When he shed his clothes that night, he shed whatever personality the trials and horrors of war had forced him to wear. I saw it. I imprinted that onto my skin. My soul. My broken heart.
I imagined he put it right back on—that military issue personality that matched the buzzcut—when he left me in bed that Sunday morning we do not think of. Seeing him in the flesh, he must’ve. Because he was here. And I knew a lot about war. Because I campaigned for peace. And you had to know the enemy and all that.
I knew it was only those people that wore the uniform on their bodies as well as their souls that survived.
Not just physically, but managed to survive enough when they got home not to spiral into a haze of drugs, alcohol, homelessness. I knew this because I volunteered at three different homeless shelters. The number of veterans amongst the residents in such places was staggering.
But Heath had shed that uniform completely and utterly on the outside, maybe because he knew he couldn’t shed it from his soul. Or maybe I was reading too much into the fact he’d grown the previous buzz cut into a shaggy, shiny and beautiful mane that brushed his shoulders. That his strong and angled jaw was now hidden by a long and trimmed beard. That his previously large but lean muscles were now bursting from the long-sleeved tee he had pushed the sleeves up to reveal corded arms.
He was wearing all black, down to his scuffed motorcycle boots.
I’d thought he was beautiful before.
But this was something less than beautiful. Something so much more.
His eyes darted around the hallway, flickering like the tired light three doors down.
Mine stayed on him.
They couldn’t move.
And then he yanked me in. Not with his body, he still kept space between us. No, with his fricking gaze centered on me. Familiar and alien at the same time. Comforting and terrifying.
Calm and chaotic.
“This is where you live?” he hissed.
I jerked back.
Of all the things I thought he might say, this was not it.
Which was actually a good thing, because I likely wouldn’t have been able to react properly—with strength and willpower—to anything else.
The words, the judgment in them—judgment he seemed certain he had the right to possess—had my back straightening.
“This is where I live,” I agreed, my tone daring him to say more. I folded my arms and arched my brow.
His eyes flickered to my chest as I did so and I hated I felt that flicker right in between my legs.
“You shouldn’t live here,” he clipped, folding his own arms and widening his stance as if it were to reinforce the point that he had muscles, a great beard, and a penis and therefore his word was law.
I was sure that was the case with plenty of women.
And I didn’t judge them one bit.
Because it was tempting to let the beautiful man with great muscles, a greater beard, and an excellent penis—with equally excellent skills in using it—lay down whatever law he saw fit.
I had certainly fallen victim to a handsome face, pretty words, and a talented tongue.
His being the first.
Hence me not letting him lay anything. Especially me.
I wouldn’t survive it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I returned.
His eyes hardened at my response. As if he weren’t expecting such a show from me. And I guessed he was right. I didn’t argue. Not if I could avoid it. The cold and harsh tone of my voice was foreign to me. I had an expression on my face that would likely be foreign too. It felt unnatural. Because I didn’t frown. I tried to give myself a reason to smile, to be kind, understanding and happy every day.
I truly believed happiness was a decision.
It was the hardest one to make, especially every single morning, but it’s how I lived my life.
Until now.
Because if I was going to survive this encounter, it wasn’t with the decision to be happy. It was the decision to be miserable. To be ruthless. With Heath. And most of all, myself.
“You treated me like a stranger,” he accused, instead of continuing the apartment conversation.
I wished we’d continued that conversation, because this was a lot more dangerous. But the only way through it was, well, through it.
Though I did consider running back into the loft, slamming the deadbolt, and hiding in the bathtub for the foreseeable future.
I didn’t do that.
Instead, I sank further into the persona that felt so uncomfortable.
“You took my virginity, showed me two nights of…something and then left me in the morning without so much as a goodbye,” I hissed back. “You are a stranger.”
He flinched at my words.
I tried not to let that affect me. So he had a minor physical reaction to my recounting of the event. I lived it. And I had critical physical and emotional reactions for years after.