Page 23 of How You See Me
By the time I shut the van door, the mounting pressure cracks open something inside me. I don't ease into it. I explode.
The heel of my hand hammers the steering wheel until the sharp pain in my palm cuts through the ache in my chest.
It doesn’t last.
I couldn’t stop the tears that break free even if I wanted to. They come fast, messy, raw. A strangled sound rips from my throat and echoes through the empty van.
I’m built for war, not this. Combat makes sense. There’s an enemy, a target, and orders to follow.
Watching my baby sister suffer and pretend to be strong? There’s no battle plan for that. No defense against it. I’m worse than helpless.
I’m useless.
I can’t scoop her up. Can’t ease the weight on her bones or bring back the color stolen from her cheeks. I have tolether struggle.
And now, I’m supposed to leave her behind to go play tourist? Smile for selfies and cross off bucket list items like she’s not fighting for her life?
What kind of man does that make me?
It’s what she wants, I remind myself. This trip isn’t for me. It’s for her, and she believes it will help.
Hell, maybe she’s right.
What I need to do is to point the van west and find a way to believe it too.
???
The hour-long drive to Richmond starts out smooth. Almost too smooth. Like the last few minutes of sunshine before the rain.
But my mind is another story. It's a damn minefield. My thoughts bounce shrapnel inside my skull—Ava, all the unknowns I’ll soon face on this trip, Josie.
Especially Josie as I walk up to her building and press the buzzer for her apartment. All I can do now is brace for impact.
“Yeah?” Her voice crackles through the speaker.
“I’m here.”
A beat of silence, then— “Who’s this?”
The amusement in her voice makes my jaw flex. I take a deep breath and push the speaker button with a grunt. “Funny.”
“You’re not laughing.” Her voice floats through the air, not from the intercom but from a few feet away.
She’s right here in the flesh, leaning against the door like an art piece. Barefoot, swimming in a T-shirt two sizes too big, and speckled with paint. No shorts in sight—or maybe they’re lost somewhere under the hem. Either way, my brain short circuits, and every minute I spent priming myself to see her again has been rendered pointless. Being near her still hits me like a freight train I somehow forgot was coming. No matter how hard I try, I’m not sure I could ever prepare for this woman.
I force my gaze to stay on her face. No way am I giving her the satisfaction of letting my attention travel south. “Ha. Ha.”
“We’ll work on your sense of humor.” As if she’s won, she pivots and heads inside.
I follow, dragging my self-control along like dead weight. Her apartment on the main floor is a small war zone of color between the mismatched antique furniture, canvases in various stages of the creative process, and paint tubes littering every surface. If that wasn’t enough to make me twitch, the half-eaten breakfast on the counter and the clothes strewn about the room push my already wavering patience overboard.
“Are you packed?” I ask, continuing to scan the room, already knowing the answer.
“All business and no play, Sergeant?”
“Staff Sergeant,” I correct automatically. “And no. We’re on a schedule.”
“Congratulations on the promotion.”
