Page 10 of The Way Back Home

“You’d be surprised, Cotton.” I glower up at him. All I want to do is run. Every bone, every muscle and every nerve in my body are telling me to put as much distance between us as possible, but I stand my ground despite my better judgment. “Just because I never donned a uniform doesn’t mean I haven’t fought a war all of my own.”

“What war? Black Friday at the mall?”

I laugh. All the anger drains from August’s face. “Some of us have battle scars in places others can’t see. Bettina will be one of those people. She’s already got the worst of it etched on her heart after losing her parents—do you really want your suicide to be another scar she can’t erase? Just think on it,” I say and walk away, up the stairs where I close my door.

I wait for the thundering of his footsteps that never come. Even though I want to, I don’t go to Bettina, because I think I’ve pushed August far enough for one night.

People end up in my program because at any given moment they’re seconds away from pulling the trigger, and they’re brave enough to admit they need help, but August is different. He’s not asking for help, and I get the distinct feeling that he won’t pull the trigger yet because he’s happy tormenting himself. His penance is a life of emptiness. It’s a debt many veterans believe they must repay for making it out alive when so many of their buddies didn’t, and until he believes that he deserves more than that, more than a lifetime of horror and nightmares, loneliness and torment, he’ll continue to push everyone around him away. When he can learn to love himself again, to forgive himself, then he’ll be ready, and not a second before. At some point, that moment of clarity comes for all returned soldiers, or death does.

It’s my job to ensure that pulling the trigger is no longer an option for August Cotton.

CHAPTER FIVE

Olivia

EVERY FOURTH OF JULYI take a walk along the shores of the Gulf Coast and remember my daddy. This year, it’s something I’m struggling with. I wasn’t that far from home, but in many ways, I was the farthest I’d ever been. I’d grown up a military brat, first in Georgia, then Arizona, California, North Carolina and finally Alabama. Though we’d moved an awful lot, and it seemed I’d switched schools more often than I changed clothes, I had a good family, with two parents who loved me, even though one of them had been deployed for more than half of my life.

My daddy was a Staff Sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps, and even though he was gone for much of my childhood, I worshiped the ground that man walked on. I’d about lose my mind when he came home from deployment, and I’d cry myself to sleep every night for a month after he’d leave again. Before that last deployment, life was good, my childhood was good, but then Daddy never came home, and everything turned to shit.

I don’t like to think on it too much, but every Fourth of July I lose myself to a little of that darkness that came and swallowed us up after his death. This year there appears to be enough misery at Tanglewood already, and I decide a walk into town to celebrate with some of the locals is just what I need. There’s nothing like feeling lonely when you’re surrounded by a crowd.

The Magnolia Springs parade hasn’t started by the time I weave my way through the throng. The gathering is small but so sweet, and as I stand beside strangers to celebrate our servicemen and women, I catch a glimpse of a tall, dark and angry Marine leaning against one of the old oaks that gave this street its name. His eyes are downcast, and I can tell he doesn’t want to be here, but then I guess his four-year-old angel wasn’t exactly going to drive herself to the parade, now was she?

At breakfast this morning, Bett had mentioned that she was participating in the march. August hadn’t said a damn thing, but then ever since our conversation the other night, he’d hardly said two words to me. I’ve been trying my best to stay out of his hair by keeping busy at Tanglewood, making phone calls about the shelter, cleaning and baking way too many snickerdoodles. August had even let Bett help, and while her older brother may not love having me in their house, Bettina sure seems to.

A little old lady comes and plants her chair practically on top of me, and I move to the left a fraction of an inch and shoulder barge the man standing next to me by accident.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

At the same time, he says, “Pardon me, miss.”

“No, that was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” I smile up at the man. He’s tall, not quite as tall as August, with a very Matt-Bomer, all-American-man thing going on, only his eyes are seafoam green, not blue. Everything about him, from his tan leather shoes to his navy blazer, screams old-money.

“You’re fine,” he says, and then chuckles, probably at his word choice, but there’s every chance he’s laughing at me because I’m probably gawping at him with drool trailing down my chin. “Are you just in the area for the holiday?”

“Oh no.” I finally quit staring and close my mouth, only I realize I’m coming off a bit like a brain-dead redneck, so I quickly add, “I just moved here.”

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