Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
There’s something about his kids’ shoes in the hallway that tugs at my heart more than ever. Connor works from home often, arranging clients for his management consultancy business, so he’s here alone, but signs of his family life are everywhere—drawings on the fridge, a half-built LEGO set on the table in the corner, the swing set in the yard.
I never normally think about my own home looking like this one day, never normally imagine a woman—my Luna—sitting at the table with the LEGO set, laughing captivatingly as our child slots a piece into place.
“Coffee?” Connor asks.
I realize he’s staring at me… watching me watch the LEGO set, as if I expect the blocky half-carriage to spring to life and start pulling away.
“Sure,” I say, sitting at the kitchen partition on one of the stools.
Connor turns on the coffee machine, then runs a hand through his hair.
“Sorry for just dropping by,” I say.
He tilts his head, as if my words have shocked him. “You don’t have to say sorry for swinging by. What’s happened?”
I laugh gruffly. “Who said anything happened?”
“I know you,” he says. “Something’s different.”
My reflex is to shut down, just like I did when Luna acknowledged my suffering. My instinct is to shove it all down deep where I don’t have to think about it, to stifle it, not give it any air, let my bad mood close itself out.
That was before my feelings had purpose. That was before the kiss, before being close to somebody felt possible.
Not only that…
Vital.
“I met a girl,” I say quietly, “but we had a fight.”
Connor’s eyes widen twice—first when I say I’ve met somebody, then the fight bit. He’s not used to me talking about romance, or even hinting at it. He’s not used to me even having that as a possibility.
“Hell,” he says. “I’m ready to listen, if you’re ready to talk.”
I sigh, not sure, but I can’t keep all this contained.
I explain from the start, going for my tattoo appointment, hitting it off with Luna. Bantering, then offering to train her dog.
I explain about the standoff in the yard. I don’t go into detail about exactly what we did together, but I hint at the heat.
“Then she mentioned something,” I go on, my voice grim as he places the coffee in front of me and leans against the counter. “About me.”
“Okay…” Connor arches his eyebrow. When I don’t answer, he says, “Well, what was it?”
“It was about my service,” I say, gripping the hot coffee mug, glad for the warmth burning against my palm to distract me from the heat within. “It’s like she guessed I’ve got… holdovers, maybe you’d call them. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but sometimes, I don’t know… it’s like those instincts are clinging onto me.”
Connor says nothing, making it easier to go on. There’s understanding in his expression, which makes it easier too.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, “but you know how if you’re out in regular life sometimes, and suddenly, you’ve got to check the exits or assess everybody who walks into the door… you’ve got to make sure everything’s safe. That you’re ready to fight if it comes to it.”
“I get it,” Connor says after a pause.
“What?” I say, sensing something in his tone.
He opens his mouth, closes it, and seems unsure about going on.
“What?” I insist. “It’s all good. You can say it.”
He bites down, letting out a long sigh. “I don’t know, bro. You seem pretty amped-up. I don’t want to make things worse.”
“I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
I try not to think about the irony of my statement, considering how I left things with Luna, storming out the second things got real. It was difficult not to sink into all the bad stuff, so I closed off. Shut it down before it had a chance to throttle me.
“You know I’ve been in therapy,” Connor says. “It wasn’t my choice, but Laila was pretty damn insistent about it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I remember. The nightmares, the…”
“The stuff you just told me. I felt it all too. Sometimes I still do. I’ve known you’ve been going through similar stuff for years, but you get pissed as hell if I ever bring it up.”
I think back over the times he’s tried to mention it. He’s right. If he ever tried to broach the therapy topic or anything like it, I’d react how I did with Luna—blocking it out, unwilling to even acknowledge it.
“It’s just easier to keep moving forward,” I say gruffly. “Keep my head down and focus on my work. To focus on the dogs. Working out. Whatever I have to do that day… and let the rest fall by the wayside.”
“That’s how I figured it,” Connor says. “You operate extremely well. You get on with your life, doing your work, your charity stuff, helping so many people with their animals. You’re functioning, so I stopped pressing. Maybe it makes me a bad friend.”