sound. There’s a green and white ferry on the left and a cruise ship almost out of frame on the right.
And a message.
Cara: There are days my job sucks ass. But at least it comes with this view. When does your blanket arrive?
I stop, the sudden desire to talk to her, to keep this connection going, almost overwhelming.
Ripper: Tonight by nine. Of all the shit that didn’t exist when I left the States years ago, same-day shipping might be my favorite.
I attach the picture of Green Lake, and only hesitate a few seconds before I hit send. Maybe I can do this. Make a friend. Talk. A little. It’s easier with someone who doesn’t know about my past. The guilt creeps in slowly, then rushes over me like a tsunami.
Ryker and Dax are my brothers, our family bond forged through training, combat, and the tortures of Hell. And yet, these text exchanges with a woman I barely know are easier than anything I could possibly say to them.
An hour later, when I code myself into my apartment, I make a beeline for the windows and my balcony. With the sun on my face and the cool breeze carrying the scents of orange and passionfruit to my nose, I feel strong enough to send Dax and Ry a message.
Ripper: Before Dax heads back to Boston, maybe we could all get together for a beer?
I know they’re giving me space. Trying to let me heal. I’m not sure I ever will, but after last night, I know one thing. I can’t do this alone.
Walking into my apartment a little after midnight, I clutch my phone tightly. When Cara got off the bus, I met her with a thermos of hot tea—passion fruit and guava, like her shampoo—and a cupcake from this little place around the corner from my building.
She brought gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches from the food truck, and we spent a couple of hours together, eating, dancing around various subjects until we landed on a discussion about the best coffee shops in Seattle.
Before I left, she gave me the name of the relaxation app she uses on her phone, and I pop my ear buds in before I close and lock my door. “I can do this. This is my place. I have the lock code. I’m safe here.” Still, my heartbeat skyrockets, and I rush for the window. Once I’m out on the balcony, I can breathe again.
And then she texts me.
Cara: Home yet?
Ripper: On my balcony. Going to stay out here a while.
Cara: Get the weighted blanket. And check your backpack. I put something in there for you.
