Page 19 of The Way Back Home

“You don’t need to do that.”

“She can’t eat pizza every night. If you buy the food, I’ll cook it.”

“No, she’s my sister, and I’ll take care of her,” he says. “I don’t need help.”

“Good Lord. You know I’ve met an awful lot of Marines in my time, but none anywhere near as stubborn as you. Marine or not, you’re still human, and you’re out of your depths with that girl.”

His eyes flash, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. “Don’t you come up in here tellin’ me what my sister needs.”

“If you keep shutting everyone out like this, you’re going to lose her.” I stand. My voice is raised to meet his own fever-pitch, but I sigh and lower it so Bett doesn’t hear. “They will take her away if you can’t provide adequate care.”

“I’m giving her all the care she needs.”

“No, you’re not,” I snap. “You have a problem, August, and not dealing with that problem is hurting her.”

“You might be used to ‘helping others,’ but you can’t shrink my head. I’m fine.” He steps closer, and I shove him back with my hands against his chest, but August is quicker and grabs hold of my wrists, pulling me to him. His eyes narrow and then widen as his thumbs trace the scars along my forearms. He turns them over to get a better look, and I attempt to snatch my arms back, but his grip tightens. While I’ve never been comfortable displaying them to the world, I don’t cover my scars, and most people never see what’s right in front of them anyway. Only a handful of people have ever noticed. Still, that doesn’t mean I like them being touched.

“What the hell is this?”

I yank out of his grasp and rub at my wrists, which ache from the pressure of his grip. My face is hot, and I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. “We all have scars, August. And we all need help at one point or another.”

“Olivia—”

“You can leave now.” I turn my back on him and lift the hem of my shirt, pulling it up over my head. I know it’s a surefire way to get rid of him. He can’t see anything but the back of my lace bra, but I feel him there behind me for a beat too long. My skin prickles under the weight of his stare, and then he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. My throat constricts, and I stare down at the bath filled with bubbles. All I see is red spilling out of my veins like ribbons snaking over my naked body. Seventeen years old and I was so thin, so broken. I’d been desperate to live and longing to die, caught between two worlds, two realities, and here I was, fifteen years later, attempting to hide those wounds from a man who’d faced down death every day with an assault rifle and likely a goddamn smile on his face. August has walked the thin line between here and gone too—only difference is, he’s still walking it.

I shake those thoughts from my head and step into the scalding-hot water. We all have scars. Some of them kill us little by little, some all at once, and some even save our lives.

I spend a long time in the bath. Too long. I’m pruney, and my skin is completely waterlogged when I get out. It’s dark, and I feel a pang of guilt as I stare at the tiny pink toothbrush on the vanity before me. August must have sent Bettina to bed without brushing her teeth because I was hogging the bathroom. I need to be more aware of the burden I’m placing on the Cottons. I’ll be sure to stay out of August’s way for a while. After all, I have a shelter to start up. August doesn’t want my help, but I haven’t given up on a single soul yet, and I don’t intend to with him either—I just need to give it time. The house creaks and groans from the heat of the day as night settles in and I cross the hall, climb into my empty bed, and stare up at the moonlit patterns on the ceiling. I’ve got nothing but time.

A faint bang comes from outside, and I climb out of bed and cross to the French doors, peeking through the curtains. I don’t see anything. There’s no angry Marine at my door, but the sound comes again, and I quietly unhook the latch and open it. I step out onto the porch and glance around. He isn’t here, but I hear the rattling of tools and walk over to the other end of the balcony. There, in the spill of light from the garage, is August, fixing the chain on my bike.

I frown. I could go down there and stop him, ranting and raving about being capable of doing it myself, but I don’t. Instead, I study him. The way he moves, the rigid muscles in his back, the way he favors his right leg, his real leg, when he could just as easily use the prosthetic to support his weight. This tiny little action tells me so much about him. He’s stubborn as hell, and doesn’t like to depend on anyone or anything. Well, that makes two of us. I suppose I can’t fault him for that. After my daddy died, I was taught not to depend on anyone but myself. It made me into the woman I am today. And I like that woman; she’s tough, and sometimes brave, and she knows when to push and when to pull back, but even she knows you can’t walk through this world alone without support. Without someone to care about what happens to you, and without someone to ease the pain a little when it gets too hard and you feel like giving up.

August Cotton may have fought a war, he may know more about fixing bike chains than me, and he might even be a lot smarter than this town gives him credit for, but he still hasn’t figured out that no one can do it alone. He will, though. And I’ll be there when he does.

CHAPTER EIGHT

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