“What’s your rank?”
“I’m a Master Sergeant.”
“Nice. So was your head why you left?”
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I swallow, deciding what to tell her. It doesn’t matter. Nothing I say does. Very soon—probably early next week—I’ll put an end to all of this. I nod. “I was in the special forces, like I told you. The type of anti-terrorism recon…the tasks I did.” I shake my head, because no fucking way am I going into detail there. I leave it at, “I’m left-handed,” and hope she doesn’t have too vivid an imagination.
“Shit. I’m sorry. That must be rough.”
I look into her eyes, and all of a sudden, mine sort of sting. I blink. “It’s fine.”
She tilts her head, and I swear, her eyes are like an X-ray machine. “I can see you’re still a badass. But c’mon… I know how it is. It’s not a cakewalk, losing everything you know and like about your life.”
I blink down at the table.
Suddenly I hate myself for telling her this shit. Because somewhere in the back of my mind—I knew she would do this. I knew she would care. I’m such a sick fuck.
“Has it caused you a lot of trouble? Is that too personal? You seem to be doing so well. But…your scar is pink. When mine was that fresh, I was still using a wheelchair part of the day because I was so tired and weak. I was on all kinds of anxiety meds and sleeping meds and seizure meds. I was a hot mess. You’re teaching me fight moves.” She arches her brows and leaves them that way, daring me to tell her everything is good with me.
“Sleep,” I manage, after pushing past the image of this girl in pain.
“You have trouble sleeping?” The concern in her eyes is almost too damn much. I want to turn away. Somehow I force myself to hold her gaze. I even manage to nod.
“That doesn’t shock me completely.” She stretches a hand out on the table and starts picking at her purple nail polish before she glances back up. “My dad—you know—he used to have nightmares about the Gulf War. After what happened to me, he helped me find a good therapist for my PTSD. Now I’m—well, not perfect or anything, but it’s interfering with my life a lot less.” She smiles, looking embarrassed. “You’re so quiet all the time. It makes me want to talk!”
I want to tell her I wasn’t always like this.
“Oh, hell. Do you need a hand with that?”
She sighs and cradles the bowl against her chest. “I should be able to hold a fishbowl. Even though I am drunk.” She rolls her eyes, then blinks a few times, like a bird who just flew into a window.
It’s a struggle not to smile at her, she’s so fucking cute. “Where are you headed?”
She nods to the corner of the room—to where my crowd is.
“Over there with John and Nic?” I ask her.
Her brown eyes widen. “How’d you know?”
Because there’s no other woman in this bar that’s a perfect fucking 10. She must be the one Bluebell told me about. I just wink, and leave it at, “They’re good guys.”
“I’m too drunk to tell.” I frown as her eyes fill with— Are those tears? I look her over, wondering if I should pry. Probably not. If she gives me any encouragement, I’m likely to take it and run. And tonight is not the night I need to fuck some sweet, teary-eyed girl. Especially one who knows Breck’s people.
I stroke her arm and nod. “Trust me.”
I see a drop of water on a strand of hair just over her forehead. Before I think to stop myself, I press my fingertip to it.
“Snowflake,” I murmur. Her eyes blink up at mine, so wide and trusting. “What’s your name, snowflake?”
“Gwenna.”
“Anyway.” She brings her hands together in front of her, in a prayer type pose. “Let me close by saying it amazes me—how badass and strong you are. And I’m really happy you’re still here, to kick my ass. It’s a crappy first year. Are you a year from when it happened yet?” She rests her cheek in her palm, her elbow propped up on the table. “Are you doing better or worse than you expected?”
“I don’t know.” I have to stifle a laugh at all her frenzied questions. And at the same time, I feel kind of warm and have to swallow.
She lifts a brow. “So…worse.”