Page 41 of Giving Grace

Twenty-six

Ryan

The center is quiet.

Usually, I’m downstairs by nine so I can help Hen open the doors and let people in. From there, I float. Talk to the vets that wander in off the street. A lot of them are stable. Have jobs. Places to live. They come here to work out. Shoot a quick game of three-on-three on the indoor basketball court. Grab a few minutes with Con in his office where he helps them navigate their way through the mountain of red tape that comes with being a vet and needing services. Sometimes they just want to spend a few minutes with people who understand what it’s like to be them before heading home to an empty apartment or a house full of normal.

Some aren’t so lucky. Some people come in here that don’t have a soft place to land. They’re the ones who’re lost. Looking for something better. A way out of the situation they’re in. I tell them about the center, what kind of programs we have to offer. I tell them the truth.

That this place saved my life.

But today is different.

Not only is it Sunday, it’s Patrick and Cari’s wedding day and like the bar, the center is closed. But that doesn’t mean much to me or my schedule, so instead of heading out to the Cape house with everyone else last night, I stayed behind, opting to drive myself up this morning so I could stick to my daily itinerary.

That’s what I told everyone, anyway. That I didn’t want to skip a tank session. That I needed my gym time to keep my head straight. That there was still progress to be made and I needed to stay focused.

Truth is, I didn’t think I could handle being around Grace. Sleeping under the same roof with her again. Not without damaging the fragile foundation we started to build over coffee yesterday.

And by damage I mean drag her into the nearest coat closet and lock us both inside so I can get her naked and put my mouth and hands on every goddamned inch of her.

Because it’s pretty much all I can think about since sitting on the bench with her outside her class.

Like I told her then, a lot has changed these past five months but not that.

And I’m pretty sure it never will.

I haven’t seen her since and I’ve spent the last 24 hours trying to figure out how I’m going to do it. How I’m going to be around her and pretend like we’re just two people who barely know each other.

Like I’ve never been inside her.

Like I’ve never laid in the dark with the warm, soft press of her naked body against mine.

That I don’t remember what my name sounds like in her mouth when she comes.

Which is exactly the kind of shit that I can’t remember. Not if I want to do the right thing by her. Give her the space she asked for. Toe the line she drew in the sand between the two of us five months ago.

Because yeah, she gave me a lift to class yesterday, and yeah, we shared a coffee and talked afterward—but that doesn’t change anything. That doesn’t mean she’s changed her mind and it doesn’t give me permission to drag her back into my bullshit—a place she made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want to be.

So get your head in the fuckin’ game, Ranger. Dig in, put your back into it and do the goddamned work, because the longer you take, the more chance there is that she’s going to be long gone by the time you’re ready for her.

Right.

Moving on.

The watch on my wrist saves me, beeping out an alert, letting me know I have an hour to get my shit together before I have to be on the road if I want to be on time for this thing. Conner gave it to me. Told me he has one just like it and that he still uses it on occasion to keep himself from falling into one of his what he calls brain holes.

It pissed me off at first—having to wear this thing. Let it control my life. Tell me where to go. What to do. When I started to grumble about it, Conner just laughed. You let the fucking government direct your every waking moment for the last ten years but you’re gonna get pissed over a watch that reminds you to pick up your dry cleaning? Get over yourself, bro.

Con’s always had a way of putting things so that they make sense—unless he goes off on one of his superstring tangents. If that happens, god help you.

Silencing the watch, I take it off and jump in the shower to scrub off the salt from my latest session. One of the few drawbacks to tank therapy, no matter what I do, I always smell like saltwater.

Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and head for my closet. Passing the bathroom mirror I catch sight of myself and stop in my tracks. Shit. I should’ve shaved for this thing, right? I mean, I’m a groomsman. I’m supposed to look presentable, not like some kinda—

My cell starts rattling on the counter and I pick it up, barely giving the screen a glance before I take the call. Only a handful of people have this number and whoever it is can help me.

“Hey—” It’s Declan.

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