Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 82746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“When we got back from the mission, I tried to power through the shit in my head, just like a good soldier. But what I really did was shut myself off so I wouldn’t have to confront my own demons. I held Jen at arm’s length, ostensibly to protect her. I basically closed myself off emotionally to the point she said she didn’t know who I was anymore. I didn’t listen. I used work as an excuse to avoid dealing with my shit. She finally gave me an ultimatum—get therapy or get lost.”
“Wait, I’m confused. You got the requisite PTSD debriefing and therapy when we came back, just like we all did.”
“I did,” Marty agreed. “But you know firsthand that it was pretty superficial. As long as we said the right things, they didn’t really probe for any deeper issues. I guess it was okay as far as it went but, in my case at least, it didn’t go far enough. It definitely didn’t address how all that shit impacted my relationships. It wasn’t until I went to couples therapy with Jen and some intensive individual therapy on my own that I figured out I was actually using the trauma of that experience to avoid intimacy. It saved our marriage, Damon.”
“Yeah, well,” Damon hedged, uncomfortable with the emotions Marty was stirring up in himself. “You always were better at relationships than me.” He touched the scar on his cheek. “I’m damaged goods, remember?” He forced a laugh.
“You may be damaged,” Marty replied seriously. “But you’re not broken. You can drop the pretense with me, bro. I’m trying to tell you I’ve been there and done that. If you think there’s a chance, even a small one, that you might be in love with this girl, don’t fuck it up. Trust in that love. Trust in yourself. Go find her and tell her. What have you got to lose?”
Finally back in Charlotte, Damon leaned back against the seat of the Uber and closed his eyes. It was a little after eight in the evening, local time. Marty had given him a lot to think about. Maybe he would get some kind of therapy, if only to stop the nightmares that continued to plague him. But all that talk of love?
He cringed as he thought about how he’d left things with Ellen.
Who knows? Maybe we’ll meet up at Lair Sade some time.
What a callous dick. What an asshole.
The odds were good she had zero interest in seeing him again after he’d so casually dismissed her with his flippant “see ya around,” not to mention his radio silence in the week that followed.
Marty’s heartfelt words echoed in his mind. “What have you got to lose?”
Only everything.
Right now, it was all theoretical. She might want to see him again. She might not. Did he have the courage to find out? What if he did follow Marty’s advice and reach out, and she told him to get lost?
Ugh. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. Though he’d barely slept on the plane, he was too wired to even think of going to bed. What he needed was some kind of distraction to get himself out of his own damn head.
Pulling his cell from his jacket, he clicked on an unread message from Jake.
Welcome home, boss. I don’t know if you had a chance to see it yet, but I sent an email earlier today with two potential customer leads. Just let me know when you plan to return to work and we’ll get something set up.
Damon thumbed back a quick thanks. Instead of going home, he’d ask the driver to take him directly to the office. He would immerse himself in work until the noise in his head quieted, until exhaustion finally let him crash.
“Excuse me,” he said to the driver. “Do you mind if I change my destination address?”
“No problem,” the driver said, briefly meeting Damon’s gaze in his rearview mirror. “Where to?”
But, instead of giving his work address, Damon found himself saying, “Take me to 1825 Carrington Oaks Drive.”
He stood at her door, his hand hovering over the doorbell, his rolling suitcase behind him. Why had he thought this was a good idea?
Lowering his arm, he took a step back as he tried to decide what to do. He ran his hands through his hair. He probably looked like crap, his clothing rumpled, his cheeks stubbled, his eyes bloodshot with fatigue. He should have at the very least gone home first, dropped off his things, had a shower and a shave.
Hell, for all he knew, she wasn’t even at home. Maybe she’d returned to The Enclave. Maybe she’d signed up for another auction, this time finding a man who didn’t have a crazy work schedule and lingering PTSD baggage. Someone who could actually give her the love and attention she deserved. Someone worthy of her total submission.