Soldier On (11 page)

“It’s about Dad.”

This shuts me up, and I listen as Christian tells me that she’s had to take over Dad’s personal finances after the bank informed her that he had overdrawn on his checking account.

“And it wasn’t a small amount,” Christian explains. “We’re talking thousands of dollars. He’s been a customer for decades so they’ve been really understanding, and he had savings to cover it, but I’ve basically had to hide his wallet and checkbook.”

Bruce Walker is a decorated war hero and deacon in the church. He survived two tours in Vietnam and a divorce after thirty years of marriage. Our dad is respected in the community and stubborn as a mule. I can only imagine how deeply it’s wounded his pride to have his daughter take over his finances.

Alzheimer’s sucks. And this is supposedly the
early
stages.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat. “I should be there.”

“No, you should be right where you are. You have an obligation, Brandon. The United States Army owns you for the next four years.”

“I know, Chris.”

“That’s why I said it was terrible that you like that girl,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s great that you’ve met someone, and if you can keep it casual, and keep it in your pants—”

“I am
not
having this conversation with you.”

She takes a deep breath. “You’re headed to Fort Gordon in June. After that, who knows where you’ll be. A serious girlfriend—whether she likes the military or not—is not a good idea. Not right now. You need to stay focused on school and your field exercises. Fulfill your duty. Serve your country. You have all the time in the world to fall in love.”

I chuckle. “I’m not in—”

“Maybe not. Not yet. But when my brother calls me and starts talking about some girl’s big brown eyes and her sweet laugh, I know it’s just a matter of time. And I bet he does, too. That’s why the very best thing you can do for yourself and for . . . what’s her name again?”

“Stephanie. Steph.”

“The best thing you can do for yourself and Steph is forget that she exists. You’ll just break her heart, and doing that will break yours. You need to stay away from her. For both your sakes.”

Probably not the best time to talk about the new roommate.

“You’re right, Chris. I know you are.”

“Good.”

We hang up, and I spend the rest of my shift in misery. Deep down, I know Christian’s right. Even if Steph didn’t despise the military, we’d still be doomed. What kind of future can I offer her when I don’t even know where I’m going to be for the next four years?

And why are you even considering a future with a girl you’ve barely known for a month?

I’m still pondering that question when one of our regular customers walks into the shop. Sylvia Metcalf is seventy-two and loves onion bagels with her French roast coffee. She’s a widow and has a granddaughter named Amber who is around my age. I know this because she tells me
every single time
she sees me.

“How are you today, Mrs. Metcalf?”

“Oh, can’t complain,” Mrs. Metcalf replies, but she proceeds to do exactly that. The weather sucks, her back hurts, and the snow tires on her Buick need replaced.

“You look preoccupied today,” she says as I ring her up. “Something on your mind?”

“A few things, actually. School. Family.”

“You know, a girl could take your mind right off those troubles,” she says, with a twinkle in her eye. “That’s all you need. A sweet girl. I have a granddaughter . . .”

My chest tightens as I think about the only girl I want to see. The only girl that matters.

I look down at my watch. “You know what, Mrs. Metcalf? I think you’re right.”

She brightens. “I am?”

I hand her the bagel and coffee.

“Yep. A sweet girl is just what I need. And I know exactly where to find her.”

CHAPTER NINE

Stephanie

“So the pharmacology books are in the 600s?”

“615, yes.”

The nursing student looks confused as she glances at the bookshelf. “But this sign says the 600s are Technology.”

“That’s right.”

“Shouldn’t it be in the 500s? In Sciences?”

God, give me patience.

My entire afternoon in the library has been just like this, with one annoying question right after the other. Where’s this book? Where’s that book? How much is my overdue fine? Do you have a vending machine? Can I check out a laptop? Ms. Maria, the librarian, even threatened to send me home early if I didn’t chill out. Now, I have this little blonde nursing student with a ridiculous interest in the Dewey Decimal System, and I am just
not
in the mood.

“This way.” I lead her toward the appropriate shelf and point at the large volume titled
Side Effects: The Big Book of Pharmacology.
“Is this the book you need?”

“Yes, but . . .”

I hand it to her. “This book is classified as
Medical
science, and books related to medicine are in the Technology category.”

“But
why
is it in Technol—”

“I don’t know why! I don’t care why! I wasn’t alive back in the 1870s when Mr. Dewey developed his system! Now, please, for the love of God, just take the book and go.”

The girl frowns. “You need a mood stabilizing drug. Maybe something with a mild antidepressant.”

“I need a lot of things. Have a nice day.”

The girl rolls her eyes at me before heading to the checkout counter.

Taking a deep breath, I lean my forehead against the spines of the medical books.
What is wrong with me?
Yes, I’m tired. Yes, I’m stressed. But I’ve never been rude to other students, especially when I’m on the clock. I just feel . . . off. Grouchy. Frustrated.

Suddenly, I feel a pair of hands on my waist.

“I know what you need,” he whispers in my ear.

With those words, and with that voice, every ounce of tension leaves my body. I turn around, and Brandon steps closer, pinning me between his body and the shelf.

“Hi.” My voice is soft and whispery and
so
not me.

“Hey.” He plays with a strand of my hair. “Rough day?”

“Rough week.
Weeks
.”

“Mine, too. I’ve missed you.”

And that’s when I realize the reason behind my foul mood.
Could it really be that simple?

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“Better now?”

“Getting there.”

With a grin, he lowers his head, and I sigh softly as his lips trail along my neck. I wrap my arm around him and pull him harder against me, making him groan. This section of the library stays pretty deserted, but it’s still a little too out in the open for this level of PDA.

However . . .

“Come with me,” I tell him.

Pulling him by the hand, I lead him through the labyrinth of shelves until we reach the periodical closet. The room is filled with outdated catalogs and is rarely used.

It also locks, and I have a key.

We step inside. As soon as the lock clicks into place, Brandon lifts me into his arms and spins around, pinning me against another shelf. I wrap my legs around his waist just as his lips crash into mine. Warm. Wet. Frantic. I grip his shoulders as he holds me tight against his body, and for the first time, I can feel just how much he wants me.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, I bury my face against his neck and cling to him. He hugs me close, whispering my name and telling me how much he missed me.

Over the past few weeks, we’ve been like ships passing in the night. He gets up at five; I’m a night owl. Neither of us understood how hectic our schedules really were until we tried to carve some time out to just
see
each other.

“It’s Friday. I want to see you tonight,” he says softly, lowering me onto the floor. “I don’t care what it takes. Let me take you somewhere.”

“We don’t have to go anywhere. We can just stay home.”

“I can’t kiss you at home.”

Me and my stupid rules.

“I have to kiss you, Steph.”

He proves it by kissing me again. This time, it’s slow and sweet. He kisses my lips, my cheeks, my eyelids . . . anywhere his mouth can easily reach.

I sigh softly. “We could . . . go to the movies.”

“We could. What should we watch?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He can drag me to a bloody slasher flick for all I care. Just the fact that we will be within touching distance for at least two hours tonight is enough.

After a few more kisses, we quietly sneak out of the periodical closet. Brandon holds my hand until we reach the counter. Ms. Maria watches us with interest as we say goodbye.

He leans close and kisses my forehead. “See you tonight.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m practically floating as I step behind the counter.

“Well, you seem happier,” Ms. Maria says, her voice tinged with just a hint of laughter. “Nothing like a little library lovin’ to perk a girl right up, eh?”

My face flames, and she gives me a wink before walking back to her office.

When Brandon asked the girl at the box office for two tickets to the French documentary, I thought he had lost his mind. But now that we’re in the darkened theater, with a grand total of four other people, I’m thinking he’s a total genius.

“Thirty minutes left,” Brandon whispers against my ear.

His mouth finds mine in the darkness, and I try to remember how long the movie lasts. Two hours, maybe? And we haven’t looked at the screen once. We’re as close as two people can possibly be in the uncomfortable theater seats. Our hands are everywhere, but in true gentlemanly fashion, Brandon has kept his above my clothes and above my waist. Mine, on the other hand, have slipped beneath the fabric of his shirt. His entire body trembles each time my fingers dance across his stomach.

I can’t lie. The power makes me a little dizzy.

French dialogue swims in my head as we make out like a couple of teenagers, until finally, the credits roll and the fluorescents flicker to life.

“
Meilleur film que j'ai jamais vu,”
Brandon says.

Holy crap.
“You speak French?”

“And Spanish and German.”

Brandon buttons his shirt and I try to fix my hair while trying to ignore the knowing looks of the people who walk past on their way to the exit.

“People are staring,” I mutter.

“Screw ‘em. They’re just jealous.”

I laugh and loop my arm through his as we head out of the theater. We’ve just stepped outside when someone yells Brandon’s last name. He doesn’t turn around. Instead, he quickens his pace, and we’ve barely made it to his truck when the guys catch up with us.