Page 43 of All of You

“So, how’s it going?” he asked, stretching his long legs out in front of him so his feet rested on a low ottoman.

“Really well. It’s short tour, so I shouldn’t hit burnout, and that helps me mentally at this point. I always have energy and excitement, and I love every show, but there are times when knowing how many more I have just takes it out of me, and it’s hard to imagine just going and going. But this three weeks or whatever it is, it’s a good length.” I sat on the cushion next to him and stretched my legs out, too.

“It’s hard to imagine you giving that much on stage at every show. Is it always that way for you?” His head was resting back against the couch, and he’d snuggled as much as he could into the back—not the most comfortable couch, but he had a way of making things look appealing.

I let myself lay back and scooted just a little closer to him, about eight inches apart. After wanting to have him there for so long, I yearned to be close.

“It is. Not quite as much if I’m sick, and of course, there are some shows where the vibe or energy feels different. If I’m in a bad mood, or low energy, or distracted. But ultimately, those people paid a lot of money for me to get up there and do my best and deliver that to them, so whether I feel like it or not, I do it and try to give it all I’ve got while I’m on stage.” My hands dropped to either side of my body, my bones getting heavy.

“You’re relentless.”

He picked up my hand and pulled it across his chest—he’d stretched out so much, he was essentially lying down. He held my hand with one of his, and much to my fluttery heart’s delight, started tracing the veins in my wrist, the lines in my palm, the length of my fingers.

“It’s the job,” I said.

“I’m not like that with my job. I never feel that way—like I want to give everything to it, like it’s an offering I’m giving.”

I tilted my head to study him and watched as he kept his eyes focused on his fingers sliding along my skin.

I thought about that, about why that might be and what it meant. “Do you think that’s because your job asks so much of you?”

His fingers stopped for a moment, then continued. “Maybe. I usually feel like I’ve given it all I ever want to.”

“Tell me what you mean.” My voice came out soft so he’d know he didn’t have to if it was asking too much.

I felt his gaze on me and looked up—his blue eyes were remarkably sad, and in that moment, the drum beat of my heart urging me to kiss away the pain there resonated loudly in my whole being.

“I lost a friend. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever been through, or I thought it would be, until I got back and couldn’t figure out how to function again. And the last year and a half since then has been the biggest thing I’ve ever done.”

“What’s that?”

“Figure out how to want to wake up every day, and do it.”

He stopped moving his touch over my skin, instead letting his fingers encircle my wrist and hold it gently, like he was bracing himself with my arm, steadying himself.

I searched his face, looking for the shadows and misery I’d seen when I’d spoken to him at a moment that had to be the beginning of his lowest days on Earth if I’d pieced together the timing correctly. It’d likely been within a few weeks of his return from Afghanistan.

“I’m so glad you did,” I said, letting my free hand come to rest on his.

He smiled just barely, though not regretfully. “I am, too. But I think that’s why I don’t want to give any more to the Army. I haven’t got it in me.”

“I can see why. So what will you do?”

He laughed, something amused and a pinch despairing. “I have no idea. I majored in history, minored in military science, and the only job I’ve ever had is the Army. I have no idea what I want to do, much less what I can do.”

I pulled my hand away, regretting it instantly because I loved being connected to him, I was finding. As soon as I did, he gently set my arm back at my side and folded his hands over his chest.

“You’ll find something. You don’t have to stay in just because you don’t know what you’d do if you got out.”

A little more back and forth, and soon, nothing but his slow, quiet breathing remained in the room—he’d passed out. I wasn’t sure what time he’d started traveling, but instead of feeling irritated, I let my eyes close, too.

Hours later, I startled awake and found him in the same position he’d been in. I checked my phone—three hours had passed. His arms were crossed, hands tucked under his arms, face peaceful. I admired the stubble dusting up his neck and onto his jaw and cheeks. My hand ached to smooth its touch over that face, explore it with my fingers and then my lips.

Instead, I settled for a hand on the warm curve of his bicep. “Ben, wake up.”

His eyes shot straight open, and he sat up.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry I fell asleep,” he said, his voice delectably rocky and low.

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