No Perfect Hero(73)

Maybe Stewart’s been attempting to cope. To shake off wartime. And in his attempt to be brighter and warmer and friendlier than the shadow of whatever might be haunting him, he’s made this slightly plastic fa?ade that doesn’t quite blend the way he wants it to.

I try to brush it off. He’s Warren’s friend and seems to be the only person besides Ms. Wilma and a couple of other ex-military buddies Warren trusts.

So I offer my most genuine smile as I reach out to shake his extended hand as he draws within reach, not minding the oil and grease. “Think you could maybe pull the same trick for a short-term fix just so I can get around?”

He grips and shakes my hand gently but looks worried. “I could, maybe, but...”

“I promise, I’m just driving between Charming and Brody’s, maybe running a few errands. No steep roads or cliffs. If I break down, it won’t be anywhere dangerous.”

Stewart frowns thoughtfully. “So you’re not going anywhere for a while?”

“Nah.” I smile wryly, tucking my hands in my pockets and rocking on my heels. “It’ll take me a month of tips just to save up to pay you for this, let alone enough for me to make it to Chicago.”

“Hey, this one’s on the house,” he says with a rumbling laugh. “My dumbass friend tinkered with your car, so it’s my responsibility to fix it. That's what I do, look after War. You just keep on keeping him out of trouble. Leave the worries about the car to me.”

I blink, leaning my hip against the car door and folding my arms over my chest. Tara is unusually quiet next to me, huddling in close against my side and just behind. “What kind of trouble is he in?”

“Oh,” he says, looking at me strangely. “He still hasn’t told you? Damn, I’d have thought with...you know.”

“With what?” I ask a bit too sharply, and he winces, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, after that incident at the diner, it’s no big secret you two are an item,” he says. “I’d have thought he’d be more open with you, that’s all.”

I don’t want to pry. If there’s something Warren doesn’t want me to know, Stewart shouldn’t be telling me.

But I also have Tara to consider. While I’ve pretty much sorted out that Warren’s not dangerous, I can’t live with myself if I remain ignorant of a situation that could bring Tara harm.

So reluctantly, I ask, “Open about what?”

“This isn’t a nostalgic trip back home for him,” Stewart says, his expression drawn and heavy. “It’s a memorial. Grief. It’s almost thirteen years to the day since he lost Jenna.”

Jenna. Where have I seen that name before?

Then it flashes to me: his tattoos.

They’re so intricate and detailed, down to the smallest curls and patterns, it’s easy to lose the little things in them. Little things like letters.

Little things like the name Jenna and a date, tiny and circled in the detailed, almost betta-like fins of a coiling, ferocious mermaid.

I don’t want to know, do I?

I don’t want to know who Jenna is, or why she mattered enough for Warren to ink her name on his body. To preserve her as this fierce, mythological effigy.

Because I don’t want the feelings that might come with knowing Jenna was a girlfriend, a special friend, a wife, a sister.

I know that if I find out, I might turn selfish. I’m going to compare myself, I’m going to hurt for something that I can’t have when it belongs to a woman who, according to Stewart, is probably dead.

You don’t say words like lost, memorial, grieving for someone who just divorced your friend and moved away.

If Warren’s here to hurt, if he’s here to hold on to that memory, fine.

Let him hurt without my feelings in the way. That’s his. That belongs to him.

Just like this weird shot of hurt, of fear, in my chest belongs to me.

And it’s a weight no one else should have to bear.

But I can’t talk, all of a sudden. I can’t anything.

And I thank Stewart with noncommittal sounds while he promises to call me when the Mustang’s ready, saying it shouldn’t be more than two shakes, while I usher Tara down the street to the diner.

We'll have an early lunch. I decide I'll call Warren after I settle my nerves with a couple cups of coffee while Tara wolfs her way through a massive burger.

Jesus. I've got to get my head on straight.

I can’t be that girl who gets dickmatized after one hot round in the sheets.

Well, five or six rounds in a few hours, but that doesn’t somehow cement my place in Warren’s life, or his in mine. I have to talk to him about what we’re doing.

This free-floating insanity keeps raising questions I’m not ready to ask, and it’s too soon to think about. I just need a name. Terms.

Something I can come to grips with as easy, simple boundaries for where we stand.

But first, I need a ride.

I manage to calm myself down enough to sound normal when I fish out my phone and dial his number. He sounds breathless, the sound of it making my heart flutter and flip when he picks up the line and answers, “Hey, Haley.”

“Hey,” I say. “I hope you’re not messing up the inn the way you messed up my car?”

He snorts. “What're you talking about?”