Mike cleared his throat, which didn’t stop the swell of emotion in his voice. “How about I make them? I’m really good at it.”
She looked down at Toby. Toby looked up at her. “I say yes,” he whispered.
She had Toby in her arms, but her eyes found Mike’s. “I guess I’ll have to say yes, too, then.”
His blazing smile cut through all the darkness left inside her. She held out her hand. He took it. And the three of them went inside.
LUCY COULDN’T GO BACK TO the cottage tonight. Whatever was transpiring there needed to unfold without an outsider looking on. She straightened her shoulders. “I’m going to bunk down in the boat for what’s left of the night.”
Panda stood by the picnic table, one foot on the bench. “You can stay in the house.”
“The boat’ll be fine.” But before she went anywhere, she had to clean up. Not just from the dirt and honey but from the tiny slivers of glass cutting her. Even though the outside shower only had cold water and she had nothing to change into, she didn’t want to go in the house. She’d wrap up in one of the beach towels and change at the cottage in the morning.
She walked past him toward the shower, hating this stilted awkwardness, hating him for causing it, hating herself for being so hurt by it. “The shower’s not working,” he said from behind her. “The pipe broke last week. Use your old bathroom. I never got around to moving back downstairs.”
That seemed strange, since she’d been out of the house for almost two weeks, but she wasn’t asking questions, wasn’t saying more to him than she needed to. As much as she dreaded going in the house, she couldn’t sleep while she was such a mess, and without a word, she made her way inside.
The kitchen door gave its familiar creak, and the old house embraced her, still smelling faintly of damp, coffee, and the ancient gas stove. He flipped on the overhead light. She’d vowed not to look at him, but she couldn’t help herself. His eyes were red-rimmed and his beard stubble villainous. But it was what she didn’t see behind him that surprised her. “What happened to your table?”
He acted as if he needed to search his memory. “Uh… Yeah… Woodpile.”
“You got rid of your precious table?”
His jaw tightened, and he sounded unnecessarily defensive. “I kept getting splinters from it.”
He’d thrown her off balance, and she was even more disconcerted when she noticed something else was missing. “What about your pig?”
“Pig?” He’d acted as though he’d never heard the word.
“Fat little guy,” she snapped. “Speaks French.”
He shrugged. “I got rid of some stuff.”
“Your pig?”
“What do you care? You hated that pig.”
“I know,” she sneered. “But hating it gave my life focus, and now that’s gone.”
Instead of delivering a counterpunch, he smiled and took her in. “God, you’re a mess.”
His tenderness made her heart constrict, and she threw up her defenses. “Save it for somebody who cares.” She stalked toward the hall.
He moved behind her. “I want you to know… I… care about you. It’s going to be hard not seeing you. Talking to you.”
His gruff, begrudging admission was salt in her open wounds, and she whirled around. “Fucking me?”
“Don’t say that.”
She curled her lip at his indignation. “What? Didn’t I use the word right?”
“Look, I know I pissed you off at the beach, but… What was I supposed to say? If I were a different person…”
“Stop right there.” She thrust up her chin. “I already dumped you. This isn’t necessary.”
“You were in a vulnerable place this summer, and I took advantage of that.”
“Is that what you think?” She wouldn’t let him shatter her pride, and she charged toward him. “Believe me, Patrick, my eyes were wide open through our tawdry little affair.”
But he wouldn’t let it go. “I’m a Detroit roughneck, Lucy. You’re American royalty. I’ve been through too much. I’m not good for you.”
“Got it,” she sneered. “You were put through hell as a kid, hell as a cop, so you’re taking a pass on life’s messy stuff.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s true, all right.” She needed to shut up, but she hurt too much to stop. “Life is too hard for you, isn’t it, Panda? So you live it at a coward’s distance.”
“It’s more than that, damn it!” He clenched his teeth, ground out the words. “I’m not exactly… emotionally stable.”
“Tell me about it!”
He’d had enough of her, and he headed for the stairs. She should have let him go, but she was drained, furious, and out of control. “Run away!” she called after him, too out of control to see the irony in accusing him of what she’d done herself. “Run away! You’re a champ at that.”
“Damn it, Lucy…” He spun around, his eyes dark with a misery that should have stirred her pity but merely fired her anger because all that pain spelled the death of something that should have pulsed with life.
“I wish I’d never met you!” she shouted.
His shoulders dropped. He braced one hand on the banister, then let his arm fall. “Don’t wish that. Meeting you was… There are things that happened.”
“What things? Either spill your precious secrets or go to hell!”
“I’ve already been there.” His fingers were white where they gripped the banister. “Afghanistan… Iraq… Two wars. Double the fun.”
“You told me you served in Germany.”
He came down off the bottom step, walked around her, moving just to move, ending up in the living room. “That was easier than telling the truth. Nobody wants to hear about the heat and sand. Mortar attacks, rocket grenades, IEDs exploding without any warning tearing off legs, arms, leaving holes where a heart should be. I have images seared on my brain that’ll never go away.” He shuddered. “Mutilated bodies. Dead kids. Always dead kids…” His words trailed off.
She curled her fingernails into her palms. She should have guessed.
He stopped by the living room fireplace. “When I got out, I joined the police force, thinking nothing could be as bad as what I’d already seen. But there was more blood, dozens of Curtises-all dead before their time. The migraines got worse, the nightmares. I stopped sleeping, started drinking too much, got into fights, hurt people, hurt myself. One night I was so drunk I begged a guy to blow my head off.”
The pieces fell into place, and she leaned against the door molding. “Post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“A textbook case.”
This was what he’d been hiding-the fate of so many who’d come back from those wars. She struggled for some kind of detachment. “Did you see a therapist?”
“Sure. Ask me how much it helped.”
She had to seal off her own feelings. If she didn’t, she’d fall apart. “Maybe you need to try someone else,” she said.
He uttered a bitter laugh. “Find me a therapist who’s seen what I’ve seen-done what I’ve done-and I’m there.”
“Therapists deal with issues they’ve never experienced all the time.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t quite work with guys like me.”
She’d read about the difficulties of treating veterans with PTSD. They’d been trained to be guarded, and even the ones who knew they needed help were reluctant to open up, especially to a civilian. Their warrior mentality made treatment problematic.
“One guy I served with… He’s spilling his guts, right? Next thing he knows, the shrink’s turning green and excuses himself to throw up.” He headed toward the window. “The doctor I saw was different. She was a specialist in PTSD, and she’d heard so many stories that she’d learned to detach. She detached so much that it felt like she wasn’t even there.” Some of the anger seemed to leave him. “Pills and platitudes aren’t enough to fix that kind of
