Page 17 of Saving Grace

After twenty minutes of back-and-forth in my mind about the latest recruit to join team “fuck over Mackinlay’s wishes,” I push from the chair, stiff and sore, and head back inside. The washing machine is whirring away by the sounds coming down the hallway. I pass the laundry room. The powder is cleaned up, and is that coffee?

The distinct aroma of coffee percolating wafts toward me. I reach the kitchen, and Ma is nowhere to be found. Outside, her truck is gone.

“Coffee?” Grace asks from the kitchen.

“Fine.” I slump into a chair at the kitchen table. A steaming mug appears in front of me. She comes to sit on the other side of the table with her own mug wrapped in fine, elegant hands. I narrow my gaze and take a sip. The black gold is delicious.

“I get it, you don’t want me here. And I?—”

I hold up a hand. “Let’s set a few things straight before you dive into telling me your entire life story. You can stay for the short term. The second I am capable of doing my own laundry, you’re done. There will be no drama here. Whatever happened to your face,” I say, waving a hand at her, “none of that follows you home. I mean, here. It doesn’t step foot onto this ranch. Got it?”

Her face is a mixture of shock and pure hurt. She swallows and rests the mug on the table, and I fold my arms over my chest. I’ve already been fucked over. I’m not buying into her shit as well. I open my mouth to explain as much, but she says, “Fine. I’ll stay out of your way.”

She rises and pads to the kitchen and pours her almost full cup of coffee down the drain. Moving toward the front door, she plucks up a small overnight bag and a phone, its screen so smashed, I can see it from here. With quickened strides, she disappears through the hallway, heading for her room, I assume. The door closes with a soft click.

I down the rest of the coffee and head out to the front porch, collecting my phone on the way. Two messages from Ma.

Please treat Grace with the respect you were raised with, Mackinlay.

I know you’re hurting my boy, but I have a feeling about this time around. Be nice.

Jesus, Ma. Always with the cryptic bullshit.

She’s right, though. I’ve been in a mood since the day that rooftop collapsed. I mean, who could blame me? The chopper crashed, the old building crumbled and took me down with it. In more ways than one. I was by no means a career soldier, that was never the plan. But I was good at my job, dammit. Leavin’ the military was supposed to bemychoice. The when and how. Not this.

I leave Ma’s messages on read and toss the phone onto the seat. I close my eyes and lay my head back on the side of the house behind me. The second I do, it’s too quiet. My brain too unoccupied. And the shouting starts. The radio on my shoulder squawks. The swoosh of rotors sinks overhead. Rounds fire off below me?—

“Steak okay for supper? I just want to start organizing,” a small voice interrupts the chaos.

I open my eyes and dart a glance to the door where she stands. Her eyes are rimmed red, her arms wrapped around her like that will protect her from whatever she fears.

I grunt in response and shift my focus to the pasture behind the barn.

“Hope you like salad,” she utters, walking back inside.

After hours of watching Grace putter around, tidying up and prepping supper, I make a start on my exercises and physio treatments on the living room floor. Every movement the medical staff set out for me hurts. I am gaining strength, but too slowly. My body is shaking and covered in sweat, so I head for the shower to clean up before supper.

“Your meal will be ready in twenty,” Grace throws over her shoulder.

Not bothering to reply, I wander to the shower. The plastic seat that accommodates my banged-up body stares at me with its mocking shape. Hole in the seat for water flow. Like my ass is suspended over a goddamn sieve. I strip down, not caring enough to close the door, and turn on the water. As steam curls around the white chair, I go about removing the braces. One at a time.

Each brace comes away easy enough, but without them, each movement is too sloppy, too painful. Like my body is made from rubber, and I have almost no control over it. I grit my teeth as the hip brace hits the floor and I clamber onto the plastic seat. The sound of Grace moving about the house has me wishing I’d shut the door now. I’m in the master bedroom en suite, but still. I should close the door. Noted.

Making quick work of my hygiene routine, habit from years in the military, I towel off. I rise to towel my back half, and the plastic chair slips. My unstable musculature jerks to brace from slipping onto the tiled floor, sending agonizing pain through my hip, lower back, and leg.

“Fuck!”

I groan through the pain as heat rushes my body, my hands scrambling for a hold. My fingers snap around the chrome handle Huddo installed. I groan through the fire lancing every single inch of my body.

“Mackinlay? Are you okay?”

Shit.

Should have closed the fuckin’ door.

“Fine!” I snap out.

Her footsteps fade and I steady my breathing. Hurrying to reapply the braces, I dress and towel off my hair. Mostly healed shrapnel wounds dot my skin on my chest and shoulders. My short dark hair is getting longer by the week, and even I can see the lackluster in my dark blue eyes that used to carry joy and a zest for life. Formylife.

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