Page 63 of Holiday Wedding
“Five years ago, I did two back-to-back tours in Afghanistan. It was my last week,ourlast week. We were about to head home for a break when it happened.” His voice is toneless, with no change in his expression as he tells his story. “They sent us into the Kandahar Province to help train Afghan security forces. There were five of us. Me, Espinoza, McLaughlin, Gee, and Hoover.”
He takes in a ragged breath. I commit those names to my memory, to be held forever. Those brave men and women who paid the ultimate sacrifice for my freedom. I imagine the people they left behind: mothers, fathers, spouses, children.
I try to stifle my tears. I can’t lose it now. He hasn’t even gotten to the bad part yet.
Dean drones on like he’s talking about the weather. His robot face is back on, and who could blame him for it? For needing to put some distance between himself and something so horrendous. “They were supposed to have scouted our route beforehand, to get rid of mines and IEDs and assess for snipers. They told us the way was clear. We should be fine. An easy day, in and out.” He swallows audibly.
“We never made it. The jeep drove over an IED about 45 minutes into the trip.” His eyes lose focus, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I think about it all the time…all the time. I was at the wheel.” My stomach sinks at those words and the guilt they carry. “If I had driven differently, would they still be alive? Would Gee have gotten home to see her baby? He was only two years old.”
He’s crying again, slow tears that roll down his cheeks, his nose. His eyes, wide with recollection, search for mine. When they find me, he holds me prisoner in that tortured gaze. “He won’t remember her,” Dean says, his face crumpling in on itself. “He won’t remember his mom, who was like a mother to all of us. She was always scolding us, telling us to clean up after ourselves. We were a bunch of cocky, crude jerks, but she put up with us and now she’s gone forever because I didn’t move the car an inch to the left.”
He holds up his left hand, displaying the large watch he constantly wears. The one he only took off when he showered earlier. “This was Espinoza’s. His parents insisted I take it as a memento. After the funeral, they forced it on me. I couldn’t believe they’d give it to me. Not after I got their only son killed.”
I want him to stop. I can’t take it—the pain in his voice, the anguish in his eyes—but he needs to get it out, to release this toxin before it kills him.
“It was so loud, Jenny. When the bomb went off. It was so loud. The metal of the jeep coming apart. The screams. So loud.” A ragged sob from him. “Every time I hear a noise like that, I’m back there, watching them die all over again. Bright flashes of light set me off too, like the burst of white when the bomb detonated.”
His eyes drift closed, tears leaking from under his lashes. “I have PTSD. I wish I didn’t, but I can’t stop it.”
His confession doesn’t surprise me, but still it’s daunting to hear it said out loud.
I crawl to him and lay myself over his body like I can protect him from this pain, even though I can’t. He stiffens beneath me, and I brace for yet another rejection, but his arms come up and wrap around my waist.
His voice is muffled, his lips pressed to my hair. “I told Caleb I’d be no good. What kind of bodyguard gets scared so easily? He wouldn’t listen. He said it’d be fine.”
“Shh,” I soothe, knowing there are no words that will erase the horror he’s witnessed. But still, I have to try. “I’m sorry, so sorry that happened to you. I’m sorry for your friends and their families.” He shifts me in his arms so he can bury his head in the crook of my neck, shaking from the force of his tears.
“It’s a terrible thing you went through, but I’m proud of you for telling me. I understand how hard that was.” He nods against my collarbone, his tears slowing. “I don’t know how you get over something like that.”
A harsh laugh from him. “I’ve tried it all—therapy, pills.”
I pull back to see his tear-stained face. “Did they help?”
A small shrug. “Some, but not enough.” Dean reaches up and tucks my hair behind my shoulder. “This is why I wanted to stay away from you.”
“What?” I roll off him and sit up, not understanding what this has to do with me.
“You’re sunshine walking around on two legs, and I’m—I’m broken.”
“You arenot,” I say, my voice echoing in the room. That’s how loud I say it.
“Yes, I am,” he argues. “I don’t have a television at my place because I can’t handle shows where there’s shooting or scary noises or bright lights. I won’t go to the movies for the same reason. Last week, a motorcycle backfired outside my building, and I barely made it inside before I had a panic attack.”
I can’t believe my ears. To think this is how he sees himself, something so at odds with the man before me. I tell him, “While working for a newspaper, I’ve heard some sad, awful stories. What you just told me, what you went through, I thought that was one of the worst, but I was wrong.”
He jerks back at that, scowling, angry I’m downplaying his experience. I ignore him. What I have to say is too important to be distracted. “Of all thestories I’ve heard, the most awful is the one you’re telling yourself. It’s a lie. You are kind and brave and strong. A broken person only cares for themselves. That’s not you. You always look out for others, even when you’re not on the job. I don’t want to hear any more of that. You need to open your eyes and see yourself howIsee you.”
“You see me like that?” he asks, so vulnerable.
“I do,” I say firmly. More gently I add, “It’s not your fault, what happened. Do you honestly believe that they would blame you? Your crew? That they would wantyouto blame yourself?”
“No,” he says, his voice hoarse. He looks away, his throat working. “I understand that, but when the nightmares come or when I hear those loud noises, logic goes out the window. I try so hard to hold on to it. I tell myself the fear isn’t real, but my body doesn’t listen. My heart pounds and I can’t breathe, and it feels so—so out of my control.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I wish I did, that there were magic words I could speak to make everything okay, but that’s not real life. Some problems can’t be fixed. Some hurts can never be fully healed. All I can do is hold him.
He kisses me, hesitantly, like he’s not sure I’ll want him anymore. I kiss him back, firmly, pouring my emotions into it, determined to prove he’s worth my affection. Soon we’re a tangle of lips and soft sighs. Sometimes, when you live with the shadows of the dead, you need to be reminded you’re alive. I distract him from his grief with every breathless kiss. I’ll heal him too, as much as I can, with talking and support, but there’s time for that later. For now, there’s just us and the snow outside, falling gracefully to the ground.
23
