Dylan Read online

  He was what I imagined I’d have if I could choose my father. I’d pick him. I’ve never told him that but I figure he must know. I would never say it in case I offend him because he’s only just crossed into his late fifties. I’m twenty-eight, so it’s not impossible for him to be my father, but some people take offense to comments like that. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side and lose the bond we’ve created for the last eight years.

  He’s known as the devil at the hospital because he’s a demon to work with. Get on his good side though and he’ll love you for life.

  “Okay girly. Talk to me, tell me how you are. You fell down the stairs and hit your head. Does your head hurt?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I answer, and he instantly looks concerned.

  “On a scale of one to ten, with ten being very bad, how much does it hurt?”

  “Maybe seven or bordering eight.” It really does hurt but I can tell now it is mainly the bone at the edge of my brow and the side of my face. It was from the impact. I don’t think there’s anything wrong internally.

  “Okay, where do you live?”

  “Not here,” I answer with a little smile. He grins but continues his assessment.

  “Can I get an address?”

  “Apartment fifteen, Mercy Heights.”

  “Good, anything else hurt?”

  I stare at him and my eyes tear up. That feeling I had before comes back to me, the sadness that won’t go away.

  I nod slowly and he narrows his gaze.

  “What else Dr. Lincoln?” he prods, and I run a hand through the matted mess of my blonde hair.

  I stare up at the ceiling and get lost in the swirly pattern the plaster makes.

  “My heart still feels like it’s breaking,” I hear myself whisper. It’s like my heart is speaking for itself and using my mouth to express itself. “Like…pieces of my heart are splintering and falling away, and it won’t stop until there’s nothing left of me.”

  I twist back to face him and find sadness etched in his warm features.

  He knew Jack too.

  We were the first of his students to make him like us.

  He hated Jack’s accent. He used to call him Huckleberry Finn. Jack and I lived in St. Louis until we left for college. Jack had a stronger accent than me because he’d lived there from birth. I moved there from Atlanta when I was twelve. After Dad left me and Mom, we went to live with Aunt Lurlene.

  Mac would frown every time Jack spoke and he’d amp up his accent all the more to get on his nerves. I know right now Mac feels the same as me.

  I’d give anything to hear Jack speak. Anything.

  “It…will feel like that for a long time and then one day it will get easier to manage,” Mac explained. I notice how he never said it would go away.

  “I don’t know when that will be, and I suspect you can’t tell me.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t my girl. Wish I could. The thing is even when it gets easier there will be days when you get a memory that’s so strong, and you can’t believe that person isn’t in your life anymore. That’s how you know what you had with them was real. It is real. Still is. The fact that they’re gone doesn’t change it one way or the other. But know this…no matter what, they wouldn’t want you to be sad, or stop living.”

  Mac always knows what to tell me.

  I stare at him and a tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it away quickly. I don’t want to cry anymore for the same thing.

  So much time has passed so I shouldn’t still be crying. Three years have passed. I blink the tears away and sit up.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t burden you with my problems.”

  “Too late. I’m involved now so I’m obliged to help. It’s like the Hippocratic Oath. Abby, you will do this and you will pull through this time. It’s gonna be hard, especially around this time of year. I see you do this every year and I suspect it will be the same for some time to come.”

  “I just miss him.” I raise my shoulders into a shrug.

  “I know. I do know. Was that the only thing on your mind to send you to my house on a Saturday afternoon?” He raises a brow.

  “Wade wants to go sailing for a weekend getaway. I wanted you to tell me I shouldn’t go.”

  He chuckles. “I’m not gonna do that.”

  I frown. “Why not?”

  “Because…that’s outside of my remit. Supposed he’s the guy you click with, and your second chance.”

  “He’s not.” I shake my head.

  “Abby, if you can tell me that so quickly you’ve just answered your own question.” He gives me a pointed stare.

  “Ughh Mac,” I breathe.

  “No. Come on, let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  “To the hospital. You’re having your head checked. You know the ropes.”

  My shoulders slump.

  “You fell down the stairs so we don’t know if there’s more going on. Besides, I’m not going easy on anybody who’s staying with me next week. Concussion, or otherwise.”

  “I’m staying.”

  “Good. Come now, the hospital then home for you. You’re going to need plenty of sleep and rest. Next week it’s either go hard or go home.”

  I just stare at him. It does sound like it is going to be tough.

  I have a feeling this year is going to be tough on me.

  Tougher than the previous two.

  Tougher even than the days after Jack died.

  Dylan

  “No, I’m staying here,” I answer, much to my mother’s dismay.

  I can’t believe she actually drove over here to get me.

  Like I am six and not thirty.

  She runs a frustrated hand through her hair and then she goes and does the thing I hate most—cries.

  I don’t know what the hell to do with a crying woman, worse when it’s my mom.

  “Dylan, why don’t you just come home? Do you know how worried I’ve been? Your father and I have spent months worried sick and here you are in Chicago, and you’ve come to Mac.”

  She won’t understand so there is no point explaining.

  Mac’s the only person who won’t take pity on me. I’m sick of people pitying me. It makes me feel like shit.

  That’s why I’m here. My uncle is the only one who won’t suffocate me when I already feel like I can’t breathe from the tension that’s squeezing the life out of my career.

  That’s how I feel now just seeing her, and guilt tightens my chest at the thought. It’s bad enough I’m home, but to have people looking at me like I’m truly injured is just bullshit.

  “Mom…I know you don’t understand. I don’t expect you to.”

  “Explain it to me then…I just want you to come home so I can take care of you. Dylan, when we first heard what happened to you we thought you were dead. We thought you’d been killed. I thought you were dead.” More tears come now and I feel like an asshole for making her cry when I know that she’s been through a lot.

  What my family was told was just a mild version of what happened to me seven months ago. Nobody could explain in words—not even me—what happened other than to say it was a nightmare. In the nightmare I had to watch comrades who were friends die.

  I should have died too, but when I saw the opening to escape I did. The same bomb that got my friends would have taken me out too.

  I did all I could, pushed myself to get better and get back out there as soon as I could, believing I could return to active duty. And here I am, back to civilian life scratching my ass on medical leave for the next six months.

  I’m supposed to be grateful too because the six months is “special permission” since I’m considered so valuable.

  It all sounds and feels like crap to me so I really don’t want to talk to anybody right now.

  It’s bad enough that I had that little run-in with Mac’s little…whatever she was because I can’t quite explain her presence in his house. This thing with my mother isn’t fair.

&n
bsp; “Mom, look. I need time and space away from everyone. I really do.” When I say that I mean everyone I could possibly mean. Family, and others I really don’t want to run into.

  Mom sighs, knowing exactly what I mean.

  “Dylan, she was worried about you too,” she imparts.

  I frown because I don’t want to hear it. I don’t need to hear how worried my ex, Allison, was. We aren’t together anymore so she can divert her worry to her husband and her child.

  I only have the misfortune of her knowing the same shit she feared happening to me actually did happen because she works for my mother at the book shop.

  “Mom, I don’t want to talk about it. How about I call you tomorrow?”

  I didn’t think it was possible for her to look more hurt, but she does.

  We’d been standing up in Mac’s guest room for a good twenty minutes now and I really didn’t want to argue anymore.

  “You’re asking me to leave?” she asks, with a tone of disbelief.

  “Mom, please can we just talk tomorrow? I’ll call you. I’m alive. You see, I’m alive. I’m really angry right now and I just need to be somewhere where I can figure things out. You can call me later to say goodnight if you want.”

  It is only at the mention of that that her expression softens. It’s something I used to tell her when I was in college. Unlike my brothers who enlisted in the Navy straight after high school, I did my time at college and then headed out. That was the way I wanted it.

  She was the kind of mom who knew she’d have to deal with a bunch of guys who would be military men, but she still thought of us as her babies.

  “Okay…I’ll give you your space,” she says reluctantly, and tucks a lock of her dark brown hair behind her ear.

  I step closer to her and plant a kiss on her forehead.

  “I love you,” I tell her. I don’t say that often so she knows the effect I’m trying to give by telling her that.

  “I love you too my boy,” she says, reaching up to cup my face. Her bright blue eyes that mirror my own sparkle. Mom feels like a dwarf to me. I’m six foot four and she’s five-four. The height I reckon Miss Thing was earlier. It was me who tended to her when she fell down the stairs.

  Mac came home five minutes after and I carried her into his office.

  She gave me such a damn scare when I saw her crash into the wall. People can die from falls like that.

  “I’ll be okay. We can meet for coffee tomorrow. Just you though, please. I don’t want Dad kicking up a fuss. I tried everything. I’ve already appealed. I don’t want a reminder that it’s all gone to shit,” I tell her.

  “It hasn’t. Don’t think like that. I’ll call you later and hopefully see you tomorrow.”

  She nods and then leaves as a fresh bout of tears takes her.

  I stand there and wait to hear the sound of the front door click shut before I sit on the edge of the bed.

  Mac got back here while Mom was here but stayed downstairs. I feel bad for intruding on him and hope he doesn’t mind.

  This is the guest room, but really it’s my room. It was the room I used when I’d spend the whole summer with him and Luke, right before Aunt Marie died. Right before she was killed.

  Mac hasn’t been the same since.

  Ten years now, and I still miss her. I still miss them. Her and Luke. That car accident took them both. Luke was a year older than me.

  This house was once so full of life. It had a family. Now it’s just Mac.

  He comes up the stairs and I’m not surprised when I see him standing at the door seconds later with a stern expression on his face.

  Mom is his little sister and she is probably pissed at him that I’m here. She knew he was downstairs and she only gives the silent treatment to him when she’s pissed.

  She most likely thinks he should say something to me in the way of sending me home.

  Mac leans against the door frame and looks over at me, folding his arms.

  “I take it you’ll be staying with me for a while.” He arches his salt and pepper brows.

  “Is that okay?”

  He walks in and pulls out the chair from behind the desk to sit on it backwards.

  “Sure, as long as you don’t terrorize one of my best mentees.”

  “That all she is to you Uncle?” I love seeing him blush. I already know the answer but riling him up distracts me.

  “Do you want to stay here or not?” he retorts.

  “I want to stay. I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t tell you I was coming and Mom and Dad thought I was going home. In fact, it was one of the doctors who’d called them and let the cat out the bag. They were checking I had someone to pick me up from the airport.”

  “I see. Well I won’t lie and tell you I’m not glad to see you. I didn’t think I could handle losing you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What happened? What’s got you so worked up?”

  Where the hell do I start?

  “I took a bullet to my leg and it’s held me up. It took out some of the muscle and it’s weakened the nerves. I can walk around and ride my motorcycle but if I exert my leg too much it starts playing up big time. I had physical therapy for months and I’ve come a long way, but not good enough to be out in the field. They put me on leave for six months.”

  Six whole months.

  Seven years in the marines and the longest I’d ever been away was ten days straight. I always had holiday accruing but would lose it because I was constantly doing something. I’m going to be here all that time.

  “The worst part is this. I’m supposed to be reassessed in six months. If they assess me and I’m still fucked then that’s it. They’ll discharge me.”

  That…that part there is the thing that’s rubbing me the wrong way. Being medically discharged. Oh, but they said it would be honorable. As if that’s supposed to make me feel any better. As if that’s supposed to make it okay.

  It’s not.

  The only thing I’d ever wanted to do was be a marine because of all that it meant. It was why I diverted from the Navy path my two brothers took and made my own way while they followed in Dad’s footsteps.

  Mac straightens up and worry washes over his face.

  “Dylan…” His voice trails off and it’s understandable. He’s a doctor, he’ll know how bad the situation looks without needing to spell it out for me.

  He’s the first to hear it too. Everyone else knows I’m on leave but they don’t know the fine print and the nitty gritty.

  Dad was furious when I spoke to him last week and told him they’d called me in for a medical assessment. So I knew he was going to be mouthing off about me being back on leave. That is one reason to keep my distance until I am calm myself.

  “Look son,” Mac begins, “you can only see what happens. That’s all you can do, and it’s enough. You’re here, alive. There’s nothing better than that. You do what you can do to make sure you can go back to active duty, but the rest is out of your hands.”

  “Yeah…I figured. That’s the hard part. I don’t know what to do or be if I’m not a marine. I know that sounds stupid because we can be many things in life, but it’s a huge part of me. I’m always on high alert, always on the lookout, always thinking of what and who I’m tracking. Always in rescue mode.”

  That was the gist of me and what I did. I worked as part of the intelligence unit. I started out working with the analysts then very quickly moved teams and ended up with the team that went in, balls to the wall, for rescue missions. Put simply, the team that wasn’t expected to make it back alive if the shit hit the fan and you got caught by the enemy.

  That was what me and my guys were doing that dreadful day.

  It was a setup, a trap, but we couldn’t take the risk.

  We were meant to rescue a CNN reporter and her team who’d been kidnapped and held as ransom by a group of terrorist militants. When we got there the reporter and her team were already dead.

  It wasn’t even the case o
f being too late. We were already too late by the time we went in.

  It was all so horrible. I often wonder how I’m still alive. Only me out of a team of fifteen guys.

  I was the only one who made it out.

  Mac reaches across and taps my hand.

  “You always have a place here. You never have to ask me for anything. You’re like my kid too.” He smiles and I feel the reassurance I was looking for when I came here. What I’ve always loved about Mac is he listens. He listens and advises accordingly. Very doctorly.

  “Thanks Uncle, that means a lot.” It does considering he had a kid already. He knows that Luke and I were more like brothers than cousins and he knows too that I was closer to Luke than I was to my own brothers. The same way I’m definitely closer to him than Dad.

  “You’re gonna have to see your family at some point Dylan. I don’t want my little sister upset with me.” He quirks a brow.

  “I know. I will. I’ll see her for coffee tomorrow at the coffeehouse in town.”

  He instantly frowns when I say that. “The coffeehouse? Dylan, for God’s sake. Avoidance tactics is not good. Your dad’s going to be worried too. You should go to the house and see everyone—even her, if she’s there. If she’s there that means something you just show your gratitude for. You were with Allison for years.”

  I don’t know why this shit still gets under my damn skin. He’s right though.

  But she was right too and that’s why I don’t want to see her.

  She broke up with me two years ago because…put simply, she didn’t want to have to worry about me anymore. She didn’t want to worry about me surviving and be home here wondering if I was going to make it back.

  She didn’t want to be that woman who got the letter or the phone call informing her that I’d died and if she’d been my wife—I was gonna ask her—she would have gotten my medals and tags.

  She didn’t want that.

  She had nothing against me being a marine but she said she couldn’t live her life in fear. The incident was brought on by the first time I got shot. The bullet grazed my arm. That was all. And I came home for a mini break just to touch base with my family and my girl. The girl I’d been with for ten years. I left with her ending a ten-year relationship.