A Hero to Come Home To (13 page)

Carly blushed deep pink and, for a moment, looked so young and vulnerable that Therese’s heart ached for her. “He does seem…interested.”

“Dinner twice in three nights? Make that
real
interested.” She staved off Carly’s automatic
but
with a shake of her head. “Don’t worry. Don’t overthink it. Just be happy. I’m happy for you.”

And she was. Happy and envious and oh so hopeful.

D
ane needed only one guess to know who was knocking at his door on Sunday afternoon: the only person who ever visited him at home, Justin. Dane was dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt and had left his prosthesis in the bedroom, relying instead on crutches to get around. The empty leg of his sweatpants flapped as he opened the door, then headed for the couch.

“Heads up.” Justin tossed a paper bag from the fast-food restaurant on post, then set his own bag down on the coffee table.

“What do you want to drink?” Dane asked.

“Water.”

Justin returned from the kitchen with two bottles, handed one over, then settled at the other end of the sofa. He leaned his crutches against the sofa arm and, without fail, they slid to the floor in a clatter. “The game’s on NBC.”

Dane didn’t ask what game—just used the remote to change channels. Though he didn’t care about basketball, for the closest thing to a friend he had here and who had brought food, he could sit through a game.

The cheeseburger was big and messy, the fries still warm. He used to grill a great burger, back when hanging around a grill with cold beers, sizzling beef, and rowdy friends had been a regular part of his life. Given the changes since then, fast food was a decent substitute.

Nothing remained but the wrappers and a few burned ends of French fries when Justin gave him a sidelong look. “Bailey said you were out with Carly last night.”

Dane fixed his gaze on the TV as if the sport were football and the venue the Super Bowl. “Bailey?”

“Evan Bailey. Skinny guy, red hair, no arms from the elbows down?”

An image of the kid formed in Dane’s mind. He was nineteen, maybe twenty, and was learning to use top-of-the-line prosthetic hands as if they were his own. One thing you had to give the Army credit for, when their people got blown apart, they didn’t skimp on artificial limbs. Dane’s leg was one of the best money could buy.

“Oh yeah, him. Is he a friend of yours?”

“We went through Basic together. He’s dating the teacher’s aide. Carly’s aide. None of which is relevant. Were you out with her last night?”

Carly’s aide. Dane vaguely remembered some other women with the class on Tuesday, but once he’d recognized Carly, the rest had pretty much disappeared.

He shifted, sliding low on his spine and propping his feet—foot—on the coffee table. Funny how it felt as if both of them were there.

Funny, too, how he’d rather think about almost anything than talk about his time with Carly. It hadn’t been a date. Dates were dinner, a movie, a concert, whatever. Not an impulsive Saturday afternoon spent wandering through antique stores.

Though he couldn’t remember having a better time at a dinner, movie, or concert.

Justin crowed. “So it
is
true. I figured Bailey was mistaken. I mean, other than the times she brings the kids to visit us, I’ve never heard of her ever seeing another guy. Not to say that no one’s tried. So, geez, you only met her—what? A week ago? And you’ve already gone out with her?”

“It wasn’t a date. We were downtown. Shopping. She suggested coffee, and we had dinner instead.”

“Don’t try to rationalize it, man. You were out together. Doesn’t matter what you were doing. So…She’s okay with…?”

Dane felt the weight of Justin’s gaze leave him to return to the television. He was more comfortable staring at the TV himself, though instead of the game, an overly loud commercial touting the merits of one deodorant over its competitors aired. It was followed by a stupid car commercial—press conferences for average people to tell how much they liked their cars? really?—then a beer ad featuring beautiful women and men in possession of all their limbs.

“She doesn’t know,” he said at last. “She thinks I just stopped by Tuesday to see you.”

“But you’re gonna tell her, right? If you keep seeing her, she’s gonna find out sometime. I mean, you can’t
do it
with your pants on.”

Another reason it hadn’t been a date, Dane thought morosely. Dates ended with a kiss good night that eventually led to a whole lot more, and Justin was right. You couldn’t get far along the path of
more
without ditching the clothes.

The dread of that was enough to drown out any anticipation he had about having sex again after so many months’ abstinence.

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “No. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“You have a girlfriend when that happened?” Dane gestured to Justin’s legs. Covered by denim, they appeared perfectly normal, one resting on the coffee table, the other knee bent, foot on the floor. Remove the jeans, though, and the scars, the deformities, would be clearly visible.

“Yeah. I did.” Justin scowled, an expression he normally reserved for therapy and the therapists who pushed him.

“What happened?”

“She didn’t want to be in it for the long haul. After months, they still didn’t know if I was gonna walk again. They couldn’t even say for sure they wouldn’t have to amputate.” Justin shrugged. “She was twenty. In college. She had better things to do than deal with this.”

Making excuses for her, when he was only a year or two older and also had better things to do than rehabbing an injury that had almost killed him.

Maybe Carly wasn’t any different. Maybe she wasn’t a long-haul sort of woman. Maybe she’d lose interest before sex became a possibility—an issue. Maybe
he
would.

Yeah. And maybe his leg would regenerate overnight. Maybe he’d grow a new foot in time for Easter.

Justin unknowingly countered his thought. “But Carly’s not like that. She’s around guys like us and worse every week. It doesn’t bother her.”

“Being around it a few hours a week is a whole different thing from living with it.” From committing to it.

“Look,” Justin went on, determined to make his point. “We both know guys whose wives or girlfriends were just happy to have them come back alive. Every woman’s different. And it’s got to be easier to go into it knowing that it’s happened than having it happen to someone you’re already with. Sarah knew me before. We’d dated since we were sixteen. We jogged together, we danced together, we surfed together. Carly didn’t know you before you lost your leg, so it won’t matter. You should tell her.”

Dane shifted again, grimly acknowledging that the discomfort in his joints had little to do with position and everything with the conversation. “We just had dinner. That’s all.”

“You should still tell her.”

He would. Maybe. If things went that far. If it became necessary. If he ever dealt with it enough himself that he could trust someone else to deal with it, too.

Those were some awfully big
if
s.

“I won’t say anything to her,” Justin said, a tone of finality in his voice that gave Dane hope he was dropping the subject. “But, man, you’re gonna have to. Women don’t like it when you hide stuff from them.”

The kid was right. But in Dane’s experience, they didn’t like it more when a man was less than he should be. His mother could hardly bear to look at him. His ex-wife could hardly bear to ask about him. In the various hospitals, he’d seen the pity, the morbid curiosity, the shock.

Was it wrong to not want to risk that with the first woman he’d been attracted to in a very long time?

And what did it say about him that he was so self-co
nscio
us about the missing leg? Body-image issues were for teenage girls and insecure women—not battle-ha
rdene
d soldiers. He knew of guys who’d suffered far worse: third-degree burns, leathery scarring disfiguring their faces, ears and noses burned off, right out where they couldn’t hide it; blast injuries that blew off part of their heads, leaving doctors to not just rebuild their faces but the skulls themselves; guys who looked like they’d gone through hell and back.

And they were okay with it. They didn’t retreat into a dark room. They didn’t hide, and for the people who couldn’t bear to look at them, so what? They were okay with themselves.

Dane wasn’t as strong as they were. As confident. An artificial leg hadn’t been part of his plans for his life, and he hated it. He hated the sleeve that protected his stump. He hated putting a shoe on a stupid fake leg. He hated fastening the leg on and taking it off. He was grateful to be alive, but he really,
really
wanted to be alive with his own two legs.

He really wanted to approach Carly, or any other woman, as a whole, intact, normal man. As he’d once been. As her husband had been.

As he rubbed the ache in his left thigh, he thought bleakly that maybe he should look forward to the therapy offered at the unit—not just the physical therapy, but also the shrinks. He wasn’t making much headway on this acceptance crap by himself.

He still had a long way to go.

Carly was always the first one at Three Amigos on Tuesday nights, but this week she was even earlier than usual. She’d been unsettled today, not even sure why until the class had arrived at the Warrior Transition Unit and she’d found herself looking around for a particular face. That was when disappointment had settled over her with a weight that matched the dreary gray sky outside, and she’d realized she’d been hoping Dane would be there to visit Justin again.

She hadn’t seen him since Saturday night. Hadn’t talked to him. Hadn’t done much of anything but think about him. She’d tried to casually ask Justin about him, but her young friend hadn’t been in the mood to talk to anyone but Trista, and even with the shy little girl, he’d been unusually quiet.

Everyone had those days, she acknowledged as she sipped her margarita, then debated whether to distract herself by getting out her Kindle or the carefully printed book reports she’d brought to read.

She’d decided on the Kindle when a figure approaching the table called hello. Her responding smile faded as Fia limped to the chair across from her and slid in with a relieved sigh. “Are you still sore from the climbing at the park?”

“Oh, no.” Fia tucked back a strand of dark brown hair, then shrugged out of her jacket. “I pulled something at work.”

“Are you sure it’s nothing more serious than that?”

A smile eased the lines around Fia’s mouth and eyes. “I’m sure.”

Carly’s own relief washed through her. If anyone with a nonmedical background would know, it was Fia. She worked as a personal trainer at a gym outside the main gate at Fort Murphy. She was fit, strong, and healthy and knew her body well.

“How many times have I told you?” Carly teased. “Exercise is dangerous. That’s why I avoid it at all costs.”

“You can do that because you’ve got good genes.”

With a scoff, Carly corrected her. “Because I don’t mind being fluffy.” Though she did mind a little bit. When she’d gotten out of the shower Monday morning, she’d taken a long look at her naked body and sworn she could see where every one of those fourteen pounds had grabbed hold. She was softer, her muscle definition blurrier. Jeff would have laughed, called her womanly, and made love to her until every one of her insecurities disappeared.

But Jeff was gone, and he’d loved her in spite of all her flaws. Now it was someone else’s opinion that concerned her. Maybe Dane’s, maybe not, depending on how things went between them. If not his, then someone else’s because she’d learned one thing in the time she’d spent with him: she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life alone.

“If I don’t work out religiously, within a month I’ll need a ‘wide load’ sign for my butt.” With a huge sigh, Fia stuffed a chip dripping with queso into her mouth.

She was joking, of course. Carly would bet food didn’t know
how
to turn into fat on Fia’s body.

“Wasn’t the warm sunny weather Saturday wonderful? And the snow that followed?”

“You know I loved it,” Carly replied drily.

“Yeah, me, too. I’ve never liked the cold, and this winter has kicked my butt.”

“You grew up in Florida, didn’t you? So why did you stay here after Scott died?”

Fia ate another chip with queso, then brushed her fingers on the napkin and sat back as if she were done. She was. She had the discipline to put the chips out of her mind, while Carly snacked on them before, during, and after the meal.

When Fia spoke, her voice was soft, her gaze distant. Sad. “Me and my mom, we were never close. And my dad…he just came around from time to time, mostly when he was drunk and broke. I doubt he’d even recognize me if he walked in right this minute. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, didn’t really know any of my extended family, didn’t stay in one place long enough to make many friends. There’s really nothing to go back to.”

Carly regretted asking the question. She’d known leaving Tallgrass had never been a consideration for Fia after she’d buried Scott in the national cemetery on the edge of town, but she hadn’t known how lonely her friend’s life had been back home. She whispered a silent apology for the whining she’d done about her own family. Brilliant and socially stunted they might be, but they loved her and they would always welcome her back.

Their usual waitress, Miriam, brought two drinks, setting one in front of Fia and the other beside her. “Jessy’s on her way in,” she explained with a grin and a wink.

Carly and Fia both watched the redhead breeze through the lobby and toward them. “For someone so tiny, she sure does make a lot of waves when she passes, doesn’t she?” Fia murmured.

“She does.” She was pretty, bold, sometimes brash, and always blunt spoken. Toss in the red hair and green eyes, and people just automatically paid attention to her—in this case, the hostess, the waitstaff, and all the customers. Especially the males.

Jessy just accepted it as her due. She wasn’t smug or obnoxious about it. People noticed. It was part of her life. Carly rather envied her. She’d never been a troll, by any means, but she’d also never been the sort to make a man stop and take a second or third look.

Until Jeff. And maybe Dane.

Who hadn’t called or anything since Saturday night.