Page 88 of Island Girl

He turned to look at her, his eyes flat. “Have I been drinking.”

Paula held his gaze. “Have you?”

“No.” He looked back at the water. “Not a drop.”

“Ray.”

“I'm serious. Eight days out here, and I haven't touched it.” His jaw tightened. “You know why I sit at that bar every night? With that glass of Jameson I never drink?”

“Tell me.”

“Because I have to prove to myself that I can. Every single night, I have to prove that the bottle doesn't own me. That I'm stronger than the thing that wants to destroy me.” He picked up a piece of shell from the truck bed and turned it over in his fingers. “That glass is my battlefield. My line in the sand. If I can sit there and not drink it, then maybe I'm not as broken as I think I am.”

Paula felt her eyes sting. All these years, she'd watched him sit in that corner with his untouched whiskey. She'd never understood what it meant. She'd never asked.

“You've been fighting that battle for two years,” she said. “Every single night. And you've won every time.”

“Doesn't feel like winning.”

“But it is. Ray, do you have any idea how strong you are? How much courage it takes to do what you've been doing?”

He shook his head, a bitter smile crossing his face. “It's not courage. It's just survival. One day at a time. One night at a time. One hour at a time, when it gets bad.”

“That's exactly what courage is.”

The heron finally moved, striking at something in the water. It came up empty and settled back into its patient stance.

“The drinking isn't the real problem,” Ray said quietly. “You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“It's just the symptom. The thing I used to numb everything else.” He threw the shell into the water, watching the ripples spread. “The real demon is still in my head. It's been there for sixteen years, and no matter what I do, I can't make it stop.”

“Afghanistan.”

“Afghanistan. Iraq. All of it.” His voice dropped. “The things I saw. The things I did. The men I lost.” He was quiet for a moment. “There was this kid. Nineteen years old. Martinez. He was from El Paso, had a girlfriend back home, used to show me pictures of her. He wanted to be a teacher when he got out. History. Said he wanted to make kids care about where they came from.”

Paula didn't say anything. She just listened.

“He died in my arms. IED took out half our convoy. I held him while he bled out, and there was nothing I could do. Nothing anyone could do.” Ray's hands were shaking now. “I still see his face. Every time I close my eyes. I still hear him calling for his mother.”

“Ray.”

“That's just one. There are dozens more. Hundreds. All these ghosts living in my head, and I can't make them leave.” He turned to look at her, and for the first time, she saw the full weight of what he'd been carrying. “I've been trying to fight them alone, Paula. For sixteen years. And I'm tired. I'm so tired.”

She reached over and took his hand. He let her.

“You don't have to fight alone anymore,” she said.

“I don't know how to do anything else.”

“Then let someone teach you.” She squeezed his hand. “I'm proud of you, Ray. I'm so proud of what you've done. Sitting in that bar every night, proving to yourself that you're stronger than the bottle. That takes more strength than most people will everhave. But the alcohol was never the real enemy. And you can't beat the real enemy by yourself.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying it's time to get help. Real help. From people who understand what you've been through.”

He pulled his hand away, shaking his head. “I've done the VA thing before. It didn't work.”